#and when a lot of people when come over she used to nip at heels but i think shes taught herself to just hide under the bed instead | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neoculturetravesty · 3 years

Text

Rough but soft

Image taken from here.

Pairing: Johnny x Reader Genre: smut, pwp, romance, angst Warnings: 18+, soft dom Johnny, oral (female receiving), protected sex, rough sex, fingering, anus rubbing (female receiving), mild choking, hickeys, lots and lots of angst. Reader wants Johnny to have at her but she also wants so much more. Readers comes with lots of self-doubt, baggage and insecurities. Word Count: 8.2k+ words of straight up filth and angst aka my fav combo

Summary: You’re so tired of trying to find a man who would understand the deep complexities of what you need, sleeping with him, being utterly unsatisfied and then spending the next few weeks avoiding him because you were too ashamed. You were tired of baring your soul, your body, the inner workings of your mind to yet another man who couldn’t satisfy you. So when you meet Johnny Suh, you know right away that he would be the man that makes all your wet dreams come true. But you shouldn’t want him. He’s an idol, and you work for him. You have no right to want him, to lust after him... and you definitely have no right to catch feelings for him.

A/N: This one is for all my Johnny stans! I didn’t plan for this one-shot to get so long but ugh, once I started writing, all my demons were unleashed. Hope you like it!

You could’ve sworn your apartment was the hottest it had ever been. You didn’t remember messing with the thermostat or closing any windows. You weren’t exactly dressed warmly, either. You were just in your underwear with a pretty spaghetti sleeved top on. Perhaps the heat had more to do with the fact that you were sat on the lap of a man you really liked or the fact that the two of you had been furiously making out for the past ten minutes.

Johnny’s hands were all over you. They were in your hair, pulling you towards him, angling your head every which way to get more purchase with his tongue. Then his hands were on the small of your back pushing up into your top to feel your bare skin. And when his hands had enough of the skin there, they were up and down the curve of your legs that were curled up into him as you sat side saddle. While your pants laid discarded on the floor, his clothes were still fully on but you supposed there was some use for that by how strongly you were clutching onto the lapel of his jacket.

Your brain was so fuzzy with the scent of him that you couldn’t even remember what had brought this on. The last thing you remembered was Johnny showing up at your door unannounced, a couple of bottles of soju in hand. Your past few meets had been similarly unplanned, so for convenience’s sake and definitely not anything else, you just went ahead and gave him the code of your apartment. Yes, it was way too early on in the relationship--if you could even call it that, whatever the two of you were doing. You could sense that he was taken aback by it. Whether he was moved by it, or whether to be polite, he had pulled you into him and kissed you.

Now the soju laid abandoned on the table as you drank one another in. He kissed you deeply now, as you sat on him on the couch, like he had been thirsty for days and your tongue quenched him. He was taking the lead in this unrestrained makeout session. But you knew that. He knew that. It’s what you had wanted. It’s what you had asked of him.

You were really putting yourself out there, sharing your deepest secrets and unholy desires with a man you weren’t supposed to be with. But the moment you had met Johnny, you could tell that he felt your energy and you certainly felt his. You knew right away what the both of you had wanted from one another, even if you didn’t say it. You knew it in the way he would entrap you with his gaze when you talked to him. You knew it in the way his arm would pull you in when someone passed by you. You knew it in the way he would let his touch linger any time his hands accidentally brushed against you. It had taken a few dates for you to get to this point, but now this… this was the point of no return. You had to be brave and finally get what you had always craved; or chicken out and go back to being unsatisfied as ever from yet another relationship.

Other men did not give you what you wanted, what you truly wanted; which was to feel a controlled loss of control, not just of the body but also of the mind. You wanted someone who could, quite crassly, hold you down and have at you, but also whisper sweet nothings in your ear while he did so. You wanted a cerebral connection of the souls and you wanted an animalistic gratification of the bodies at the same time. You wanted to have your cake and eat it too. You were so tired of the cycle--of trying to find a man you thought would understand the deep complexities of what you needed, sleeping with him, being utterly unsatisfied and then spending the next few weeks avoiding him because you were too ashamed. You were tired of baring your soul, your body, the inner workings of your mind to yet another man who couldn’t satisfy you.

When you first met Johnny, you knew right away that this man had what it takes to make all your wet dreams come true. Like his presence validated all that you felt without having to use the words. You felt it in your gut, even when you hadn’t been with him. Your gut could very well have been wrong, because God knows you’ve been wrong so many times before. But your feeling was strong this time... and you just had to find out. So you had approached him.

You knew you were being reckless by being with Johnny in this way. He was, obviously, a famous person, but also--you worked for him. You were a young professional who had finally landed a job in a big company. If someone were to find out, that would mean the end of your career. Johnny could possibly get away with an apology letter that his team would help him curate. But you would be done for. You knew it was risky the first time you slept with him. You knew it the second time. But now as you met for the third time, hungrily kissing one another, you knew things were different. Because, finally, the two of you had been honest about how you wanted one another.

Over the past couple of weeks, you had finally started to communicate in words what the two of you had already felt in one another’s energy. He admitted that he craved you in a much coarser way than he had let on the first couple of times. And you had told him about all your indecent fantasies and how wilfully you wanted to be used, to be claimed, to be made to feel something.

“It’s always the quiet ones.” Johnny had chuckled back then and you supposed he was right. That’s how people saw you. The quiet one, the determined one, the one that gets her work done on time, the one that never breaks the rules. Onlooking men thought you were some sort of a righteous Virgin Mary because of the innocence on your face. Part of you wondered if being with Johnny was a rebellion against all those men who had ever put you on that unwarranted pedestal. But you also knew that it wasn’t. Because you didn’t just want a body to unleash your lecherous demons on. You wanted it with him, with Johnny, with the man who was slowly lighting your fire, no matter how much you told yourself that it was a bad idea.

That man in question was now softly panting in your face, because his lips had finally unlatched themselves from yours for the first time in 10 minutes. He smiles at you and then buries himself in the junction between your shoulder and neck, kissing and sucking and talking.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day. I couldn’t get any work done because I kept thinking about you.” He says into your neck, sucking down on the skin and you knew he was marking you because it makes you moan out. There is a smile on his face as he pulls back to look at you. He takes your hand in his and leads it to the inside of his thigh, making you feel his hardness through the rough fabric of his pants.

“You feel that? I’ve been like this all day thinking about you.” he says while you look at him with your lips parted. He kisses you again, making you lean back, feeling his heat build under you.

“I want you to feel the same. I want to make you feel exactly what you do to me.” He says and now his warm hand is slipping into the front of your underwear and you feel the quickening of your heartbeat. You begin softly moaning before he’s even done anything, simply from the anticipation. But then his fingers are flush against your warmth, rubbing up and down, no purpose yet, just feeling.

He’s close to you, too close, you can feel the heat coming off his face on your own skin, you can feel his breath fanning against you. His lips are close enough that they brush against yours as he coos at you “My pretty girl is so wet for me.” The heel of his palm is steady on your clit, pressing down but not giving you as much friction as you need, while his fingers move over and between your folds, feeling your warmth, your wetness, spreading it around as if to see how slick he can make it. His lips have found their way to the base of your throat now and he’s kissing, he’s nipping and he’s sucking and fuck your life because it is turning you on so much you feel like you would spontaneously combust. You’re melting against him at the same time you’re tensing and Johnny can feel your want grow on his fingers. He pulls back to see his work on your skin.

“Mmm, are you going to spend the next week hiding this away, baby?” He asks while his palm keeps cupping your sex, fingers feeling you up, overheating your flesh. It’s rude, the way his hand is down your underwear, the way he is marking you, the way he is talking to you. But your skin is on fire and you’re putty in his arms and fuck, you wouldn’t mind if he were ruder.

“Let me mark you where it would be easier to hide.” He says sweetly and suddenly, his hand that was cradling the small of your back is at the delicate strap of your top and his fingers are looping at your neckline, gently pulling down till he’s made your breast bare and he’s bowing into it, sucking on the first spot of skin his lips could find. Your own lips part and your fingers find his hair as he makes quick work of you, pulling away with a wet, vulgar sound, smiling down at the growing redness on your smooth skin. He blows on it, making you shiver.

“There. Fuck, baby, you look so pretty wearing my marks.” he sighs and then fixes your top over your shoulder so you’re covered again, and somehow, that chivalrous act makes you more bashful than being exposed did. His lips are back on yours and his arm is behind your neck, supporting you. His fingers in your underwear are becoming bolder, circling your needy hole, loving how the more he rubs it, the more you leak out your need onto him. He enjoys having that control over you for a moment, breaking the kiss just so he can watch the contorts of your face as he continues his slow torture. But seeing you like this stirs something more feral in him and suddenly his hand goes lower and starts to rub you where it feels forbidden. You freeze.

For a moment, your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes shoot open. Fuck, you can’t think. This man has actually put you on your wit’s end. He’s rubbing you there like he knew how you’d react and he just wanted to have this power over you. A display of his claim over your body. You suddenly feel impossibly shy, though the emotion is too mild to truly describe the storm that’s building in you. Your mind is racing, wondering fuck, fuck fuck, do you want this? Do you really want this? Was this something you had talked about with him? Fuck, you can’t remember. But if you’re not sure, why the fuck is it making you so fucking wet?

His lips pressing into your forehead bring you out of your commotion. “Don’t worry, pretty girl, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.” he says gently, like he read your mind and Jesus Christ, you almost come from the striking contrast between his soft words, his nurturing kiss and the absolutely filthy action of his fingers on your pucker, rubbing not to pleasure but to feel, to claim, almost as if to say ‘Look, I can touch you here.’

“Johnny, please, do something.” you plead at him because frankly, you’ve had enough. Now you just want him to rip away at your remaining clothes and have at it, to have you, to fuck you like he was too polite to do the first couple of times.

But one thing you’ve learnt in the time you’ve been working together (and also the time you’ve spent under him between the sheets) is that Johnny is a patient man. He’s smiling when he looks at you and his voice is so caring in contrast to his presence when he says “Does my baby want more?”

“Yes, please, Johnny, please.” you’re pulling onto his jacket because your hands can’t find purchase anywhere else and you’re whining because you’re needy and the anticipation has been building up for a couple of weeks and you’ve had enough. You want him and you want him now.

Thankfully, he doesn’t tease you any longer because he withdraws his hand from your underwear, hooks his arm under your knees whilst the other cradles your shoulders and he’s lifting you off bridal style and making his way to your room. It blows your mind how Johnny can be filthy and romantic at the same time. He sets you down politely and you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him as he takes off his jacket. You’d be lying if you said that Johnny simply taking his jacket off wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever seen. You had yourself a fine man in front of you and he had made it tonight’s mission to please you. Your eyes were hooded as you looked at him lustfully. He notices and sinks to his knees, pulling your legs till you were on the edge of the bed.

“My girl’s been waiting for this, hasn’t she?” he says and peppers kisses on the inside of your thigh before he loops his fingers around the band of your underwear and slowly slides it down your legs. He looks at you lying bare for him, basically nude and he inhales. “What a pretty sight.” he mutters and then his lips finally go straight for your clit, his tongue rolling over it and over it, his hands holding your legs apart and you let out a deep exhale because yes, yes, yes, this is what you wanted. He’s wasted no time because you told him you needed more and he was all too happy to oblige. So you lay back into the sheets, taking deep breaths, being fascinated by the rise and fall of your own chest. Johnny had learnt early on that you were the quiet type in bed, but tonight, he was determined to make you moan more than you had before.

You let your head fall back and your eyes close as you feel his warm tongue roll generously over your nub, his mouth servicing you till your hips are grinding against him. The need builds and now you want an erotic visual to help you along so you lift up and tug on his shirt and he understands because he straightens up and pulls it off of him. You see the beautiful caramel planes of his toned chest; your mouth waters. He’s hovering over you now, kissing you with lips that are still covered in your scent till you’re crawling back into the bed. He adjusts your head onto the pillows, making sure you’re comfortable which tells you that he’s not nearly done.

He puts another pillow under your hips and settles between your legs once more. He holds your gaze as he lowers himself and slowly spits down onto your clit. He looks at you, as if challenging you to stop him and uses the pad of his thumb to rub the slobber around. The sight is as vulgar as it is titillating and suddenly you find yourself thanking the heavens above that you found Johnny Suh.

“Does that feel good, baby?” he asks with a voice like honey and you look down at him.

“Yes. More, Johnny, please, I want more.” you tell him because fuck, you need it bad, and he nods. He brings his hand to your opening then and gently rubs till he is covered in your slick, then carefully eases his middle finger into you. You’re impossibly wet and he likes it. He wants you to be this turned on.

He starts to move his finger, slowly fucking you with it then brings his mouth hot on your clit, licking deep, luxuriously strokes onto it. “Is this better, baby?” he asks but you reply with a pent out moan, your hands instinctively going to clutch your breasts, squeezing them through your top that isn’t doing a very good job at covering you.

Johnny watches and he is pleased with himself. Pleased that he is making you this way, that you’re getting what you want from him. You both shared in your greed of a very similar sexual palette. Lately, you had been open to him about it and Johnny was so grateful to have met you. It turned him on to be with a woman who was so in tune with her needs. It turned him on more to know that he was the one fulfilling them.

“More, Johnny, please… faster…” you guide him and he hurries to add another finger inside you and suddenly you’re smiling wide because it feels so fucking good. Your hands go to his hair, tugging on it, pressing his head into you even more and you’re grinding up into his face like a harlot, because frankly speaking, you don’t remember being this fucking horny in a good while. You can’t bring yourself to be self-conscious in this moment because it feels so good, so decadent, so freeing, and you can’t tell if you’re being louder than usual.

Johnny can. Because he’s not stopping and now he’s moaning into your slick warmth and his entire mouth is sweet with your taste and he knows you’re close so he only lifts up briefly to say “Come for me, baby.” and you’re pulling his hair, biting your lip, digging one heel so far into the mattress your leg is numb and you’re coming apart on his fingers. Johnny doesn’t stop through it, prolonging your orgasm while your entire body tenses, then comes to life before you let out a deep, happy exhale and Johnny finally lets go, rubbing the insides of your thighs to calm you.

You grin at him and sit up to kiss him, your fingers splayed behind his neck, kissing him in gratitude for making you feel good, tasting your nectar on his lips, then rubbing your palms on his firm chest. You look down towards what could only be his growing need and your fingers fumble to undo his fly. You begin to get on your hands and knees but he stops you.

“Johnny, let me--” you begin wanting to reciprocate the favor, looking up at him but his expression makes your voice get caught in your throat. His eyes are hooded, dark, lustful.

“No. I want to be inside you. I want to fuck you, right here in your pussy.” he said shortly, and you think you might die. How could those curt, pornographic words turn you on so much? It’s not like you hadn’t heard them before from several other men. Perhaps it was the fact that this particular man had only ever spoken to you with polite respect before. To hear such filthy words from his handsome mouth was an experience you were never going to forget. You wanted him with all the heat that was building up between your legs. But, also... there was something else that you wouldn’t allow yourself to think. That you wanted him because perhaps, you were falling for him, no matter how much you tried to stop yourself.

Johnny reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He finds a condom and holds the foil between his teeth while he gets off the bed to rid himself of his pants. Suddenly, and without any sort of a warning, your heart begins to sink.

You don’t know what it is, but while you sit there watching Johnny strip himself, you feel something deep in the pit of your stomach. You don’t recognize this emotion… this sinking feeling. Is it despair? It can’t be, but it comes close. Is it fright? No, that definitely wasn’t it. You try to think back to all the times you’ve had this feeling in your belly and finally, you identify it. This feeling felt a lot like heartbreak.

You couldn’t understand what was going on inside your head. It was as if behind your crazed sexual want for Johnny in your conscious, your subconscious was fighting you with another, more pressing craving. Like watching him pull out that condom had confirmed some sort of a fear, but you simply couldn’t put your finger on which one it was.

You’re confused. All this man did was extract a condom from his wallet. Why did that break your heart? Shouldn’t you be happy that for once in your sexual escapades, a man had been the one to be prepared? Shouldn’t you be relieved that the man you were sleeping with was putting your safety first? Then what was this strange feeling in the pit of your stomach? You’re still pondering it over whilst Johnny rolls the culpable rubber onto himself and makes his way to you. And when his lips are on yours again, you finally work it out. Your traitor mind had had a thought that broke through the giddiness of your happy orgasm and put a stinging doubt in your heart: ‘He brought a condom because he only came here for sex.’

Johnny notices a change in your demeanor by the way your kiss is less present. He pulls back and strokes the top of your head. “Are you sure you still want it that way, baby? We can go easy if you’ve changed your mind.” He kisses you again as if to tell you that he means it.

“I don’t want you to go easy. I want you to show me how far you can take it.” you say resoundingly. You’re not sure why you’ve said this despite the tempest in your mind. Maybe your fucking libido is betraying you again.

He looks at you for a moment as if trying to read your face, then kisses your lips once more. “Okay, baby. But remember, you can tell me to stop any time, okay?” he assures you and you’re reminded that he really has the patience of a saint. Because his cock is thick and angry with want yet he’s still taking the time to communicate the logistics of what you’re about to do.

“I will.” you nod. “Johnny, please… just… just fuck me, please.” You beg because you’ve decided… this is what you want. You want it this way at least once, because you won’t be able to stand not knowing. If your heart breaks at the end of this, so be it. You were used to it. And if this would be the last you would see of Johnny, you wanted to make it count.

He doesn’t need telling twice because now that you’re begging, his mind is clouded with the need to own you. So he pushes your legs back into your chest, laying you bare and open for him. You feel vulnerable in this position, too vulnerable, especially with what your mind is doing to you. Usually, it would take you some time to build up to this stance but he wants to start here, where he’s in control and that’s the shit you signed up for. Your breath is quickening in your chest from nervous anticipation and you cry out when Johnny makes his first, unforgiving stroke straight into your core.

Your eyes close and you’re not sure if you moaned out from pain, pleasure, frustration, emotion, or everything rolled into one. Johnny stills, bracing himself on the backs of your thighs. His own eyes are closed as well and you’re both getting used to the sensation, the fullness, the tightness. He exhales, and brings his lips to your forehead and then to your lips and then he stays there.

His left hand keeps holding onto your leg but his right hand creeps up your body till it softly closes around your throat. You feel the effect of this simple action in your core and in the way it squeezes around him, making him hiss.

“I’m going to fuck you now, okay baby?” he says to prepare you and you nod and suddenly he’s slamming into you and it’s pulled such an infernal keen out of you that you’re sure this is it. This is what you’ve always wanted, this is the feeling you’ve been chasing all your life. Your head had rolled to its side, your cheek pressing into the pillow to absorb the intensity you feel while Johnny is hovering over you, hand braced around your neck, pumping into you right from the start.

Your body is jolting up in time with his thrusts, your breasts lewdly moving under your top. Johnny is looking down at you in wonder, timing his movements to his grunts and watching your face through all the emotions. It’s too much too soon and your hands are flying meaninglessly to grip at something, something that would anchor you because fuck, Johnny has set a pace that you can’t possibly match right from the start. You try to grip at the sheets, or the pillow under your hips but you finally settle on Johnny’s arms. You’re pulling at him as if you want this to end, as if you’re telling him to stop but you don’t want him to stop. You never want him to stop.

“Is this what you wanted, babygirl? Is this how you wanted to be fucked?” Johnny asks as he keeps slamming into you. Why the fuck did it hurt so good? You usually liked there to be a build up, to have it start low and slow and build to it’s crescendo. So how come you were allowing this man to use your body like this and how come you never wanted this moment to end?

“Yes, yes, yes, Johnny, please… don’t stop, don’t stop…” the sound of your own voice shocks you, almost like you’re having an out of body experience and you’re actually dismayed by how manic you sound. Your voice is thick with lust, it is breathless, your pussy is the wettest it has ever been because you can feel your own slick running down your cleft. You can feel Johnny stirring places inside you you weren’t sure existed. His own moans have picked up and his hand around your throat has tightened, as if he were truly using it to anchor himself.

“Can I go faster, baby?” He asks with a strained voice and you take no time in answering “Yesss!” even though your eyebrows knit together from how much this is already.

His eyes close and he bares his teeth, almost like he was in pain and was trying to absorb it and then he lays over you, his head is by your shoulder while his hand never leaves your neck and suddenly, he’s moaning out, going faster, fucking you into the mattress.

The carnal sounds of your skins slapping and Johnny’s deep moans probably mask the fact that you’re crying out. Your hands are around Johnny’s wide back, your head is pressing into his shoulder, you’re clinging onto him with everything you have… you’re almost hanging onto him while he fucks you down, going so fast you feel lightheaded.

“Johnny please, I need to come.” you whimper and you’re not sure if you’re sobbing or not.

“No, no, baby, just let me go a bit longer.” he whines into your neck like he was in heaven and never wanted to leave. So you take deep breaths, you try to lay back and let Johnny have at it, give him what he needs because he was giving you what you needed. But his moans are hot in your neck, his weight is luxurious over your body, his length is so good inside you that you can’t really hold out any longer, no matter how much you’re trying to let him have his time.

“Johnny, please, I need to come or I will die.” you all but growl at him. You’ve never heard your voice sound like that but you can’t bring yourself to care.

He pulls back and then brings one hand to the top of your head, cradling it, stroking it. “Look at me, baby.”

You try, you really try but he’s giving you so much pleasure, it feels almost sinful to take it with eyes wide open but his hand on your neck has come up to grab at your jaw, holding your chin.

“No, no, no, baby, don’t hide from me. Look at me. I’m not going to let you come if you don’t look at me.” he says and now he’s using his words to own you, too, not just his body and this doesn’t help the matter. You get so fucking turned on that you want your release now and you realize that the only way you’re going to get it is if you obey. That thought alone is as profane as it is freeing.

So you look at him, and you’re worried about how wanton you look, how disheveled you look, how disoriented you look. But he’s holding your head prisoner, grabbing your chin, cradling the crown of your head, looking down at you so tenderly while he fucks into you.

He pecks your lips romantically and says “Come for me now, pretty girl.” and you finally meet your sweet, sweet relief. You’re whining, you’re panting, you’re frowning, every single muscle in your body is tensing against him, but you dare not look away. You don’t even realize how deep your fingertips are digging into both his biceps while you come on his cock and he moves in you through it all, holding your gaze.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you...” he keeps assuring you, stroking your head while you shake and quiver under him.

It’s the first time you’ve done this, looked at your partner through your orgasm, being made to keep your eyes open just to connect with him in a moment of complete and utter vulnerability. It is godless. It is liberating. It is the most erotic thing you’ve ever done.

You didn’t realize you were straining your neck till your head falls back into the pillows and you feel the tension subside. You feel spent and you thank the heavens above that Johnny has stilled in you. In your euphoria, you didn’t register whether Johnny got to finish or not. He’s kissing you in a way that is--dare you say it? So loving. You push that thought away to let your mind ponder over something else: damn, Johnny Suh is a talented man. He’s smiling when he looks at you and kisses you deep.

“You look so beautiful when you come for me like that.” He strokes the side of your face sweetly and then his hands are tugging your top off of you, making you completely exposed to him. The hickey he gave you earlier is blooming now and he hums deeply in his chest as he sees it.

“You need a matching one here.” he says and begins to mark you on the other side, but it doesn’t extract quite the same reaction from you as the first one had done because you’re too spent. Johnny doesn’t seem to mind because he’s letting you lay back as he kneads at your breasts, tongue circling over your peaks. You lazily run your fingers in his hair. He comes up and kisses the side of your face.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asks kindly and you nod, pulling his head into a slow kiss as your answer.

“Mmm, okay, good. Because I’m not done with you yet.” he says in between kisses and that’s when you realize he’s still hard. So he hadn’t, in fact, finished.

He brings his fingers to your clit and circles gently but you jump away from his touch, grabbing at his wrist. “No, I don’t think I can take that anymore.” you tell him desperately and he takes mercy on you.

“Then flip over for me.” He pulls out of you carefully and it’s then that you realize how swollen you are. You’re going to be sore tomorrow, you know it. When you take too long, he grabs at your waist, turning you on your belly and swats at your ass. You gasp, more at the sound of the impact than the impact itself and then your motivation is back. You want to please your man. You want him to come for you.

Johnny takes a pillow and places it vertically and lays you on top of it, giving you something to hold onto. It feels soft and comfortable. He’s been chivalrous so far. He’s been taking care of you and so he feels like he’s earned his keep. He can have you any way he wants. So he spreads your cheeks with both hands and licks at your hole a few times, just to make sure you’re still wet enough for what he’s about to do. He takes his hardness in his hands and lays himself on top of you carefully, not with his entire weight, though… he’s still supporting himself on his free arm that’s on your side. He rubs his tip against you a few times and you gasp with how swollen and sensitive you feel.

“Ready, baby?” he says in your ear and you can hear him so much more intimately in this position. He listens for your approval and then he pushes into you so fast, it has you yelping, it has your chest lifting off the pillow you’ve been hugging, it has you panicking, saying

“Johnny, wait, wait, wait, wait, please…” your sentence ends in more gasping sounds of discomfort. Johnny snakes an arm under you, holding onto your shoulders and his lips are on your temple, kissing over and over.

“Shh… baby… shhh, it’s me, it’s only me…” he reassures you and you know in your heart he’s never going to hurt you, but you simply couldn’t have held back your visceral reaction. He feels it, feels the anxiety in your body because he’s easing your head into the crook of his elbow and his lips are kissing at your temple and your shoulder so tenderly, you feel like you’re going to cry. “I’m going to go slow, okay?” he tells you softly. He cradles you with his arm that’s around your shoulders and snakes his other arm under you, his hand splaying out over your abdomen. He pulls you up into him, kissing your skin repeatedly to communicate care and then he starts moving into you, slow.

You whimper, but there is no pain now, only pleasure. You’re biting your lip because somehow it still feels intense, even at this pace. Rough or soft, this man was making you feel things you had only ever fantasized about. ‘Is it always going to be like this?’ you wonder, but you stop yourself. You didn’t have the luxury to have such thoughts because there wasn’t going to be another time. The thought has tears stinging in your eyes and you hide your face in Johnny’s forearm that’s encasing your chest.

Thankfully, it works because Johnny is cooing in your ear again “Does it feel good now, baby?” and it does, fuck, it does, but you don’t want him to be this nice if it’s going to make you have such treacherous thoughts. So you say,

“Faster. I want it hard.”

Johnny turns your head with his hand so he can look at you when he asks “Are you sure, baby?”

You nod and while he’s not totally convinced, it’s what you’ve asked. It’s what you’d been asking the past couple of weeks. So he has to oblige. He strengthens his cradling arms and pulls you into him tighter as if to buckle you up and then he lifts his hips and starts moving into you faster and you hear the slapping of his skin on yours once again.

His forearm moves higher from the planes of your chest to your neck and suddenly, he’s holding you in a headlock, and even if he’s not applying any pressure, it’s enough to make you moan. His breaths are more labored now and so he talks.

“Fuck, Y/N… I think about you all the time. All I ever do is think about you. Did you know that?” he groans right in your ear and your heart swells. You feel hopeful again, like you were before he had pulled the condom out. Your moan comes out in a broken laugh, like a sound of relief but you’re pleading at him again.

“Faster, please, please…” you beg and he wants to give you everything so he lays his entire weight on top of you and really pins you down. It takes a lot of effort, but he wants to please you and soon he manages to build a rhythm that’s so impossibly fast that you feel nothing but him, hear nothing but him, think nothing but him. You don’t realize that you’re chanting his name over and over, you don’t realize that you’re pulling onto his forearm around your neck as tight as you can, you don’t realize that you’re writhing so much under him that you’ve exploded on him, you don’t realize that you’re not falling for this man. You had pretty much already fallen for him.

“Ahh… Y/N…” he gasps and he’s said something else as well, but the ringing in your ears made it difficult to hear it.

You feel the absence of him when he pulls out of you abruptly and he’s sitting up, urgently stroking himself, groaning as he finally finds his own release.

A moment of stillness hangs in the air. Like the calm after a hurricane. The telling sounds of your impieties have ended, leaving only your breaths in their wake.

Johnny leans over you, combing your hair away from your face as if to check on you as you lay on your stomach unmoving. He kisses your cheek, then strokes the spot tenderly with the backs of his fingers. Your eyes close because you don’t know what’s going to happen now. Johnny moves away, sitting on the edge of the bed to discard the condom and you sneak a peek at him. You watch the muscles in his broad back protrude and you miss him already. He lifts off and walks away for a moment and your heart yearns for him. You wonder what it would be like to wake up to him next to you. You close your eyes again because his words from earlier are still ringing in your ears ‘I think about you all the time.’ They sounded so sincere, though men would say whatever you needed to hear during sex. But they came from him, and he’s never made an empty promise.

You feel the warm wetness of a washcloth being carefully dabbed on your skin, between your legs, over your sex and suddenly your heart is so full. He’s softly turning you around and easing you into a shirt he probably found in your closet. How could you not fall for such a man?

“Come here.” his voice says and you open your eyes to see that he’s laid down again, wearing only his boxers and he’s pulling you into his chest. You lay your head over his heart and listen to it thrum in his chest. This moment is surreal and you can’t help but feel like this is where you belong, and that feeling is solidified when you feel his arms wrap around you, his lips on the crown of your head. You’d never had afterglow feel this sweet, perhaps because you’d never had sex that felt this good. This is what you had wanted all your life. This feeling right here. No one had understood your needs better than this man. Johnny knew perfectly how to take you rough but soft. To make it coarse but sweet. To make you feel used but safe. To make you feel docile yet liberated. And he had told you that he thought about you all the time. You feel a smile grow on your lips as they pressed against his chest. This moment felt absolutely perfect.

“I have to get back to the dorms.”

And there it was.

You turn your head to the sound of his voice and he slowly sits up. “I’ve got an early morning schedule tomorrow and I don’t want to have to explain why I didn’t come in with the guys.” He says as he gets off the bed and starts dressing himself. You nod because, well. What did you expect? You stand up as well, picking up your discarded underwear and sliding it on, keeping your back to him because you couldn’t stand to see his face.

“I’m going to see you there, anyway, right?” He asks and you try to keep your face as devoid of emotion as possible.

“Right.” You reply because you don’t trust yourself to say anything else. You feel like your chest has been hollowed, like someone has sucker punched you in the belly. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t hope. You had told yourself that you just wanted to see if Johnny could give you what you liked in bed. That was all. He hadn’t promised you anything else. He wasn’t obligated to stay. And what he was saying made sense. You both had the same appointment tomorrow, both for different reasons, but you both had to be at the same place at the same time. You knew everything in this situation was logical. So why was your heart shattering in your chest?

He’s dressed now and he’s looking for his phone, his keys and his wallet outside in the living room. You follow him slowly, wrapping your arms protectively over the shirt he put on you. He gets everything he needs and heads for the door and you walk him out only because it feels like the right thing to do. He turns to look at you at the door and you look at him. Words remain unspoken. You’re not sure what he reads on your face because he looks like he was going to say something but he changed his mind.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He says and he’s polite enough to smile. He turns on his heel, and is out the door that closes with a finalizing shut. And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, looking at the broad expanse of wood he’s just disappeared behind. You’re not sure why your shoulders are shaking or why your breath keeps choking your throat. You turn around because what’s the point? You’ve done this before. This has happened to you before. Why should this time be different from any of the other times?

You don’t know how you make it back to your room because your legs are so weak and your vision is so blurred. You really thought it was going to be different this time. That he was going to be different. But once again, your heart has been broken. He had used you good, left his marks on you so you would see him, feel him for days, and just like that, he had left.

Why did no one ever stay? What was it about you that made men look at you like a pump and dump? Why did you bare your mind, your soul, your body in front of yet another man when you knew what was going to happen? Why did you never learn? Why did you keep hoping that things would be different? Why did you give yourself so easily when no one ever wanted you? Why were you so unwanted?

You’re pretty sure you’re sobbing because your hand is instinctively clutching onto your heart. The heart that had already been broken too many times, but this time, the injury felt much, much worse because you were in love. You were in love with Johnny. You knew that now. You know you were foolish to have fallen for a man you weren’t allowed to want. You had known it all along. You had never meant for things to go this far. No, you had hoped that things would go this far. Hoping was, in fact, the biggest sin you had committed in this strange tragedy. And you had paid the price for it. He didn’t want you, he could never want you. Why would a man like him want you? What were you to him? You were just another willing girl that threw herself at him. The man had been happy to sleep with you like normal people did, but no. You asked him, practically begged him to take you like a back alley whore. So of course, he was going to fuck you into oblivion and when the blood wasn’t rushing to his cock, he would realize how fucking deplorable you were as a woman for allowing this to happen to your body. Of course he couldn’t want you. You were unwantable. Suddenly, you can’t hold yourself up anymore… it was too much, it was all too much. It hurt so bad. You didn’t expect it to hurt so much that your legs couldn’t hold you up and you were sinking to your knees.

Strong hands grabbing at your shoulders, turning your around.

You look up, tears blurring your vision, your breath hitching faster than your heartbeat, like you’re hyperventilating. You’re still clutching onto your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together but failing. And he’s the one holding you, the one who caught you before you could fall to your knees. It’s him. He’s here, right in front of you. He’s looking back at you, with eyes intense, nostrils flared. And you’re looking back at him, unable to hide the outpour that he had left when he walked out that door. And you remember--he had your code.

“Why didn’t you ask me to stay?!” he asks urgently, holding onto your shoulders tight.

“I didn’t know I could.” you reply truthfully, your voice shaking and it makes you cry more and you can’t fake it anymore. This is what you feel and he’s seen it now. There was no point in hiding it.

“Y/N…” he takes your face in his hands strongly and kisses your tears. “Y/N, can’t you see? Can’t you see that I’m in love with you?” he says at you with such a burning intensity that it puts a halt to your tears.

“Huh…?” you look at him with round eyes, your self-doubt making it so hard for you to take in his confession.

But he makes it clear. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I think I’ve been in love with you for a while. I didn’t tell you because… I wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted. If that’s how you wanted to be with me. But I see it now, Y/N. I know you’re in love with me, too. Am I wrong?”

You can’t find your voice because the emotion is welling up inside you again. So you shake your head furiously. You weren’t like Johnny--you never could find the right words at the right time. You communicated everything physically. That’s why you pull him into a kiss and though your face is streaked with tears, you can’t bring yourself to care.

He pulls you in strongly, kissing you like a victory, kissing you like a promise.

You don’t believe this. After years and years of searching, trial and error, getting your heart broken and doing it all over again, you finally got the man. You finally got a man who wanted you in the same way you wanted him. You had yourself a man that cared for you and loved you. You had yourself a man that was willing to be patient with you when you couldn’t put in words what you felt in your heart.

You had yourself a man whom you could ask to stay and he would.

So tonight, you laid on his chest and he held you impossibly close. Telling you that he won’t go anywhere as long as you wanted him. Telling you that he loved you exactly how you were, broken pieces and all. Telling you that you were worth the effort he would have to make in the morning to seem unsuspicious to prying eyes. Because in exchange, he got to hold you close into the night. Tonight, you prayed for sleep to take you quickly because you were excited to wake up. Because in your heart, you knew that when you did, he would finally still be next to you.

2K notes · View notes

sukirichi · 3 years

Note

Breakfast: ingredient 64 + sugar 5 for inumaki

Okay, but like- what about inumaki's first kiss? His mouth is a very sensitive area and his first kiss would be a very intimate act, so here's what happens: reader and him are mutually pining BUT all everyone else sees is the sexual tension between them.

Somehow itadori manages to lock them in a dark small space, where they share their first kiss, yet they don't speak about it and to each other for a long time. At some point itadori (i swear this kid is a matchmaker) points out how y/n and toge can't even glance at each other and inumaki breaks. Late at night he shows up at reader's dorm, pins her to the wall and kisses her like no tomorrow. After they eventually have a rough make out with toge's shirt coming off, they lay on her bed where reader tells him she really likes him and he grabs her chin to stop her rambling and she looses it when she sees so much love and lust swirling in his eyes (they maybe have a third make out round 👀) and in the end they come to the conclusion they love each other and that they should have acted sooner on it.

I don't know if make outs count as nsfw and i read that you can write only sfw for inumaki, so it's okay if you can't complete this request. Just let me know you if can't.

Also get prepared to be spoiled spammed with asks.

— 🍰 strawberry shortcake anon

delicate

the first kiss with inumaki toge is as delicate as he is.

meal order: ★🥞 + 64 (canon au) + 5 (mutual pining) + sensitive first kiss with inumaki, them trapped in a room + yuuji as matchmaker uwu + WALL PIN KISS YES SIR + basically hot af inumaki

warnings: nothing really, just make out sessions and implications of smut, also UH soft dom inumaki toge, i guess? unedited as always

song i listened to while writing: I.F.L.Y. by Bazzi

note: 🍰 anon TYSM for this request, my heart was legit doki doki the whole time. this totally reminds me of why inumaki was my first crush and he’s the reason i came to watch jjk lol i love him so much <3 i hope this is what you’ve been looking for and that you like it! i had a lot of fun writing this one!

“Yuuji, don’t!” You tried to scramble against the strawberry haired boy’s grip, but he was far too strong, and it didn’t help that Nobara’s riled up self was helping him push you back inside the storage room. “Yuuji, Nobara, I’m your senpai, have some respect—” You don’t get to finish your words before you’re pushed inside, landing on the floor with a thud.

“Yuuji!” You banged your fists on the door once you’ve recovered, screaming at the top of your lungs. From outside the door, you heard the underclassmen giggle and run away, leaving you with your crush, Inumaki Toge, of all people.

Falling down into a squat, you wrapped your arms around yourself, refusing to look at him. You were only thankful that it was dark so Toge wouldn’t see how your pupils blew wide, your body responding at the soft scent of his perfume and laundry detergent. He’d been your crush for who knows how long now, and your first memory of meeting the cursed speech user burns at the back of your mind to remind you that it’s been years, and yet you’ve barely spoken to him.

Unlike the other students, your cursed technique wasn’t the most useful in combat. Your technique allowed you to nullify the abilities of others, but the downside of it was that it didn’t have much advantage against curses, so you had to rely on your physical strength to exorcise.

On the bright side, though…

“So,” Toge begins, shuffling away from the dusty wall and closer to you. Your heartbeat raced when his knees brushed against yours, thighs pressed against one another. “You’re a victim of them too.”

“Hmm, guess so.”

Neither of you speak for a while. Toge himself wasn’t much of a talker, and he barely batted an eye when Maki and Panda hauled his ass inside the storage room. He was so calm and placid that your mind was in mess – both because you were comfortable and happy in his presence, but at the same time, your palms were so sweaty and the room was so stuffed you could barely breathe. It didn’t help that Toge was humming too, reassured that he wasn’t going to hurt you with his powers.

“Uhm,” you started nervously, fiddling with your fingers. The silence stretched out thick and cordial that you couldn’t bear it anymore, and you turned to Toge with wide eyes, blinking back rapidly when he faced you as well, his deep purple eyes like a painting before you. “Do-do you know why we’re locked in here?”

Your palms grew wetter with each ticking second; Toge taking his time to answer.

Nobara had eavesdropped on you gushing to Megumi on how Toge looked so cute during breakfast this morning, and the girl immediately ran off to tell her best friend, Yuuji; the two of them sharing the same braincells.

Before you knew it, everyone split into two groups, your classmates dragging Toge away while Nobara and Yuuji manhandled you, hissing into your ear to man up and fess.

As if it was as easy as that! Inumaki Toge – albeit approachable and kind – was still the light of your life, the apple of your eye, and he barely acknowledged your presence the whole two years you’ve been with him. He was much closer with Maki and Panda while you got along more with the younger ones (although you wouldn’t hesitate to redact that statement after doing this to you), so the chances of you ever striking up a full conversation with him were low.

You only admired him from afar, sighing dreamily into your hands while he trained with Panda. Megumi seemed to be the only decent one, silent and bored as ever while you rambled on tirelessly on how much Toge looked so buff under his uniform yet had the face baby, stating over and over again he was born just to drive you crazy.

You should’ve known someone would find out one way or another, but heavens forbid, not him. The both of you were barely friends to begin with – you didn’t want to shatter whatever mutual respect you had for each other just because you crushed on him hard.

Mind running back and forth over the different ways Toge could reject you, because obviously someone had told him, or obviously he knew already – why else would he be locked here with you if your friends didn’t know something? It was getting hard to read his face from the darkness; the only thing you could make out were his long lashes and lips visible with his collar down.

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he avoided your gaze, and you swallowed audibly at the sound of his husky voice; unused to speaking this much. “But…but we’ve got nothing to worry about. Gojo-Sensei or Nanamin will come around soon.”

“Okay,” you nodded at his words, cursing inwardly that this was your perfect chance to confess or at least try and be friends with him, but your whole body was burning, feet frozen in your place that you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You watched from the corner of your eye as Toge rocked back and forth in his heels, cheeks puffed out, and your eyes zeroed in on the snake tattoo beside his lips.

Toge rarely ever let his collar down to muffle his voice, so seeing him expose his lips like this almost felt intimate. He looked so pretty, long lashes fluttering on top of those warmed cheeks and strong arms wrapped around his knees.

He was just an arm’s length away. This was the closest you’d ever gotten with him, and maybe it was because you’d kept your feelings a secret for so long that it suddenly burst through. Faster than you could take notice of yourself, your arm reached out to cup his cheeks, thumb swiping against the tattoos. “Pretty,” you murmured, Toge stiffening up under your touch.

His eyes skewed over to yours, wide and unreadable, but there was something there – something burning. He had to bite down his cheek as you caressed his face absentmindedly, and it wasn’t until his fingers came up to your wrist that you realized what you were doing.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, the warmth of his skin now searing because of your embarrassment. “Toge – I-I didn’t mean to – I’m so sorry! It’s just, your tattoos look so pretty and I’ve always—”

Your words are thrown right back into your mouth when Toge tugged you forward, sending the both of you toppling to the ground. Toge’s hands were delicate, just as delicate as your touch, when he cupped your face, his lips moving with yours. You were stunned for a moment before pleasure and fireworks exploding everywhere burst within you, prompting you to kiss him back in urgent fervor.

Toge’s lips tasted like candy, his sighs into your mouth melting your insides until you’re crumpling his shirt, eyes shut so tight in fear that maybe this would all disappear the moment you opened them.

Your hands travelled everywhere – from his shoulders, to his neck, his jaw – before it settled into his hair, the satisfaction of finally getting to run your hands through them has you weakening in his hold. Toge keeps his grip on your waist firm, almost possessive even, and he held you up both, sitting up while your arms wound around his neck.

A curse must’ve possessed you because you moaned into his mouth when he nipped at your bottom lip, tugging it inside his mouth so he could taste your cherry chapstick.

He wasn’t in a better state than yours. As the cursed speech user, his mouth was one of his most sensitive parts, and it took all energy it had in him to not kiss you senseless right then and there, your lips swiping over his mouth in such a mind-numbing sensation.

It felt like his body was on fire, the heat licking up from his toes to right where you were pressed on him. Your lips on his was scorching, the soft sighs and moans you gave him only adding to the fuel.

Toge groaned as your nails subconsciously pulled at his hair, making him grind you down into the V of his lips, pressing your chest firms against his until there was no more space. Through the darkness and nearly airless atmosphere of the room, Toge still managed to take your breath away, your lips moving in synch and you were falling, falling, falling.

He effortlessly held your weakening arms up before he pulled away, both your chests panting at the sudden heated kiss. His eyes trailed down from your lust-filled gaze to the bow of your lips, where the flesh was plump and abused.

Toge’s thumb swiped over your lips that had you frozen solid because he looked at you so gently, delicately, almost as if he didn’t want to hurt you. But he never could – you nullified everyone’s powers and allowed him freedom in your space. You’d let him come again and again, welcoming him with open arms if he wanted so, and in that moment, you believed he did.

Although why would he want you?

Fears and insecurities struck a chord in you and you scrambled away from his lap, leaving Toge all alone in the ground. You ducked your head down to ignore the confused and hurt expression on his face, turning back to the door instead. “I’m so sorry,” you rasped out in one breath, “I-I didn’t mean for that kiss to happen and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Please just forget this ever happened and I really wish you and I aren’t awkward for this. Okay, good night. See you around.”

Pulling your phone out of your pocket after cursing yourself for not thinking of texting Megumi sooner, you speed dialed the younger boy, begging him to unlock the door.

Megumi came around a few minutes later. Toge had long settled behind you, silent but still catching his breath from your previous lip-locking. His presence unnerved you and you rubbed your hands up and down your arms, praying to whoever divines self that Toge would forget about this as well. The moment Megumi came around, you leaped out of the room, leaving two confused boys – with one of them unknowingly shattered.

The next few days were hell.

You and Toge hadn’t talked much at all before, but now, you both pretended as if the other didn’t existed. During class where there had to be pairings, you immediately sided with Maki and pushing Panda to Toge’s way, the latter frowning behind his collar every time you avoided his gaze.

You just couldn’t handle being anywhere near him after that kiss. You feared that your heart would combust and you’d further embarrass yourself in front of him, as if you weren’t embarrassing enough with how excited you were as you kissed him.

Gosh, what would Toge think of you now?

You bet he found you so weird, and your suspicions were only confirmed when he’d resorted to avoiding you as well. No more polite and cheery good mornings! in the hallway or asking what he had for lunch, no more random texting of memes at 3am because you both didn’t have friends outside the institute.

Pure silence from the other side.

It should’ve comforted you – you wanted to stay away from him, right? – but you only grew restless. Your focus dwindled with each passing day, finding yourself at the back of Toge’s head longingly when he wasn’t looking, then sighing as you chastised yourself from being stupid.

To be honest, that kiss only made your feelings multiply tenfold.

Now that you knew how warm and comfortable Toge was to the touch, how his lips tasted and how his hair felt under your touch – you crushed on him impossibly harder than before.

You reached a point where you tossed and turn around in bed, unable to fall asleep; completely unaware that just a few doors down, he was doing the same. It had you thinking back to that day all over again, wondering why did he kiss you? If he liked you, why did he never talk to you? He never even noticed you before and you were always the first one to strike conversation, but because the others were always around, chats were limited, one-worded, and awkward.

That cursed technique of yours was still useless, after all.

“Would you please stop moping around?” Megumi slammed his book down on the table next to you, and you jumped in your seat, clutching your pencil to your chest. “I’m tired of you eye-fucking Inumaki-senpai.”

“Wha – ? No, I wasn’t, what are you talking about?”

“You’ve both been acting weird,” observed Yuuji who stopped fighting with Nobara over who would win in an arm wrestling fight without special abilities: Gojo-Sensei or Nanami. Nobara nodded beside him, stealing Yuuji’s crisp chips before speaking. “You both can’t even glance at each other. All of us can feel that something’s wrong between you two.”

“They probably fucked in the storage room.”

“Nobara, keep your voice down!”

“Why should I?” she smirked, jabbing her thumb to an asleep Toge lounging on the field with Panda. “Your precious crush is asleep. He won’t know. But whatever, what did happen when we locked you both there?”

“You all humiliated me, that’s what happened!”

“What do you mean humiliated?” Megumi asked this time around, and you buried your face in your arms, glancing over at Toge again. He was slumbering peacefully, his body shaded from the sun under the tree, and your fingertips itched with the urge to hold him close again.

“He doesn’t like me,” you concluded with trembling lips, sending one last longing glance at Toge. “And I think I just absolutely ruined everything.”

No matter how much your underclassmen tried to cheer you up, your spirits were never lifted. You trudged back to your room that night, tired and drained from all the events that you just buried your nose in your textbook, studying about curses for next week’s exams.

The words began to blur and you sighed on your seat, glancing at your phone. It was nearing midnight and the dorms were oddly quiet, but you guessed everyone just had a long day.

Soon, you brushed your teeth and moved to retire for the night when three soft knocks came from your door. Your hand stilled on your blanket, brows furrowed at who could it be this time of the night. After fixing your hair to make yourself presentable, you swung the door open, ready to hit Yuuji if he came here to drag you down to the movie room and force you to watch horror movies again when you were harshly pushed, the stranger kicking the door back.

You gasped as warm lips came crashing down to yours, your hands pinned above your hand with just one arm.

You didn’t have to open your eyes to know it was Toge who’d placed a knee between your legs to prevent you from falling; your knees already turning to jelly before you even registered it was him. The familiar taste of something sweet like candy and cough syrup coated your senses and you moaned in his arms as his hands ran under your shirt, making the hairs on your body prickle up in anticipation.

Toge took advantage of your moan, his tongue slipping inside before it clashed with yours. It was too much – his overwhelming scent, his tongue tasting yours, his hands squeezing your breasts tenderly – you were on the verge of falling apart.

Fire burned all over your body, pure instinct dominating your conscious mind as you pushed him back, Toge falling down with you scrambling above him.

He grunted at your sloppy actions of trying to tug his shirt over his head, but he complied, reaching up at the same time you leant down for another wet, heated kiss. The kiss this time around was far less gentle and more urgent; your mutual pining for one another tipping over the edge until all hell broke loose.

You settled into his lap as if it were a throne and he encouraged you to take it, to claim him because he considered you the queen of his world.

“Toge, I,” you rambled after every peck, unable to form a complete sentence because you kept wanting to kiss him. It was nearly impossible to pull away now that he held you so close, making you feel like home and driving you absolutely insane. “I can’t do it anymore, mmhm, I want you so much – always have – I don’t want to avoid you and I just want to—”

He stopped your rambling by grabbing your chin forwards, his lips molding over yours again and dancing with it like two perfectly syncopated performers.

Toge’s curious hands ravished every crevice and dip of your curves as he sucked on your tongue, tasting it fervently like a traveler memorizing his path. You shuddered when Toge’s nimble fingers travelled down to cup your ass to lift you upwards, pushing you closer and deeper into his mouth.

None of you cared about anything anymore. You could barely focus on anything but letting your hands roam free down his chest, Toge rutting up to you when your cold hands brushed over his nipple.

Needing air to breathe, you pulled away first, panting as your forehead pressed against his. You stared at each other, lips swollen and wet from the hot make-out session. You were sure that your adoration for him was clearly evident in your eyes, that your feelings for him sparkled and radiated like the bright sunshine’s warmth he always made you feel.

But that wasn’t what drove you crazy.

It was the fact his expression mirrored yours; only his had lust swirling around his dark eyes, an unexplainable plethora of emotions flooding through them. You were breathing hard and so was he, his soft pants warming your lips that were still sore from his hungry ministrations.

Now was the time.

It didn’t matter that maybe he didn’t feel the same way for you; you liked him so much. Your feelings poured over the glass and your eyes glossed over with how your heart frantically chanted his name, wanting nothing and no one else but him.

“I love you,” you confessed, “I fucking love you.”

To your surprise, Toge chuckled, pulling you forward until his chest was flushed against yours. He captured your lips for one last kiss, delicate this time around as his hands cupped your jaw. You tilted your hide to the side to deepen the kiss, and you sighed while Toge rubbed soothing circles at the sides of your jaw then down to your neck.

“You better,” he mumbled through your lips, “Because I fucking love you too, and I don’t want to play this game of push and pull anymore.”

It was your first time to hear such dominance in his words, to witness such need and possessiveness shine back through his eyes, his lips travelling to the sides of your face. Submissively, you arched your back to him and allowed him access to your neck, head lolling to the side. Even as Toge slowly but surely left little love bites to mark you as his, he was gentle and delicate, soft yet hard, bitter but sweet like the longing you had for one another.

Even as he had you trapped under his arms, his heat nestled into the deeper, intimate parts of you that only welcomed no one else but him; your lover was absolutely delicate.

And you only fell for him harder than you already have.

#inumaki toge x reader #inumaki to/ge x reader #inumaki toge #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #inumaki to/ge x reader fluff #inumaki to/ge x reader romance #inumaki to/ge x reader imagines #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen romance #jujutsu kaisen x reader fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader romance #inumaki to/ge #toge x reader #toge x reader romance #I LOVE INUMAKI SM

1K notes · View notes

firefly-in-darkness · 3 years

Text

Separation, Connection - 2/2

Pairing →Bucky Barnes x Reader

Characters → Marvel Characters

Summary → Your friendship with Bucky deterioates when you catch him in a compromising position with a fellow agent.

Word Count → 3.5k

SSB2021 Square Fill → Table Sex - @star-spangled-bingo

BBB2021 Square Fill → “You’re such a tease” - @buckybarnesbingo

Warnings → 18+. Angst, jealousy, smut. sexual activities, swearing.

Betas → @fandomfic-galore // all mistakes are my own.

A/N → I cannot believe how much everybody has loved part one, honestly, I am over the moon with all your comments and disdain for Bucky’s behaviour! I hope you like this part and I cannot wait to read your comments about how things turn out...

Firefly’s Masterlist

READ PART ONE HERE!

Previously: You paused in the doorway, but you had to be strong, to carry on walking away, you couldn’t let him hurt you again. It was time to move on.

The suite was filled with an assortment of flowers, sweet treats, and gift boxes, all unopened. From bright coloured ribbon to delicate lace detailing, the space was overwhelming and the sentiment behind each one wasn’t even close to what you wanted, needed from Bucky.

You laid on your couch, looking up to the ceiling, balloons filled with confetti swaying into view. Surely Bucky knows that he can’t buy your friendship. But maybe he is sorry. You looked over to your best friend sitting on the floor beside you, supposedly deeply invested in their book until a smirk formed on their face.

Wanda turned to you, “You already know what I think you should do - go and talk to him.”

She was right, you probably should talk to him. You knew Bucky hadn’t just tried to buy your friendship. It was in the way he’d hold the door open for you, drop off a coffee when you were doing paperwork, and how he’d always check in with you before, during and after training and missions. It was sweet, and not too dissimilar to the Bucky from before. However, this time, he made you even more nervous; the boyish charm that he didn’t use with you often was more noticeable, and the mischievous sparkle in his eye made you squirm.

“Okay.” You sat up, twisting to plant your feet on the ground, “I’m going to tell him. FRIDAY, where is Sergeant Barnes?”

The AI addressed you, “He’s currently sparring in the gym.”

You skipped down the corridor, leg bouncing in the elevator and wishing you’d taken the stairs as it would have been quicker at this rate, with excitement bubbling in your chest at how you would greet Bucky, accept his apology and forgive him. Then you’d tell him how you feel about him and deal with the rejection when it came to it but right now, all you wanted was your friend back.

Gliding through the automatic sliding doors, the spring in your step propelling forward into the gym and greeting the other gym users with a beaming smile or nod. The approach to the sparring ring had the nerves tickle under your skin and you bit your lip in hopes to ground yourself.

It’s only Bucky, your best friend. He wants you in your life. You reminded yourself and weaved between the agents to look at the spectacle that had gathered such a crowd. Bucky had an agent pinned to the ground, those thick muscular thighs straddled across them and the ones in his bulging bicep rippling as he applied pressure on his forearm against their windpipe.

“Bet they’ve been in that position more than once before,” an agent laughed, joined in by a couple of other peers.

Your stomach twisted at the comment and the sudden movement in the sparring ring had you pausing the step forward. It was her; they’d twisted in the tussle and she was now facing you and straddling Bucky’s hips. She panted above him and attempted to wrap her hand around his neck.

“Oh yeah, they’ve done this before, with a lot fewer clothes.” The agent beside you commented to another chorus of sniggers and laughs.

Nails dug into the palm of your hands as you steeled your nerves, jaw clenched and tongue pressing hard against the roof of your mouth. She glanced up at the murmurs and spotted you, a smirk on her painted lips. You couldn’t stand the sight and spun on your heel, wanting nothing more than to escape, again.

Bucky rolled his head back and saw your retreating figure between the legs of the crowd. Without a second thought, he shoved the agent off him and got to his feet and shoving the people aside in a bid to catch up to you. This couldn’t happen, not again.

You smashed through the doors, almost swinging it off the hinge. You hadn’t even looked back at him and he wasn’t sure if you even knew he was there until he heard a frustrated growl, one he’d never heard from you before. Bucky turned the corner to find you slumped against the wall by the elevator, head hanging low.

He stepped forward but was stopped by your raised hand, “Please just leave me alone.”

Bucky’s heart cracked at the defeat in your voice, the way you caved into yourself. Not letting him help with whatever it was you were dealing with. He knew what had happened, saw the agent above him grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky leant his side against the wall, giving you enough space but still able to watch your every move in case you tried to run away again, “Please talk to me.”.

“I was ready to forgive you.” You glared at him, he could see the tears threatening to spill, clinging to your eyelashes and ready to fall.

“Oh sweetheart,” Bucky reached to cup your cheek, but you batted him away and stood up straight as the elevator made its presence known. He went to follow you into the lift but once again, you stopped him with an outstretched arm.

“Don’t call me that! You don’t get to call me that.” You gritted your teeth and took a step back, “Please just leave, James. Go back to your mating ritual or whatever that was out there.”

Bucky was at a loss for words, he knew he’d betrayed your trust when it came to not talking about his sexual rendezvous but now, he was stumped. You were jealous and he finally realised why you hadn’t accepted his gifts. You didn’t want his attention or just his friendship; you wanted his affection, his love and he wanted to give that to you.

You meant the world to him, and yes, he’d broken the number one rule when it comes to friendship, he needed to explain why he did what he did. But first, he needed to get you to listen which was the more difficult part. You were stubborn and closed yourself off whenever someone tried to pry inside that pretty head of yours.

Bucky was willing to get inside, whatever it took, whatever you needed.

“No doll, I’m not leaving you. We need to talk about this.” Bucky stepped past you and pulled you into the elevator.

You knew you wouldn’t be able to shake Bucky, and he’d follow you into your suite. You wanted him to but also didn’t at the same time. Your head and heart were in a conflict that left you frustrated and ready to snap.

The flowers mocked you, the balloons swaying with a smirk and the unopened packages sparkled in knowing. Ignoring the gifts, you strode through the suite and into the dining room with Bucky hot on your heels.

“Please can you give me some space?” You sighed, a hand dragging down your face.

“Okay,” Bucky held his hands up in submission, “look, I know what I did, I betrayed your trust, I know what I said hurt your feelings.”

You scoffed, that was an understatement, turning to look at him and leaning against the kitchen cabinets, hands braced on the counter, knuckles whitening as you tried to maintain your composure.

“I can only hope that one day you’ll forgive me and let me back in, to be on your side again. I should have told you about-”

“Don’t you dare say her name.” You pointed at him. Bucky smirked, making you even angrier than before. “Are you getting a kick out of this?”

“No, of course not, what is wrong with you?” Bucky’s smile faded instantly, and he shook his head, “I’m trying to talk to you and you’re jumping down my throat the second I speak.”

You reared your head back, mouth agape, you knew he was right but considering he dared to say it out loud was enough for your blood to boil over. You went to shove past Bucky, to escape to your bedroom or bathroom but he twisted you both around and pushed you against the wall.

“Will you just stop for one second.” Bucky held your squirming body, “I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” The tears finally fell as you thought of him loving her, the words stuttering out, “We’re- just- friends.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and leant forward, you pushed his chest in a panic but unable to escape his hold and then raised your hand to punch him. Bucky’s hand closed around your fist before it could hit his cheek and he held your arms above your head.

“For fuck’s sake Y/N, I’m trying to kiss you.” He growled, his legs pinning your leg in place.

“Still want to kiss me after I tried to punch you?” You were angry and confused. Wasn��t he telling you about his feelings for that woman that was straddling him earlier? “You’re only interested because I met someone else. That I don’t let you get under my skin anymore.”

Bucky growled again and surged forward, this time you didn’t stop his mouth from descending on yours. The bruising kiss relaxed your body into his hold, yet it was fully alert to his flesh hand kneading at your waist and the cool metal cupping your cheek.

Your mind floated away, all coherence and why you were angry disappeared until Bucky pulled back, leaving you both panting and eyes closed. You suddenly realised that you should stop; your heart was telling you to run but your body demanded more. You wanted him.

You yanked Bucky back to you at the nape of his neck and crashing your lips to his again. Tongues swiped along each of your mouths, teeth nipped at one another. He knew exactly what to do, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip again and he began rocking your hips down against the thick muscle. Warmth bloomed in your tummy from the friction of Bucky’s sweatpants against your clothed core.

His locks found their way around your fingers and the slight tug elicited a moan from his plump lips, parting you both momentarily. Eyes locked, pupils dilated in lust, and warm heavy breaths filled the space. You were momentarily lost in the feelings, overwhelmed but unsatiated. The anger still simmered in your veins; the venom was heavy on your tongue for what he put you through, but you couldn’t stop yourself anymore. You had to have him, at least once, and it would be on your terms.

You somehow managed to spin the hunk of a super soldier around, pressing his back against the wall. The smell of Bucky; that woodsy musk and sweat overwhelmed your senses, you’d been close to him but not this close. Without thinking you, began peppering wet kisses down the column of his neck, nipping at his collarbone. He tried to explore your body, hands dipping under the hem of your shirt and you almost caved into their search before you pulled away.

Being this close to Bucky, to finally getting somewhat of what you had dreamed of was putting your head in a spin, but you needed to get him out of your system. What better way than to fuck it out? To fall over the precipice of ecstasy and let it wash away your desire and need for him. To move on from one, James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky’s brows furrowed at the uncertainty that was clearly painting your features, “are you-”

You didn’t want his reassurances right now, you just wanted him to kiss you again, “want you Bucky.”

“I know, but we need to get rid of this first,” Bucky was biting his lip as he pointed at your top.

You nodded and he slowly tugged it over your head, you were too impatient and pushed him back to the wall. Letting him drink in your body while removing your sports bra. The cool air against your skin was welcoming but didn't dampen the fire pooling in your belly.

You leant in to kiss him again, bringing both of his hands up to your breasts. It was messy, all teeth and tongues as you both fought for dominance. His fingers twisting and teasing at your nipples sent goosebumps across your skin. Bucky’s mouth began to explore your jaw and neck. It felt like he was everywhere, turning you into putty.

Is this what it felt like to be with him? To have him worshiping your body. Your mind flashed back to the moment you saw him pinning that agent against the wall, the way he’d fucked her. It soured the moment and you pulled away.

“Is this what you fucking do? Charm your way into women’s pants?” You were pacing back and forth, “I’m such a fool.”

Bucky hadn’t said a word, he was leaning against the wall and a forlorn look on his face, his hair spiking up every which way. It made your heart flutter and the noticeable erection under his pants was making your mouth water. He didn’t show an ounce of regret, he actually looked enamoured with you. No, it can’t be. You shook the thought from your head, letting the anger morph into passion again.

You strode over, he was ready to catch you the moment you leapt into his arms. Mouths crashing down on one another again in a heated battle. His hands held your back tight to his chest, your core almost, almost, getting what it needed through the material. You were lowered down, your back meeting the coolness of your kitchen table and Bucky kissed between your breasts, your eyes fluttering closed at the pleasure.

Bucky’s weight disappeared and his body moved away, leaving you cold and alone. You peeked open one eye, a slight fear that he’d have a face of regret but then you saw the look of desire and lopsided smile as he shimmied his pants and boxers to the floor.

He returned to the spot between your legs and, you almost had him where you wanted him as he reached out to pull at your leggings, but his hands paused, resting at your hips. Your brow furrowed, unsure of what he was thinking so you sat up, and he looked anywhere but your face.

You tucked a finger under his chin to bring his attention to you and whispered, “What is it?”

“Are you sure about this?” Bucky quietly asked.

“Of course, I am, I would have kicked you out the moment you got here otherwise.” You smiled and pulled him closer to press your lips to his cheek.

You slowly edged down his jaw line with small light kisses, spurred on by feeling him relax under your touch. Teeth grazed along his pulse, Bucky moaning into the now electrified kitchen. He pulled you to the edge of the table and lifted slightly to remove your leggings, placing you back down gently.

You fell back against the table while his fingers rubbed over your soaked panties, swirling in rough motions. He swiped the material to the side, his fingers glided through your dripping folds. You were completely consumed by him and the way his fingers pumped and stretched your cunt open while his thumb caressed your clit.

“You’re such a tease.” A mumble of whimpers, profanities, and Bucky, left your lips as you tried to convey your need for him to fuck you, “Please.”

The words were silenced as his cock skimmed over your folds, nudging at your bundle of nerves, teasing you higher and higher into pleasure. It felt like it had been minutes, in reality it was mere seconds, when Bucky finally pushed the tip of his cock into your cunt, walls fluttering and stretching around him.

Gasps fell from both of your lips as Bucky adjusted his weight, shifting deeper inside you slowly with your walls clenching around him. Another thrust forward and he was burying himself to the hilt, filling you up completely. Your cunt was pulsing around him, dripping around his cock with want the moment Bucky grabbed your knee and pulled it up to his shoulder.

This new angle got him deeper and deeper with every thrust, the table creaking under the movement, you no longer cared, all you could think about was him and the pleasure he was giving you.

Your back arching and head spinning as Bucky kept the pace, unfaltering as you suddenly climbed to the peak of your orgasm. His grunts and skin slapping against skin was pushing you higher and higher. The wood cut into your palm as you held tightly to the edge with each wave of pleasure until you were unreservedly consumed by ecstasy.

“Fuck, Y/N.” Bucky spluttered, his movements matching his speech, “You’re gonna make me cum too quickly if you keep clenching like that.”

Your grip loosened and traded the wooden table to skim through your folds in search of more and to keep teasing your nipples, and Bucky. You bit your lip, watching him watch you touch yourself whilst he fucked you was turning you on.

Bucky regained his composure with a grunt, pushing your fingers away with his vibranium ones and began circling your clit. The cold metal sent a rush of pleasure across your skin, heating your desire.

“Cum again, I know you got another one in you, Doll.” Bucky smirked above you as he continued to ram into your cunt and flick at your clit in perfect unison.

Your vision blurred and your body keened, letting out a silent scream, you came undone around him. Body shaking as you felt Bucky grip your hips with both hands as he hit you harder and harder until he stilled, unloading inside of you.

“Fuck,” you rasped.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to get you anything or?” Bucky asked, as he collected the scattered clothes around the kitchen.

“I’m fine Bucky, thanks.” You replied, facing away from him, and clipping your bra back in place.

You could feel the tension in the room, and you hoped Bucky hadn’t noticed. You knew he would, he’s not stupid, but you secretly wished that it would be ignored. There were no regrets on your part and you’re sure Bucky enjoyed himself, it just seemed like you’d have to do a lot more talking than before. Maybe you should have started with that instead of letting him kiss you or letting yourself kiss him back.

“Do you want me to stay or go?” Bucky quietly asked as he put on his shirt.

You weren’t surprised at his care before but now you were for the uncertainty that laced his words, once you’d put on your shirt, you turned to him, “Come on Buck, I’m just another one of them, you just happen to know me a little better. It was just sex.”

If it wasn’t for his close proximity, you wouldn’t have heard the words that Bucky whispered; it wasn’t to me.

“What did you just say?” You looked at him in shock, heart racing at the blush forming on his cheeks.

“It wasn’t just sex to me.” He coughed into his hand and rubbed at the back of his neck, “I’ve always loved you Y/N and I’ve told you that a thousand times. Is there any chance we can be something more?”

You chewed on your lip, butterflies erupting in your belly at the prospect of what Bucky was asking, of the potential heart break you might endure. It was clouded by the way she had smirked at you in the gym, the gossip shared by Natasha and the advice Wanda had given you about self-care. It was all blurring into one and you didn’t know what to say or do. You were torn between your head and heart.

“I think it’s going to take more than gifts and sex. We had a frienship, and I trust you with my life but not with my heart.” You paused and tipped his face so you could really look at him, to see him, “I don’t think we can be something right now, but in time, I think we can get there.”

“Can we start over?” Bucky asked, eyes wide in hope as he leant into your palm.

You took a step away and stretched out your hand, “Nice to meet you Sergeant Barnes, I’m Agent Y/L/N. Do you know any decent places around here to get a bite to eat?”

Bucky’s large hand enveloped yours, a soft smile on his lips, “I know just the place.”

The End…

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#Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes Fic #Bucky Barnes Angst #Bucky Barnes Fanfic #Bucky Barnes Fanfiction #Bucky Barnes Smut

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yoondles · 3 years

Text

Grow As We Go - M.YG

CEO! Min Yoongi x CEO! Reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Summary: Marrying your ex isn’t really something you want to do.

Themes: Heavy angst, fluff if you squint for 2 seconds, smut, it ends happily.

Word count: 10k, Unedited

Inspo: Trivia: Seesaw by MYG & Grow As We Go by Ben Platt

Warnings: Yoongi calls you a whore, Yoongi’s pp is huge, reader is a virgin, talks about their toxic relationship, biting/nipping, breast play, light humiliation, fingering, oral (f receiving), squirting, creampie, unprotected seggs, mature language and that’s about it 😐.

A/N: lastly, I haven’t gotten the chance to proofread this and I’m sorry for any mistakes. This is my first fic so feel free to share your thoughts, thank youuu! 😭

You knew you were screwed. The way he held placed his hands inside his pocket, the heavy footsteps that would leave an impression to the carpeted floor of the airport, and the way his eyebrows arched. You were really fucking screwed.

It was the same posture he held one year ago, a few months prior to the separation that lead to the awkwardness that blossomed amidst your honeymoon days. It was eerie silence. You saw the way his veins would pop the moment he saw you as if he was clenching his jaw hard, trying to prevent himself from doing anything he regretted. You refused to make an eye contact with him.

The crowd was going wild, five months after your announced marriage, this was your first public appearance together, as a couple known by the entire nation. The fact that he was Min Yoongi didn’t help either, in fact, more people got interested in your relationship because it was about Min Yoongi.

He was one of the seven bachelors, the current head of BigHit Inc., a large conglomerate. He’s an adopted son of the late Mr. Bang, all of which grew to become individual talents, either blessed in terms of dancing, singing, poetry, even rapping. “Where the fuck have you been?” Cocking one of his brows up as he scrutinised you, looking at your small figure with an imposing look, something that would’ve threatened any normal citizen.

But not you. You knew Yoongi like the back of your hand. Having spent about 5 years of your life in an attempt to make the best out of your arranged marriage with him really helped out. Except for the fact that the two of you haven’t spoken for about one year prior to the wedding itself, and the fact that you were former lovers who decided it wouldn’t work out.

“Japan,” you shrugged him off, dismissing your assistant by giving him your luggage as you tried your best to hide your face from the agonising cameras that the paparazzi held against your face. Thankfully, they were kind enough to make way for the two of you, parting as the newly wedded pair made their way towards the vehicle.

He scoffed at your answer, baffled. He pushed his hair back in annoyance, “why didn’t you tell me anything about this?” You ignored him. Noticing the whispers and glances the people exchanged with one another. You were drifting away, pulled back to reality with the harsh grab you felt in your shoulder, stopping you from moving further. “About what?” You shook his hand off as you attempted to push through. The vehicle seemed to be moving further away from the two of you as tension was quick to rise.

“You, Japan?” You shook your head, walking a tad bit faster this time around. “Hello?” He spoke a bit louder this time, the large empty area made sure that everyone heard him. It was the echoes that reached you. “Just, let me get inside the car,” your voice was getting louder by the second, as the media started cluttering around the two of you, trying to get into the details of what seemed to be an argument between two of the richest heirs in South Korea.

“Can you let me talk to my fucking wife?” His voice was a tad bit louder than earlier, it was nothing that surprised you. He seemed to be fond with wanting himself heard, what shocked you though was the harsh grip that left you wincing as he pulled you inside the car. It was only when you were in front of the door that you managed to shake him off, opening the door yourself as you slumped against the leather seat.

Quickly, you turned away from him, closing your eyes as you forced yourself to shut him out. Pretending that Min Yoongi was a fragment of your imagination and he was no way real, that this was some made up bullshit you fantasised about at 3 AM. “Y/N!” He yelled out your name, anger evident in his voice, as the metal on his seatbelt crashed repeatedly against the plastic, cursing loudly as the driver began to move.

“You couldn’t have fucking waited, could you?!” The loud empty halls in your makeshift home was amplifying your voice. The loud banging of the door was your signal to continue your short rant regarding his unprofessional work, in front of the news outlets that would milk every second that passed in front of them.

“To hell with that, why didn’t you fucking tell me you were going to Japan?” You mocked his tone with a very small voice, removing your heels as you paraded the long hallway, rolling your eyes in the process. Coming to a halt the moment he pulled you back to him with a harsh tug on your wrist. You were quick to react, his face contorting as if confused as to whether he should apologise or continue his facade. “Why should I?” It was a push and pull type of relationship, undoing your dress in front of him was a huge part of the show.

The garment was quick to pool around your feet, swaying your hips gently as you flaunted your white pair of underwear. Moving towards the closet, eyes meeting his through the large mirror. For a moment he paused, taking a few seconds to glance at your body. Taking every curve, every mole, everything he could with such a short amount of time.

“Well, let me see. I’m your husband!”

“Legally, wouldn’t say I voluntarily married you.” You shrugged, grabbing the closest pair of pyjama you found. “Real mature, y/n. It would’ve been nice if I’d gotten a memo, you know?”

“It’s not like you would’ve cared.” You did your best in everything, and right now, pissing him off was on the top of your priorities. Casually grabbing the discarded garment as you walked outside your bedroom, dumping everything in the nearby laundry room, he continued to follow you around like a shadow.

You knew he was pissed. His breathing was a lot harsher, unlike earlier when he was wearing a mask, right now you could see he entirety of his face as he bit his lip in annoyance. “We’re going there, aren’t we?” You nodded, feeling a lot more giddy knowing you did your best to rile him up. Jumping your way towards the kitchen, greeting the maids as you walked over the counter, grabbing a yellow banana.

“Do you seriously think I have no right to know where you are? Is that another privilege I’m not entitled too, hm?”

“Yes, actually. I don’t want you meddling with my business, I want you as far away as possible.” He pursed his lips, placing his hands against his hips as he looked at you dumbfounded. “Contrary to your beliefs, I don’t care about your stupid company. I just want to know if my wife’s safe or if she’s dead.”

“Don’t use the wife card on me, Min Yoongi. Stop acting like you gave a damn about my well-being two weeks ago.” The air conditioning seemed to be working extra harder as the air surrounding the two of you seemed to be a lot more thicker and colder now. His eyebrow slowly arched upwards as he gazed at you, carefully shooting the banana peel inside the automated trash can.

Walking your way towards the fridge to grab a cold glass of water, as he intently gazed at you. “What are you talking about?” You couldn’t help but chuckle at his response, offering him a glass of water before placing it back inside the fridge as you washed it yourself. “I’m just returning the favour, it’s not like I knew where you’ve been the past two months.”

Yoongi was confused, it was amusing to look at him, acting innocently after the crimes he’s committed just three months into the relationship that sealed the two of you towards a muddy path to eternity. “Two months? What?”

“Yes, I don’t fucking know where you’ve been, how you’ve managed to slither past my hands, and how you fucking act like you don’t have a wife at home.” That shut him up. It was silence that followed the short confession you managed to squeeze out after days if trying to keep everything together.

“So to hell with Japan, to hell with you trying to know where I’ve been. Because I’ve been clueless for the past two months, not once did you tell me you were off somewhere.”

It was oddly, fulfilling. To be able to give your pent up emotions some freedom after a few days of relaxation. It was a different kind of satisfaction when you saw the way his face moved, the way his facial features would move with every word that left your mouth. You saw the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, as if figuring out why everything had to happen.

It was at this moment you declared your first victory, moving past him, making sure to touch his shoulder with yours on the way out of the kitchen, locking yourself in your bedroom. Your own personal space, far away from what was intended to be your shared space. Because you and Min Yoongi both appreciated privacy far too much.

It was an immature fight, sure. But that was everything that you and Yoongi had been. Immature lovers who wanted each others’ time for each other, the only thing that you managed to do well was break up publicly and settling everything in private. That was a big enough red flag, however, there was an agreement older than the two of you. Somehow, it managed to slap you both in the back of your heads.

Your relationship with him remained platonic. As if nothing had changed between the two of you, like you were the same pair of lovers who broke up with one another one year ago. Living with him had been many things, it was very exhausting having to keep up with his lifestyle.

It was draining to the point of no return, where you’ve been pushed past all your limits and somehow he chooses to ignore everything instead of addressing it. And it had always been like that, was there not any growth? You assumed there would be some, at least a few, but you thought wrong.

You wanted everything to die out, before proceeding with your plans. The two of you had made an agreement that within the span of two years, you’d be out of the marriage. However, with his brothers growing massively successful, the press made sure to watch almost every movement Min Yoongi made. It doesn’t help that he was private, now that he had to be exposed the media tried its’ best to pry him open. So yes, it had been very exhausting. You only needed two years, and you’d be back to the same situation you had been before.

Eating dinner had been uneventful. It consisted of you looking for the perfect video to watch while sitting in the dining table, your food getting colder every minute that passed. As if you hadn’t had an argument earlier, you had no idea where Yoongi was, whether he was safe or if he was fucking another bitch in the club, hell, maybe he was with someone who could satiate his needs, be there for him, fill up whatever you space you failed to replenish.

Was it painful knowing that? Yes. You could be there for him, you wanted him to at least try and approach you as much as you tried to form a coherent bond with him. It won’t be the same as it was two years ago, but you at least wanted to have a friendship with him. You want the two of you to be able to talk to one another without yelling, cursing. You wanted something to happen, something that was better than your current situation.

Your two weeks in Japan had been the greatest time of your life since your marriage. You’d assume that working there would be no different than if you worked from home, however, there was no empty space in Japan. There was no Min Yoongi reminding you that you were married, yelling that you hated your current life situation and that you wanted to escape. It was a breath of fresh air, but it only lasted for a while, not after his secretary bombarded your secretary.

The door closed with a loud “bang!”. It was something you’ve gotten used to over the course of five months, because you know well enough that Yoongi could never close the door without trying to release his pent up anger. He looked sleek, admittedly, he looked very charming wearing his black turtleneck, and his black coat. But you knew that you needed to stay away, as he removed his shoes, you shut down the television, walking fast while chewing on a piece of kimchi. There was a pause, it was the moment you made eye contact with him.

But you ignored it, walking away with your bowl towards your room. Normally, he’d find you in your room, however, he arrived earlier than usual. Fridays would usually mean that he’d be coming home late, trying to clear up his schedule for the weekends, but he was here in all his glory. “Have you been keeping up with the news?” You were holding a chicken bone, gnawing on it as you were about to pull the door, entering your room, but you were a few seconds late. You shook your head slowly.

He took a few steps closer as he began to open his phone.

“Min Yoongi caught desperately trying to save marriage!”

That was one of the very few articles that had appeared in his phone. Alongside, “Divorce Makes Way For The Newly Wedded Min Couple!” You gave him a shrug, unsure as to what he was waiting for, what reaction he wanted upon showing you mediocre headlines. “Well, I’m glad they’ve reported reliable news.” You could practically see smoke fume out of his nostrils in annoyance. “The fuck do you want me to do? Make a call and tell them no, when we were clearly in the middle of an argument earlier?”

He gritted his teeth, his tongue poking out his cheek as he placed both one of his hands in his hips, the other reaching his forehead as if he was trying to ease a random headache he managed to acquire within the three minutes of talk time you allowed each other to have. “This is the first time they’re seeing us, I’m quite pleased with the reaction.” The sarcasm was dripping off of every word, again, you shrugged. Gently placing the bowl down as you stared at him trying to figure out what he wanted from you.

“You’re a CEO, Min Yoongi. You’re not a performer like your brothers are, this doesn’t mean shit to the millions you earn weekly. None of this matters.” You knew that the reason for this was his brothers’ fame, they were out in the spotlight while he was in the dark. This urged the media to move towards Yoongi’s direction more, as he seemed someone who was more intriguing. Someone who’s name stood out in the crowd, despite not being a public character.

“Do you not care about the reputation you have as an individual?”

“Well in the first place, none of this would have happened if you sat down in your goddamn office chair, like you’re supposed to be doing. Not waiting for me in the airport,”

“Glad you appreciate the effort though, was I supposed to not greet you? After disappearing for two fucking weeks?” He let out a laugh, huffing as he placed down his coat somewhere in the sofa. “You yelled in front of everyone, I asked you to wait, to at least let everything boil down to the moment we were inside the vehicle!” It was a matter of proving who’s fault it really was at this point, it was the same immature fight you’d always have but never seemed to resolve.

“Why do you care so much about everyone else? Why do you care about their opinion, when they barely know you.” That was your conclusion, you halted, and moved towards your room. The bowl was left halfway full in the counter, long forgotten as you’ve lost whatever was left of your will to eat the moment Yoongi presented the news articles he found to be fascinating.

In an attempt to move on from the situation, you distanced yourself from him. The already existing wall between the two of you had only grown taller. You did your best to avoid him, even going as far as checking the CCTVs from your office just to see if he was home, letting him do his nightly routine before proceeding to going home yourself. You wanted no physical interaction, in fact, even the invitation that had been sent for the two of you had been forwarded by him through email.

Even your cellphone numbers had been rendered useless, as you barely talked through messages, not once had he called.

You didn’t know how the night would pan out, you just had to get through this, wear a dress that fit the theme, and pretend that the two of you had been happily married for the past six months. Easy, you thought it’d be easy. However, the void that stood in between the two of you had been way too big to even mend. So, you sat there, tapping your fingers against the soft satin fabric of your dress. Awkwardly licking your lips as you failed to make an eye contact with the man beside you.

You clutched your tiny purse as you had been escorted out of the car by Min Yoongi himself, doing your best to try and act natural. Hooking your hand against his arm, as he cleared his throat in surprise, raising a brow towards your direction as you began to walk the red carpet. Similar to the airport scene, the media was everywhere. In addition to the crowd you’ve managed to form, a bunch of business elites were also waiting for the arrival of the lucky couple, having big names in the business field, wanting to please the two of you for possible collaborations and merges. The two of you were the star of the show.

You began critiquing the way the two of you walked, how his steps were far larger than yours and how you always fell behind. The way your arm awkwardly hung from his, how you attempted to push back stray pieces of hair with your other hand.

Parties had always been your cup of tea, you enjoyed them, you saw them as business opportunities. But for the first time in your life, you lacked the confidence to power through the event, your feet were already worn out from the heels you chose to wear, everything was not going as planned and you were terrified that it showed through. What a hypocrite you were, scolding Yoongi for caring too much despite being anxious yourself.

There was a buffet, wine, champagne, and all of Yoongi’s brothers had also been present. They greeted the two of you, which you happily returned, never missing the sly smirk they gave off especially the way Taehyung laughed at your awkward posture, pointing out that he read the previous articles that mentioned the two of you. The part you dreaded was yet to come, it was at that moment that the old Mr. and Mrs. Choi walked in front of your and began asking you questions.

“You look wonderful tonight!” Mrs. Choi gushed at the two of you, her hands clinging onto yours and Yoongi’s as she began to shake the two of them. You smiled politely, exchanging quiet glances with Yoongi, you were screwed. The old couple loved gossiping, they were familiar with all distributors and were often referred to as the “trusted affiliate” that could juice out everything out of a growing issue in South Korea.

“So do you, I really love your earrings!” You returned the excitement, pointing out wherever your eyes had landed first, so it happened to be her earrings. “Thank you! I got them from Chanel, a little outdated but they do the job.” A few awkward sentences later, they began to ask you about what they were really here for. “I’m so glad the two of you were able to attend, I’ve been anxious since the moment we read the issues, we thought you’d be separating, again.” It was the emphasis on the word again that had Yoongi clenching the glass a little harder, enough for the tips of his finger to turn white. However, his composure remained calm, you gently tapped your heel against his leather shoes.

“Arguments do happen, I’m sure you and mr. Choi have also been victims of small fights every now and then, in the end, don’t we all find ways to resolve these?” He ended by bringing the wine closer to his lips, the dark hue beginning to stain his pink plump lips. The couple laughed.

Navigating a conversation with the Choi’s had always been dangerous, at any moment either one of you could stumble upon a trip mine. On top of this, the lack of communication with Yoongi could lead to possible contradiction of your answers, you didn’t discuss anything nor did you prepare for any interviews.

Their many attempts to find new headlines had almost been unsuccessful, almost. “When are you planning to have kids?” Mr. Choi asked, drinking the sparkling drink in his hand as Mrs. Choi complimented him through her fond eyes.

“Right, it has been six months since the two of you had been married. When are we seeing little Yoongi’s, little y/n’s?” The four of us shared a hearty laugh, “well, my wife and I want more time for each other. Not to say we don’t have any plans in the future, but we don’t intend to have kids as of this moment.” It was a good enough answer, barely any information but it was enough to get a good click worthy title. “Oh, interesting. As much as we’d love to stay, we do have to meet a few more people.”

“We’d leave the two of you be, I’m certain you’d want to talk to hipper and younger guests.”

The two of you gave a polite smile, sighing loudly as they finally left your table. You downed the glass of wine faster than you had done before, the heat in your throat finally easing the tension you’d been feeling. You shared an awkward glance, lightly chuckling after deeming the interaction as somewhat successful.

“You did great,” you praised Yoongi, he started scratching the back of his head as his cheeks glowed in a pink hue, avoiding eye contact for a few seconds. “Who would’ve thought that that would work out?” Biting your lip as you shyly smile at him. It was you getting flustered all over again, similar to how your dimples would show, how you’d look at your feet in order to avoid his stares, those five beautiful years had always been dear to your heart. However, the breakup was almost inevitable.

The two of you were growing at your own pace, while you were busy preparing to be the next CEO, Yoongi had already been managing the company. Although you tried to make ends meet, it still happened. It started with small immature fights, soon it evolved to the days you would fail to meet, bigger arguments emerged, and although you tried your best to settle everything, you were not in the right state of mind. The never ending pressure that erupted from your family, the business meetings, the small problems you encountered in your day-to-day life. Everything collided.

You wanted to find comfort in Yoongi, you wanted him to be the safe space you needed whenever you wanted, but you became selfish. You would tell him everything, disregarding the fact that he too had problems, that he was also suffering considering that a job meant to be split into seven members, were all being handled by one. He tried his best, but on some days it got too much for him to handle, and one day, he finally exploded. He ended the relationship the two of you had, a five year relationship ended in the course of three months.

And now here you were, using your newfound attitude as a way to cope with the heartache that you still feel deep within your heart. Acting like a spoiled kid who was denied for the first time.

What you didn’t know was how much Yoongi had been suffering too. How much he wanted to come to you, and how much he needed to be with you. To him, the arrangement was a blessing in disguise. It felt like a huge blow in the gut when you had suggested a divorce after the noise you’ve made died down, from then he began to feel dejected. Slowly overworking himself, trying his best to distract himself from the fact that you would never be his. The distraction he made soon lead to distance, distance between the two of you.

He tried to act tough around you, spiteful even. But when he remembers how you implicitly rejected his proposal to a life with him, he’d attempt to push through. Putting on this mask as if he was tough, that he was different from the Yoongi you once knew, that he’d no longer be there for you. He halted all of his actions, actions he thought would bring the two of you together. Forming a stronger bond compared to the five years you’ve spent together.

With you acting poorly in front of him, using aggressive retaliation, and him being terrified of the rejection you unknowingly did, your relationship was in a standstill. You were two people who wanted each other, and sadly, there might be no way of knowing that you two did feel the same way.

Despite the flashing lights, the smiles you tried to offer other business associates, you still ended up back into your dark and gloomy house. It was large, had many empty walls and was barely decorated. There was no way of telling if the house was occupied or not, it was far too... professional? It had no character, no visible sign of change, it was bare.

The dark room you managed to inhabit for the past six months reminded you of how lonely you’ve been feeling, how different you were from the persona you tried to play outside of the walls. You’ve grown so accustomed to loneliness that it became such a huge part of your life, you could barely even remember how you acted before you were married to Yoongi, how carefree you were. It was pitiful how a rich, privileged woman like you was stuck inside a place you didn’t feel comfortable in.

It wasn’t the idea of being alone that made you feel lonely, it was living with someone with no physical reaction despite being entitled to at least a little bit of skin-on-skin contact, a hug would’ve been a big help. With these thoughts, you pulled your hand away from Min Yoongi’s as you began to wave the pathway towards the front door. Crossing your arms as you moved in, avoiding him as you made it as quickly as possible towards your bedroom.

Yoongi stood behind the door, for a night that had gone so well, your reaction had been far too harsh. Leaving him as soon as you had the opportunity, as if he were something so toxic to you that you couldn’t even stand being with him, alone, for at least a minute. He felt his chest swell, it wasn’t the good type of swell, it was fucking painful.

Removing his leather shoes, and walking towards the master bedroom, he asked himself what ifs, what if the two of you managed to handle everything more maturely, to the point of having a proper relationship up until now? What if the two of you had really wanted it? Would things be better?

Good grief, of course, things would have been so much better. He cursed himself silently, muttering under his breath as he took the moment to blame himself for just ending the relationship the moment he had the chance too. He didn’t even give himself enough time to process the decision he’d been making. On that same day, he was collected by Kim Namjoon, his brother, in a local bar. He was passed out, his Armani suit reeked of alcohol as he tried his best to push Namjoon away. Telling him desperately that he was fine and that he could drive himself home.

If only fate had been a little forgiving, if only. Coincidentally, on that same night, two establishments away, you’d been busy getting drunk. Two drunk adults had been found passed out, the two of them reeking of alcohol, upset about the same relationship that could’ve been something if it weren’t for their carelessness.

The bitterness of yesterday had easily died down the moment that your nostrils engaged with the familiar scent of coffee, it was an early Saturday morning. The curtains had been automatically opened using an A.I, giving you a marvellous view of the infinity pool outside your room. Stretching your limbs as you carefully stepped outside after putting on your Hello Kitty slippers, you were greeted by your husband doing what he was best at, making coffee.

The situation would’ve been more lax if the two of you were on speaking terms but, you weren’t. He offered you a fresh cup of coffee, something you were quick yo take, a soft “thank you,” escaped your lips before letting the warm liquid pass through. Whilst you stood there in your Sanrio pyjama, the other man stood fully clothed with his suit. He was all geared up for work, something you never quite understood. From what you know about him, he’d always been quite the workaholic, he didn’t have time to pause.

“I’ll be off,” he pursed his lips, forming a thin line of something that resembled a smile. You nodded as you took another sip of the warm coffee. Just like that, he left holding a tumbler with coffee, and his car keys. “Well, at least he bothered this time...” you murmured, walking towards the refrigerator to gather ingredients for your pancakes.

You were busy dancing as you flipped distorted, the television was playing, it served as your background music as you enjoyed the short freedom you had. You made another cup of coffee, bringing the mug and grabbing maple syrup from the cabinet, drizzling it on top of the semi-perfect pancakes. Comfy in your pyjamas, you sat down in the couch and began to dig into the pancakes. You were in the mood, for just basically anything. You were at peace, that was what you felt. Two seconds away from pressing the button to finally turn it off, a scene quickly caught your attention.

The man who made you coffee was the same guy in the TV, Min Yoongi was guesting with his little brother on a survival program, it was about a new girl group awaiting for their debut. Today was the day they get to decide which of the members would be debuting as an official member, as a collaboration between two of the largest entertainment companies Yoongi was called out in order to monitor the members. Hoseok had been a judge since the beginning, here he was sitting next to Yoongi as they made small talk. You paused, holding the empty plate as you grew more intrigued.

Everything was going well, up until they met face-to-face with the trainees. All of the judges reunited with one another, one particular judge, Suran had been quite affectionate with Yoongi. It started with a handshake, that was no big deal, it was a formal exchange between two important judges on the show. It was something normal, very normal.

The show escalated smoothly, rushing towards the kitchen counter as you quickly washed the plate despite the maids offering you their own hands. You jumped towards the couch, and sat down, your heart was racing from the adrenaline rush. But it was all worth it as the show continued. There was nothing that interested you, aside from Min Yoongi, so of course you paid attention to him the most. It caught you by surprise when the camera panned towards their direction, there was a soft voice as Suran held Yoongi’s hand, complimenting his bracelet, making small connections with his hands. “It’s really pretty,” Suran murmured, the host went silent upon noticing the interaction between the two of them.

Yoongi was quick to bow, thanking her as soon as possible. “Your cheeks have gotten really pink!” Hoseok exclaimed, his laughter echoing through the stage. Clapping his hands every once in a while as he continued to make fun of his older brother.

Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal to you. You weren’t exactly the jealous type. However, with the way you and Yoongi were right now, and how quick he was to react to Suran’s simple compliment, the way they exchanged smiles, how they held eye contact for even a split second. Everything was making your blood boil.

You swallowed hard, it didn’t help that throughout the rest of the show the judges and the trainees kept teasing the two of them. How much did you have to pay for in order to get the same treatment as Suran did? Why did he act that way? Most importantly, how come Yoongi never lets you see this side of him, why does he always have to be mad or annoyed whenever he talked to you? How special was Suran to him that the moment the two of them stood close to one another, they had no trouble navigating through their conversation.

Oh you definitely weren’t jealous, yes you were simply making comparisons and that was natural, right? No, you hated yourself for feeling this way. How come he acted like that around her? Why can’t he act like that around you? You were annoyed at how he moved on, how happy he was. On the other hand, here you were, watching he two of them converse, still moving on from the breakup that had happened more than a year ago. You pitied yourself, you really did. “Fucking hell,” you muttered upon noticing the pooling tears from the corners of your eyes. It was at this exact moment that someone had kneeled before you.

When had he arrived? And why were you only finding out about this. Yoongi was looking at you with a worried look in his face as you desperately tried to hide your face from him, closing your eyes as soon as possible and grabbing the neck hole of your shirt as you lifted it up to cover your eyes. He grabbed the remote control and finally shut down the TV, “shh,” he quietly engulfed you with his body, the scent of his cologne slowly emanating from him. He guided you, lifting you up and walking towards your bedroom, covering your face from the rest of the maids that began to throw looks towards your direction.

It was the humiliation that struck you the most, the fact that he caught you watching his guesting on a show, and somehow found a reason to start getting jealous and ending up in such a pitiful condition which involved crying for affection was beyond you, you didn’t know what had happened. Why did you let yourself do this? You silently cursed yourself. “Baby, what happened?” He had a way with his words, somehow he managed to blend in a nickname, somehow that was enough to remind you what you had lost.

You shook your head repeatedly, trying your best to deny any feelings you showed. Pulling your shirt down, you were forced to meet his eyes, his thumbs found your tear stained cheeks, wiping them off gently as he locked eyes with you. “Why, what’s wrong?” He asked you again, you built up the courage, it was either now or never. “I don’t like seeing you with Suran, no, I don’t like seeing you acting like that around anyone else.” Your hiccups got in the way, but you managed to tell him exactly what you had wanted.

“Y/n...” he paused for a moment.

“How come you act like that around them, while you treat me like this? Why do they get better treatment? I’m your wife Yoongi, how come I get the leftovers while they get full course meals?” You heard how ridiculous you sounded, cringing at your choice of words and the way they flowed out of your lips. But you were humiliated enough, if it were a different situation then maybe you’d be laughing at yourself. “I want you all to me, Yoongi. And I know that it’s not possible, but I want us. I want what we both lost,” his fingers carded through your hair, the other massaged your back in a soothing manner, there was dead silence for a moment.

You knew you lost him.

His arms snaked around you, pulling you in closer to him as he gently placed a kiss on your forehead. He lifted your face up using his thumb, finally he kissed you on your lips. “But you already have me, y/n.” You knew it wasn’t real, there was no way this was happening right now. “You have me,” he muttered against your ear before gently sealing the space left in between your lips.

The tears you poured were all worth it, you knew from that point on that the relationship you once broke had been finally mended. You felt weight being lifted away from your chest.

You were sighing against his lips, fixing your posture as you slowly wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands slowly moving south. Grasping your arse as you shifted your position, sitting on top of his legs. You didn’t know what had taken over you at that point. You were desperate for more. The whine that left your lips wasn’t something you had voluntarily done, the moment he pulled away from you, his lips were a lot more plump. His chest was heaving, he threaded his palms in his hair as he eyed you. The two of you did your best to catch your breath.

It wasn’t the first time you stopped in the middle of doing something so sensual, you’ve always wanted your first with someone who you were willing to fully commit to.

Within the five years that you’ve spent together, Yoongi had always respected your boundaries. He stopped the moment you told him. He was a man of self control, but you knew that at some point he’d eventually reach his peak. Right now, there was nothing else you’d wish for aside from this finally happening. “Do I have you?” His forehead touched yours, his warm breath fanned over your saturated lips, closing your eyes you once again touched his lips.

He groaned against your lips.

Something unusual erupted from inside you, it was something you’ve felt before. Only now, you weren’t doing anything to stop it. Your lips parted, neck bending sideways as your breathing stuttered. His lips began working wonders, never leaving a spot on your neck untouched.

The flame that erupted from inside you began to engulf you, the moment you felt his lips against the side of your jaw, you knew you were done for. You began to slowly move your hips, moaning as you felt him nip slowly against your skin. His hands wandered through every crevice, eventually finding untouched area just below your cute little top.

You moved faster, trying to chase something you weren’t quite sure for, but for a moment you thanked the heavens above for Yoongi’s rough pants. You were a stuttering mess, grinding harder, pushing yourself even deeper against his thighs as you tried to reach something, just anything. You knew you were close, so close.

His hands worked wonders under your shirt, already unclasping your garment. Yoongi gave you all of his attention, which is why your heavy breathing didn’t go unnoticed. You were inches away from reaching that something, however, he pulled you away from your rhythm with one quick nip against your jaw, his hands clasping against the flesh of your arse, coming to a disagreement as he pulled onto them, giving you a quick slap.

“Yoongi,” you didn’t know if you were pleading him, maybe it came to you out of instinct, annoyance, you weren’t sure. But you were in too deep, you could honestly cry if he didn’t give you what you needed at that moment.

A low chuckle erupted from him, his chest moving against yours, reminding you of how close the two of you were. “Patience baby, this is your first time...” he gave you a quick peck. Holding the hem of your shirt as he gently lifted it off of you, catching his breath at the sight of your bare breasts. Hands finding their natural position as he flipped the two of you, you head cushioned against the pillows as you stared at his eyes, completely captivated by how desperate he looked, how desperate he wanted to lay his hands against your perky buds.

Starting from your lips, he made his way slowly downwards, making sure to nip the exact spot he knew to be sensitive, at this moment you hadn’t bothered to check if he was leaving marks, but with the time he took to make his way where you had wanted him, you would honestly be pissed off if you didn’t have any. He suckled on one of your breasts, making you arch your back off of the soft mattress. Gasping loudly at the newfound sensation, a drug you were exposed too for the first time, you felt his smirk. Long slender fingers began to touch the other, only adding more to the pleasure, making sure that neither of your mounds felt left out.

He pulled out of the other with a pop, mouth lingering downwards, kissing around your belly button before making its’ way towards the other one. The light illuminated the signs he left on your other boob, out of curiosity you touched your gleaming bud while he put all of his attention on the other. It was far more sensitive, your breathing had turned harsh, your throat felt constricted as you failed to let out moans, Yoongi’s ears were filled with nothing but short gasps. Your hips used your legs as support trying to get any form of contact, however, Yoongi’s legs never faltered. You only grew more desperate with every minute his lips dwelled on your breast.

Your underwear would surely be clinging onto your lips by now, you were irritated by the fabric, you wanted more, you needed it off of you.

“Yoon, please,” tears were pooling by the corner of your eyes, despite begging Yoongi whilst grinding your hips against his body, your hands grounded him against your breast. You were dazed, as if you were drowning and yet you didn’t want to be pulled out of the water, it was painful, and yet you indulged in it. It was a newfound addiction you knew you didn’t want to let go off, it was driving you crazy, towards the edge of all the boundaries you wanted to break.

He hummed, sending vibrations through your chest, you moaned loudly. You chased your breath, trying your best to calm down as he lapped your breast. You groaned even harder, protesting and demanding for something else. He grounded your hips with one of his hands, forcing you to lay still as he let go of your breast.

“God, y/n,” he left his words hanging, you lay still catching your breath as you tried to process what was happening. Sweat trickled from his neck, temporarily staining his black top. His hair was a mess, something you were responsible for, desperately clinging onto it as he showed you undiscovered territory with the small flicks of his tongue. Gently kissing your lips, you let out a sigh of relief upon feeling his calloused fingers against the material of your bottoms.

Raising your hips as you he managed to pull your underwear and your pyjamas at the same time. He pulled away from the kiss, appreciating your naked figure, his mouth was slightly open as he drunk in every detail of your body. You had nothing left to hide, lifting your chest slightly off the bed, flaunting your curves.

The moment he was able to process everything that was laid before him, he knew he was screwed. Memorising every detail, even the small mole in your thigh, everything was imprinted in his head. He knew that he’d be having a hard time from this day forward.

“A fucking goddess,” he murmured under his breath, making eye contact with you as he gently dived down, spreading your legs farther away from each other. Slowly, you revealed your entire body to him. He felt like wanton, appreciating the way your tight nether lips gently opened for him, slick evident in your thighs caused by the never ending squeeze of your legs a few minutes ago when he’d been too busy appreciating your breasts.

You looked away from him, it dawned you how exposed you had been. The way he was fully clothed, with nothing but unruly hair as evidence of the sensual act you’d been committing, you felt humiliated. Despite the fact that he was on his knees, attempting to make an eye contact right below you, you knew he was in control. He gave quick pecks just below the area you had wanted him most, “look at me,” warm air hitting your womanhood. You were innocent in this sense, everything he’d been making you feel was a first to you.

“Y/N,” he licked the inside of your thighs, and when you refused to look at him for the second time, he pulled you downwards. Like a rag doll made for him. His tongue darted straight to your clit, you’re knees felt like jelly. Closing your thighs as a response to the sudden movement, his arms we’re quick enough to wrap around your thighs, forcing them open as he let his tongue lick through the mess you’ve managed to create.

He suckled on your clit, as if licking it gently weren’t enough. Leaving open mouthed kisses, as he pushed onto the sensitive bundle of nerves using his wet appendage. You desperately hold on to the sheets, crinkling them, using your arms as support as you tried your best to hold on for your dear life. You could feel every movement he made, the way his tongue desperately tries to enter your tight hole, the way his lips would wrap around your clit, the way he would smirk after hearing you moan his name repeatedly.

“Shit, Yoongi!” You’re voice called out to him, a tad bit louder than your moans. You gasped for air, hands wrapping around his hair, legs quivering upon the new sensation that set fire to your entire body. He continued to lap your cunt, your lips growing even tighter around his tongue. The sounds he’d been able to produce was enough to drive you to the edge. Hearing how loud he was able to make your cunt sound was beyond you.

A few short breaths, the quick tug in your stomach, and the elated beating of your heart. It came crashing down on you.

You did your best, trying to close your thighs as it began to feel too much, beads of sweat trickled down your forehead as you clung onto his dark hair. With one last gasp, and the closure of his lips, you came with a yell of his name. Your release was greeted by his lips, drinking you in like his favourite wine, overwhelmed by the stimulation you felt you begged him to stop. You rode your high against his muscle, finally, he pulled away.

His chin was gleaming, signs of your release scattered around his lips. Using his thumb, he picked it up. “Open,” he raised one of his brows towards your direction, you looked at him in confusion only to follow his orders. You were greeted by his thumb, you sucked on it, not hesitating despite tasting your own cum. He pulled it out only to replace it with his mouth, sharing the familiar taste, on a regular day it would’ve been odd, but to hell with it.

Whining against him, you tugged his sweater, demanding it be discarded somewhere in the expanse of your room. Chuckling once more he finally pulled away, with a quick flick of his wrist, he threw his top somewhere. You were greeted with a body you weren’t used too. He’s been working out, oh, he’s definitely been working out.

The way his chest moved as he heaved on top of you, the way his arms would flex and the veins that crawled from his hand to his shoulder, as if he was carved by the greatest sculptors. You swallowed harshly. God, he was fucking gorgeous.

You were brought back to reality when his finger poked your entrance, biting your lip as you watched in fascination, the way you wrapped around him, the way it quivered after its’ peace had been disrupted for the first time. Pumping his hand slowly as his eyes never left yours, watching the way your face would contort with every movement, closing your eyes as tightly as you could, soaring higher than the clouds that you had to remind yourself to breath every once in a while.

He felt you flesh, making slow movements as he tried different angles, deciding which one made you moan the loudest. Finally, he found your spot. His movements getting a lot harsher by the second, “god damn it, Yoongi.” You cursed him under your breath, gasping as he went faster and faster. “You think you can take more, baby?” his voice was gentle, a stark contrast to the way his hand moved harshly against your weeping cunt.

“More, please, more,” you chanted your mantra. Your wetness spreading to the rest of his fingers, a second one slipping into the mix. His movements were fast, but not fast enough. You tried to meet his thrusts, his eyebrow cocking upwards at the way you moved below him, observing how desperately you wanted to reach your climax for the second time tonight. “Who would’ve thought you’d be this desperate for my fingers, hm?” His voice getting lower and lower throughout the duration of the sentence.

You were in your own little bubble, his hand quickly surging forward, scissoring his fingers apart in an attempt to get you more loose, to get you to open up for him. Two fingers weren’t enough. Gasping as you felt his fingers do their best to stretch inside your needy little hole, his other hand reaching forward as he tried to distract you from the sudden movements he made inside.

Your clit was getting stimulated, while his other hand pumped even faster. You’re mind went blank, unsure as to what Min Yoongi had been saying for the past few minutes. You assumed you would reach your limit at any second, however, you felt a jolt of pain when he inserted his third finger. Cursing loudly as you held his hand, your breathing growing more shallow. He pumped his hand a little harsher, giving an emphasis to the three fingers he had inside of you.

He pulled the other away from your clit and stilled his movements, you tried to move away from his hand, doing your best to form coherent thoughts as you were torn between pushing even deeper or pulling away. You gasped for air, feeling him kiss your cheek as his deep voice murmured against your ear, “you’re going to need more than two if you want us to go all the way in, baby.”

Jesus Christ, how big was his cock?

These were your exact thoughts, “a minute, Yoongi.” You did your best to relax, forcing your hold to relax as he held his hand steady your cunt desperately in need of action. His other hand went back to massaging your clit, while the remaining began pumping in a slower manner. Despite getting used to the feeling of having three fingers inside of you, it was still too much for your tight unused cunt. However, it made you feel something, soon, the pain was ebbing away. “Faster,” you wish you hadn’t told him that, as his palm began hitting your clit in an abusive manner, driving you over the edge.

The strange feeling began to build up inside of you, his pace grew faster, faster, and faster. Before you knew it, you came undone. You pushed his fingers away, your legs shaking as you desperately closed them. Despite not having anything inside of you, the pleasure was still very evident. You opened your eyes to a wet Min Yoongi, realisation dawned you. “Fucking hell,” he smirked, shushing you gently as he pried your legs open, observing the quivering hole that once sheltered three of his fingers.

You had squirted.

It explained so much, the way the sheets were damp, the way his chest had been shining, your cheeks were flushed.

Your eyes found his bulge, restrained by his belt and the rough material of his pants. You didn’t know what had taken over you, but you wanted his cock. You wondered what else he could make you feel. “Want your cock, Yoongi, please. Need it so bad,”

“Do you think you could handle more?”

You nodded eagerly, despite the dwindling tiredness in your eyes, you knew you still wanted one thing just before you pass out. You wanted to explore how much you could take, what else you could possibly feel, you wanted everything. Desperation. You were desperate for everything that Min Yoongi could give you. “Please,” that was all it took to push Yoongi over the edge. His pants and his boxers had been discarded in a flash, you gazed at him, specifically at the massive thing between his thighs.

You gasped.

Maybe you were taking more than you could afford to take, upon seeing the worried look in your face, Yoongi was quick to comfort you. Telling you that there was no rush in taking things this far, but with a quick roll of your wet cunt against his hard cock, he ceased his words. Letting a growl erupt from his chest as he moved his cock against your pussy. “You’re a beast, y/n.” Positioning his manhood against your wet hole, slowly entering you. Just his tip felt massive enough, the tears that threatened to spill earlier, were full on leaking out of your eyes as you shut them.

Gasping loudly, making an inaudible noise as you felt his tip enter you tiny little opening. “Taking me in so well,”

“Pussy still tight after taking all three of my fingers, you’re a fucking whore.” He stilled his movements, pausing every once in a while as he was slowly hugged by your body. “Ha-ah,” you moaned as he pushed it in even further. “How are you this fucking big,” your manicured nails marred the flesh of his back, marking it with small little crescents. He ignored your remarks, instead he focused on how he’d possibly fit everything in you. You thought you’d be ripped in half when he first entered his third finger, however, at this point you were certain you’re literally split into two. His monstrous cock doing its’ best to intrude your virgin walls.

Inch after inch you felt your sanity being washed away from your body, for a split second you knew your soul lifted away. Your eyes rolling back as he continued to penetrate you with his massive manhood, tiny scars forming in his back from how hard you gripped him. His thumbs sinking on your hips in an attempt to keep you grounded as he pushed himself in. The only warning you got was a quick peck on your forehead before he pushed to the hilt. You yelled, back arching off of the comfortable mattress, your tears staining your cheeks. With the way his breathing became shaky, how his words would falter and the short pauses he took in order to process the idea of having him spear through you in its’ entirety, he was over the fucking moon.

Moving away from him in an attempt to ride him, he couldn’t help but laugh at the desperate actions you took just to get fucked. Pulling out until its’ just his tip before harshly slamming back down, knocking the air out of your lungs as you tried to form coherent sentences, before giving up halfway through and just yelling his name repeatedly. “Ruining your tight fucking cunt for everyone else,” his breathing was harsh, he came in raging inside of you. Harsh pain emerging from your pussy as you took your first and last cock, biting down on your lip as you tried to calm yourself down.

Pulling your perked up nipples before releasing them with a pop, adding more pleasure to the large intrusion in your walls. You couldn’t hear anything, the only thing you could process was the filthy sound your cunt made against his balls. The discernible wet noises, the way the bed creaked against the wall, the way he heaved on top of you, for a split second the two of you owned the world. His lips met yours, his gentle kiss was far different from his rigorous thrusts.

Just when you thought he couldn’t go any faster, he’d prove you wrong with the next. Marking your neck with more purple hues, making you completely his, giving an emphasis on every suck with a harsh thrust, ending it with a gentle kiss on your exposed flesh. You knew you were going to be sore the next day.

Assisting your legs, wrapping them around his waist, he felt your cunt clench around him. “You’re close aren’t you, your cunt clenching around me, refusing to let go of my cock.”

“You’re mine, y/n. No one can ever fuck you the same way as I do,” he growled against your ear as his pace started getting harsher. You couldn’t keep up with him, the next thing you knew you were a shaking mess before him. Coming undone and clenching him, making your pussy a lot more tighter. You tried to push him away, you had already come undone three times in one night, you didn’t know if you had the capacity to cum once more.

However, all you got out of him was an apology, pounding even harder with the added pressure of his thumb circling around your clit repeatedly. “Carving my dick inside of you, because you’re all mine,” You whined in protest, more tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you tried to keep your composure. The pain of overstimulation taking over your entire body, you were all worn out.

Despite all the earlier attempts to push him off, at this point you had no energy left. So you took it all, growing far more needy for another gush of liquid in your cunt, yelling out gibberish as his pace slowly began to falter. Biting your lip, closing your eyes, you felt another tug in your stomach. As if your first orgasm had never ended, you were cumming, for the last time, hopefully.

“All. Fucking. Mine.” With each word he thrusted harder, you felt warm liquid painting your walls white as you choked out a sob. Clinging onto him as he gently pulled out. Meeting your eyes and gently wiping away your tears, jokingly slapping his arm afterwards. “The audacity you have, after doing it so roughly.” His gums appeared in front of you, the same gummy smile that made your heart bloom finally appearing once again.

He kissed your forehead before tucking you in bed, the sticky feeling from the sheets only making you wince. He stretched out his back before walking towards your bathroom, soon enough you heard the shower. Despite the icky and sick feeling of the sheets, you managed to take a 30-minute nap, only to be woken up by Yoongi gently blowing on your face. “Let’s go upstairs...” he whispered softly, pulling you up, as he wrapped your robe around you.

Carrying you as if you weighed nothing, as he walked around the house with nothing but his towel wrapped around his waist. For the first time in months, you finally got to see how his bedroom looked like. You groaned in pain after he put you down against the grain of his marble counter. Grabbing a wash cloth and rubbing the damp towel all over your body, using warm water, finally cleaning up the mess he’s managed to make. Dressing you up in a pair of your own pyjamas he must’ve gotten earlier.

You clung onto him like a baby koala afterwards, forcing him to lay down with you in his bed. The scent of pine trees covered the silk sheets, accompanied by his favourite cologne from Paco Rabanne.

Just as if a year of separation hadn’t happened, you found your way clinging to his body the same way you did when the two of you had been dating. The small peck on top of your head was nothing unusual, the instinct of having his arm gently wrap around you after such a tiring day from work. Slowly, everything pieced itself. You wondered just how you lived through a year without him, how much you wished you’d spent it together.

He inhaled your scent, closing his eyes as he felt the satisfaction rushing in his veins. “I love you, y/n... so much, so, so, much.” He whispered against your ear, lips finding your temple as he gave you another kiss. Telling you how much he appreciated you, terrified that somehow the two of you would find your way back to the same place you ended up in, all alone and in desperate need of comfort from each other. Yoongi took his time to tell you all the sweet nothings he wished he told you before you separated.

By the end of the day, the two of you were just thankful you’d finally found your way back home.

#bts #bts smut #min yoongi #yoongi #suga #bts imagine #bts imagines #min yoongi smut #suga smut #agust d #agust d smut #min yoongi imagine #suga imagine #bts x reader #bts x you #yoongi imagine #arranged marriage #arranged marriage au #bts au

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 16 - Stage Two.

Summary: The storm breaks and it all comes crashing down...

Warnings: Angst, whump, hurt/comfort, blood, red mist of rage, graphic violence, explicit language

---

The resounding thumps of Karn's boots pulse rhythmically through your chest as you charge after him across the bridge, each step drumming along to the beat of your heart until you can hardly tell whether it's the organ that thunders in your ears, or the youngling's footsteps.

Even the heavens themselves seem to be urging you along. A snarl from the storm-laden clouds chases you towards Tri Stone with icy pellets of rain nipping at your heels. Every breath leaves you harshly and raggedly, and were it not for the steady presence of Death at your back, you might be tempted to slow down and surrender to your burning lungs.

To say that you're afraid would be the biggest understatement this side of a century. With every boom and crash you hear from the village, the pit opening up in your stomach grows wider and wider until it feels as though your heart has plummeted straight down inside it, lost amongst your roiling guts.

Teeth grit, you push yourself to run on, clumsily leaping over cracks and fissures that now litter the weathered stone underfoot. It would seem that hardly an inch of the bridge has been left intact after bearing the full weight of a rampaging guardian.

Large segments of the structure break off and your ears pick up the telltale rush of air as they whoosh down into the endless chasm far below you. It'll be a miracle if you all manage to make it to the other side before the whole thing collapses out from under your feet, but the bridge's stability, though certainly a worry, is hardly at the forefront of your priorities right now.

'The makers have to be okay,' you tell yourself, feeling not even the slightest bit reassured by your own thoughts, 'They have to be.'

They're good people.

They're your friends.

Christ, when you really think about it, they're probably the closest thing you've got to -

- A sudden bolt of lightening streaks across the sky like a whip-crack and illuminates Tri Stone's outer wall, and the thought that had lingered just beyond the reaches of your mind is flung haphazardly out of the proverbial window when you spot the mountainous figure looming at the far end of the bridge.

“Warden!” you cry out, swiping rainwater from your eyes.

The mighty construct gives no indication that he's heard you, nor does he look your way even when you all stampede onto the grassy plateau. He's collapsed onto one knee before the Makers' Forge, his blue gaze fixed upon the door as he clutches at an arm that looks as though it's just lost a fight with a wrecking ball. More disturbingly, his gargantuan slab of a shoulder is almost entirely gone – smashed into oblivion, leaving chunks of stone scattered about in the grass all around him.

Karn is the first to reach him, and you can tell that he's just as perturbed by the old construct's condition as you are.

Ears pinned back against his head, the youngling staggers to a halt and gapes in abject horror at the fragments of dust and stones that cascade down from the Warden's jaw when he opens it to speak.

“I could not stop him,” he rumbles dazedly, more to himself than to any of you, “I could not even slow him...”

Sliding up beside the maker, you absently cover your mouth with a hand and take stock of the construct's injuries.

“Oh... Warden..” you breathe and blindly stretch your arm out sideways until your fingers find the strap of Karn's boot and wrap around it, keeping you upright even when your legs threaten to buckle out from underneath you.

The construct's heart stone sits dimly inside his chest, its once dazzling, blue light now barely visible through the rain.

If Death hadn't heard him speaking aloud, he would have marked the giant as... inactive.

At your side, Karn stares up at the Warden for another few seconds before he lowers his eyes and glares hard at the ground, his hands curling into tight fists. “I...This is... is...” he tries, but falls silent, unable to think of anything more substantial to say. Instead, he swallows thickly and shakes his head. Then, without another word, the youngling whirls around, and the motion pulls his boot from your grasp as he kicks up his heels and stomps hurriedly towards the Forge, taking the steps three at a time until he reaches the doors and throws them open, thundering inside.

Wringing your hands over one another, you tear your eyes off Karn and return your focus to the Warden, taking a slow step towards the colossal figure. However, before you can take another, you find yourself tugged to a stop by cold fingers that suddenly fall upon your shoulder, startling your focus to the Horseman who appears next to you, silent as a ghost. “Come,” he utters, nudging you away with no real force, “There's nothing we can do for him now.”

“But, Death, he's hurt,” you argue, gesturing up at the Warden and pulling out of the cold grip.

The Nephilim's scowl darkens behind the sockets of his mask and he aims to say something reassuring, but misses by a mile. “He's a construct. It'll take a lot more damage than this to put him down.”

Well... He certainly doesn't miss the disapproving frown that turns your expression sour like curdled milk.

You manage to swallow down any retort you might have summoned and shake your head at him as you start picking your way around the remnants of the construct's shoulder until you reach his shin.

Without really thinking, you rap your knuckles against the stone to get his attention, only to immediately regret your hasty action when bone strikes the hard surface and a jolt of pain goes lancing up through your hand. “Ah! Shit,” you curse, flapping your wrist about to lessen the ache. Undeterred for long, however, you use your other hand to place a firm pat against his leg instead, raising your voice and calling out, “Hey! Hey, Warden! Down here!”

You can't begin to imagine whether or not he'd even felt your touch, yet the construct surprises you by finally dragging his azure gaze off Tri Stone's walls and turning his head down towards you, his eyes flickering several times until they at last turn strong and solid, brightening with recognition as he's pulled from whatever state of shock he'd been ensnared in.

“Little ones?” he rumbles, his voice beset with a breathlessness that stone shouldn't possess, “You are alive?”

“Despite best efforts,” you chuckle without a trace of humour, your expression wan, “Are you okay?”

In response, the construct groans and raises an arm to his face to inspect the missing chunk as pieces of detritus fall from the limb and into the grass around you.

“I will.. recover... But, the makers...” Trailing off, he lowers his arm and twists his head towards the Forge, silent.

He doesn't have to say anything further to make it clear that he's worried. You can already imagine how helpless he must have felt to see the Guardian tear through Tri Stone and know that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It wasn't so long ago that you'd watched a colossal, bat-like demon smash through the roof of Father's Michael's church to get at your fellow humans sheltering inside whilst you watched from the Horseman's shoulder, helpless to help.

Lips pressing into a thin line, you raise a hand once again and pat the Warden's shin, far more gently this time, for your own sake, if not his. You hope the gesture of comfort translates across the mile-wide species gap - and it must, because he soon gazes down at you, his jaw somehow raising into the stiff rendition of a smile.

“You just... sit tight, okay, big guy? We'll go and make sure they're all right,” you tell him softly.

Behind you, Death silently observes the interlude with his head tilted and his eyes transfixed on the hand that you've rested against the Warden's stone, as though you really believe your fingers might hold just the right sort of power to stick his broken pieces back together.

However, his skepticism is quashed when he lifts his gaze up to the construct's pulsing heart stone and finds it shining clear and bright through the gloomy rain.

Hadn't it... been much duller only moments ago?

He's pulled from his ruminations when a sudden weight lands on his shoulder and something dark and feathered squawks miserably next to his ear. Turning his head, Death casts an eye lazily over the sopping-wet crow, who's beak is pointed very deliberately towards the forge doors and the promise of dry warmth beyond them. The Horseman grunts and faces you again, belatedly realising that you too, are utterly soaked to the skin. So, with a soft huff, he strides up behind you again and this time, his hand is firmer as it lands upon your shoulder, more insistent.

Once your eyes find his, he jerks his head towards the forge and vehemently resists the niggling tickle of relief when you nod at him, giving the Warden a final, parting wave and then allowing yourself to be pushed across the plateau, up the slippery steps and through the wide, stone doors.

It would've probably perturbed Death if he ever realised that it hadn't once occurred to him to simply leave you out in the rain.

------

As soon as you set foot inside the makers' forge, your skin is hit by a wave of comforting warmth that emanates from the nearby fireplace and chases away your goosebumps, returning some feeling to your tingling fingertips.

Grateful for the brief respite from nature's wrath, you gather up a section of your top and wring it out, following Death towards the raised dais where you can hear a familiar maker complaining. Loudly.

“Ach! Away with you both! It's not as bad as it looks.”

Alya...

Although she sounds far from happy, you can't bring yourself to care, not when her complaints indicate that she's alive.

Relief seems to plough right into the backs of your knees, causing you to stagger forwards, earning a swift and searching glance from Death.

“M'fine,” you mumble, straightening up again and forging ahead.

Dust flaps off the Horseman's shoulder as you brush past him on the steps up to the dais, just in time to see Alya shoving herself out from underneath her brother's steadying hand.

Karn is already there with them too, but he, perhaps wisely, is keeping his distance, eyeing Alya's wrist.

All three makers are standing around the anvil. Valus is wringing his hands and uttering soft, indecipherable sounds from under his visor, earning a glare from his sister, who's arm, you note with no small degree of alarm, is clutched protectively to her chest.

“Alya!” you call out, breathless, “Valus! Are you two okay?!”

As one, the makers' heads snap down to face you.

“There you are!” the forge sister exclaims, her taught expression collapsing under the weight of relief, “We've been worried sick! When we heard the Guardian wake up, we feared the worst!”

You open your mouth to ask about her wrist, but you never get the chance. Valus is upon you in seconds and you let out an embarrassing squeak of alarm as you're promptly swept up off the ground by one of his gigantic, soot-stained hands.

“Oh put 'er down, you big baby,” Alya scolds him, “You can see she's fine.”

Evidently, Valus disagrees.

He ignores his sister's words and instead lifts you up to his visor, beneath which you spot the flash of a soft, green eye as he begins to inspect you for injuries, turning you this way and that, deaf to your squawks of protest and Karn whinging for him to be careful with you.

Rolling his eyes, Death turns away from the fussing maker and gestures to Alya's arm. “What happened?”

She scowls down at the offending wrist, giving it an experimental roll. “Piece o' the ceiling broke loose when the Guardian passed over. Damn boulder struck my arm as it fell. S'just a bruise but-” She pauses to huff, jerking her chin at Valus. “-You try tellin' him that... He's been on edge all day since you three left for the Foundry.”

Her brother snorts indignantly at the accusing tone but he does relent in subjecting you to his scrutiny and places you gingerly back on the ground once he deems you unharmed, but not before giving the top of your head the gentlest of pats, his armoured shoulders clanking as he slumps forwards, relieved.

Frazzled, you readjust your skirt and offer him an exasperated smile. “Yeah. Good to see you in one piece too, Valus.”

“Where are the others?” Death presses.

Lowering her eyes back down to him, Alya drops her scowl and replies, “Muria and Thane are still out in the village. Everythin' happened so fast – I... I don't know even know if they're okay yet!”

“Meet me outside! I'll go and see to the Shaman,” Karn announces suddenly, turning on his heel to march for the village-facing entrance. Alya and Valus are, for the most part, unharmed, and with everyone in the forge accounted for, he's anxious to determine the fates of the others for himself.

“...And Eideard?” you ask, dragging your gaze from Karn's retreating backpack and returning it to the forge sister, compelled by a knot of concern that winds tighter and tighter in your belly and only grows worse when she glances down at you and pulls her lips into a thin, troubled line.

“Don't know. He's not in here, and if he's not outside... then, m'afraid he may have gone after the Guardian by himself.”

A rush of air is sucked out of you and you sway slightly on your feet, having to widen your stance to prevent an unnecessary fall. “But if he does that, then he...” Hesitating, you reach up and card your nails roughly through your hair. “- Oh god, he's gonna get himself killed!”

Unbeknownst to you, the Horseman's eyes are glued to your overwrought expression, his own, as always, unreadable beneath his mask. You look as though you're teetering right on the verge of tears.

Death isn't quite sure why, but no matter how badly he wants to hold onto the comforting familiarity of apathy, he strangely finds that he just... can't.

Inwardly, he recoils and growls a swift warning to himself.

'Not. One. Step. Deeper.'

He's just... frustrated that he'd been wrong about the corrupted heart stones. That's where the disquiet in his chest is stemming from. The fact that he just so happened to feel disquieted as soon as he spotted the glossy sheen over your eyes is sheer coincidence.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Without a word, the Horseman turns on his heel and stalks between the makers, heading down the steps in a bee line for the entrance.

Alya doesn't bother to stop him, but the very second you try to follow, you suddenly find a large, brown boot slammed down in your path, causing you to jerk backwards with a gasp. “Wha-! Alya!?”

“You're not goin' after him!” Alya barks, backed up by Valus, who shakes his head in aggressive concurrence, “It was bad enough Eideard let you go to the Foundry. Now with the Guardian's runnin' wild, it's not safe outside the village!”

“Not like it's really safe inside the village either,” you retort, flicking your gaze pointedly to her arm.

The maker's jaw snaps shut and she narrows her eyes at you, whilst her brother emits another, unhappy hum from underneath his visor.

“Look. I only want to check on Muria and Thane,” you urge, clasping your palms together, “I promise, I won't leave Tri Stone.”

The makers don't look convinced. They share a knowing glance, Alya's eyebrow raised in question, and although you can't see Valus's expression, you can only imagine that it mirrors his sister's perfectly.

Finally, Alya heaves a sigh and turns her head to scrutinise you, one eye squinted shut. “You swear it?” she demands.

You open your mouth and hesitate for a second before you manage to say, “O-of course, I swear.”

To you, the falter is glaringly obvious, but Alya and her brother don't seem to notice.

The next solemn look that passes between her amber gaze and Valus's invisible stare is brief, but after a minute or two, they both break eye contact again and Alya reluctantly lifts her boot from your path and steps back, still clutching her wrist. “All right. Go on with you now, we'll stay here a bit. Holler if you need us, aye? We have to start reinforcin' this forge in case the Guardian decides to come back and.... and finish the job.”

Hearing it said like that, your stomach clenches with the need to purge. Swallowing hard, you send the twins a quick smile of thanks, then shoot off after the Horseman, barely slipping through the door as it swings shut behind him.

------

Another booming growl of thunder greets you when you burst out into Tri Stone and come to an abrupt stop, very nearly swallowing your own tongue at the sight that you find yourself so cruelly faced with.

Though the rain obscures a little of your vision, it does nothing to hide a scene that's so, entirely familiar that it thrusts you violently back in time to the home you'd left behind, and there isn't so much as a second to prepare yourself for the onslaught of images that flash through your mind's eye like an awful, traumatic slideshow.

Buildings crushed and left as smoking ruins, the pavement underfoot torn up by an impactful force that it was never meant to withstand, the stench of blood in your nostrils, an inescapable fog of dust that you're certain will choke you with its density, and the... the screaming -

You can barely even hear the monotonous drone of your parents' answering machine above the people howling like animals as they're torn apart just metres away from the alley you've ducked into.

'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now. Please leave a-'

Click! You try again....

'We're sorry we aren't here to take your call right now-'

Click! Again...

'We're sorry-'

“Y/N!”

Fingers of ice suddenly latch onto your shoulder and jolt you back to the present.

“Stay here!” a voice barks into your ear and you flinch, whipping your head sideways to see Death's bone-white mask mere inches from your face.

“W..wha...?” How did he know that your mind had wandered elsewhere?

“Keep your promise to the makers,” he says gruffly, “Stay here, in the village!”

There's an unspoken 'or else,' tacked on to the end of his command as the fingers on your shoulder clamp down even harder, their pressure increasing the the point where you almost wince, but not quite. You recognise the gesture for what it is – a warning, the promise of consequence simmering in his hostile glare.

He waits for your shaky nod, and after a further sliver of a second passes, his grip at last disappears, leaving pinpricks of cold in the wake of his fingernails where they'd dug lightly into your skin.

“But, where are you going?” you blurt out.

The Horseman's reply is to turn his head towards the end of the village, past the destroyed walls and over the cliffs where a flash of lightening illuminates the distant silhouette of the towering Guardian as it moves away from Tri Stone.

He glances back at you, his eyes cold as steel despite how they burn with the colour of smouldering embers.

His intent immediately becomes clear.

He's going after it.

Squinting up at him through the pouring rain, you shake your head, incredulous. “Okay, Death! I know you've pulled off some pretty insane stunts so far,” you protest, stepping after him as he pulls away and begins to stalk across the lower courtyard, “But this is – It's just - Death!”

The Nephilim doesn't stop.

“Wait a second! Will you listen to me!”

He ignores you outright, at least until you jog up next to him and slide your hand around his elbow, trying to tug him to a halt. But Death doesn't allow you to hold onto him for long.

Giving his arm a jerk, he rips himself out of your grasp so viciously, you stumble forwards and barely manage to find your footing again before you hit the ground.

Meanwhile, his step never once falters. “Stay with the makers,” he growls out dangerously through clenched teeth.

The sound of your footsteps splashing after him slow, then die, and once he reaches Thane's arena, the compulsion to glance back grows overpowering and although he soon wishes he hadn't, he twists his head around to catch a glimpse of you over his shoulder.

Death has seen many a sad sight in his long un-life. He's seen demons blubber and beg for mercy on the tip of his scythe. He's seen angels cry out for a Creator who will never save them.

But nothing has ever gnawed at the old bones in his chest like the sight of you staring after him in the midst of a torrential downpour.

Straggles of hair lay plastered to your face, your flimsy clothes are already soaked through with rain and there's a slight tremble that begins in your arms and ends in your legs, no doubt from the cold, stinging water that beats mercilessly down on top of you. He makes his second mistake then, of looking you in the eye, and he lets a redundant breath slip from beneath his mask at what he finds.

The old Horseman wracks his brain, trying to remember when, if ever, he's been looked at like that before – like he's unfathomably important, like whatever happens to him matters to you greatly. He hopes you'll never look at him like that again, even if the softest whisper at the back of his mind insists that it isn't as bad as he'd like to think it is.

With a rapid shake of his head, Death tears his eyes off the soggy human behind him and breaks into a run, making for the boundary of the village.

Yet again, you watch the Horseman leave, frustrated and anxious that this routine of being left behind is starting to become more and more repetitive, of late. As he dashes up the steps to Tri Stone's entrance and out of sight, your heart – which has already sunk as low as your shoes – falls right out the soles of your feet and into the ground below, disappearing so rudely as to leave you feeling empty and hollow, but most of all afraid.

All of a sudden, a mass of ebony feathers fills your peripheral and the sharp bark of a crow rings in your ear.

Startled, you twist to the side just as Dust lands heavily on your shoulder.

“O-oh... Hey,” you sniff, reaching up to run a knuckle down the front of his breastbone. You keep still whilst he settles, fluffing himself up and regarding you carefully with one, beady eye. Sniffling again, you blink back at him, casting your gaze over his glistening, black feathers and the water droplets that drip from the tip of his beak. His throat trembles as he emits a low, gentle warble.

Then, without warning, the bird promptly presses the side of his sooty head against your cheek, rubbing against it a few times before he swiftly launches himself into the dismal sky once more, offering you a final, parting squawk.

Bewildered, you silently watch him disappear after the Horseman.

Although you're still weighed down by the unshakeable heaviness of dread, the crow's gesture of affection is appreciated, and you allow yourself a long, slow inhale, holding the breath within your lungs until they start to burn.

It feels good when you exhale, like you're trying to parody the sensation of relief.

“Okay.” Your jaw sets and you begin to cast your gaze around the village, forcing your eyes see it as Tri Stone and not... not home. Turning to the right, you take in the vast gazebo that had served so faithfully as Valus and Alya's forge has been knocked down by some, mighty force and half of its domed roof has collapsed inwards and filled the space with rubble and dust.

A glance up the stairs to Muria's garden shows you that Karn has already made it to the Shaman, and he's leading her by the arm down the steps, her trusty staff seeming to be nowhere in sight. Seconds later and your heart squeezes sympathetically when you notice that the youngling is carrying what remains of it, splintered into pieces so small and numerous, it looks like it could only be used for kindling.

Still, you're glad to see that the Shaman is alive.

Trailing your gaze past them, you could weep anew as you take in the ruins of her gazebo, now utterly destroyed beyond recognition, her garden and plants and herbs lost somewhere beneath rubble and immense piles of stone.

Feeling nauseous, you tear your eyes away and face north.

Half-dazed by the destruction around you, you find that your feet have begun to carry you forwards of their own accord down the length of the village towards Thane's arena whilst you continue to sweep your eyes across the path ahead, anxious to catch sight of Eideard.

You can only pray that Alya had been wrong and he hasn't gone after the Guardian alone.

It isn't just Death whose safety you're concerned about, after all.

“Fleshling?”

You almost trip over your own feet at the sound of your name being called by a familiar, gravelly voice.

Squinting against the rain, it takes you a moment to find the source, and once you do, you wonder how far out of your own head you must have been to miss the figure melting from the long, dark shadows of the arena walls.

“B-Blackroot?” you sputter, letting your jaw hang shamelessly to the ground.

Against all odds, the old, moss-coated construct is indeed here, in Tri-Stone, stumbling towards you on stumpy and unsteady legs that still don't seem used to the motions being asked of them.

Giving him a quick once over, you soon determine that whilst he certainly looks startled, he's otherwise unscathed.

You just can't stop yourself.

With staggering urgency, you lurch into a run and close the distance between yourself and Blackroot in a matter of seconds, clinging to the modicum of good news like a mollusc clings to oceanic rocks.

The construct suddenly freezes as he's struck in the torso by a human-shaped bullet. His luminous eyes flicker and he drops his chin to peer down at the top of your head, surprised to find that soft, fleshy arms have been thrown as far as they can reach around the lumpy boulder that serves as his waist. You hardly even seem to care about the rainwater cascading down the crevasses in his rocky body and pouring onto your head.

There is, however, something strikingly familiar about having the warmth of another body pressed against him, something so achingly known and yet, when he tries to grasp the memory, it slips away from him like smoke through his blocky fingers.

A curious part of him wonders what might happen if he reciprocates, if he returns your gesture, and then he wonders whether he's even supposed to. Ultimately though, his hesitancy costs him that answer, because moments after his hands begin inching towards your back, your grip on his waist goes slack as you withdraw your arms and step away to peer up at him, squinting heavily through the falling rain.

“You're here!” you blurt out, perhaps a touch needlessly given that he's standing right in front of you, “How – I... How?”

The construct's lower jaw lifts into what you recognise is a smile and he wordlessly curls his hand around an object dangling from his belt and lifts it loose, holding it out to you in an upturned palm.

Two familiar, button eyes peer back at you.

“Eideard,” you chuckle wetly, reaching up to brush your fingers down the patch of white felt that has been stitched into a beard for the doll.

“My master,” Blackroot nods, “He was sad that he had not returned for me sooner. He thought I was lost to Corruption but I was just happy to see him again. He found me. He said you told him where I was, and he found me.” Stopping to peer at you thoughtfully for a moment, the construct's jaw lifts even further and he abruptly declares, “You are very kind.”

Flustered, you wave his compliment aside and reply, “Oh, well I don't know about that. I'm not the one who got you out of that fjord, Eideard is.”

“But he would never have found me, were it not for you, fleshling.”

Somehow, despite his eyes being little more than a pair of glow-stones set inside his skull, Blackroot manages to look utterly start-struck.

“Well, I, Um...” More than a little bashful, you clear your throat and step back, throwing your hands out towards his feet in the hopes that a distraction will stop him from staring at you like you're some kind of hero. “Hey! You're walking! Your roots - They're gone!”

The yellow lights of his eyes blink once and he shifts forwards to look down at himself, the tree on his back creaking ominously as he does. “Ah! Yes. The magic my master used to free me was very old and powerful. It did not even hurt when he severed my roots and sealed the cuts so my life force would not leak out.”

“Well, whatever he did and... however he did it. I'm just glad you're here now. And that the Guardian didn't... well. You know.”

The construct fiddles with his belt for a while before he manages to fasten the Eideard doll back to it. When he returns his gaze to you, it's filled with gratitude. “I am glad as well.”

You return his clumsy smile, until your eyes start to wander and you find yourself glancing anxiously around the arena behind him. “So, uh, have you like, seen Eideard? A-Around here, maybe?”

Slowly, the construct's rocky brows scrape together and a soft gust of air shoots out from the gap in his jaw.

His answer, when it comes, is the one you'd been dreading. “He has gone. He left to follow that monster out into the valley.”

Your stomach begins to tie itself into knots all over again and what little elation you'd regained from seeing Blackroot swiftly evaporates. Licking your lips, you try to keep the shaking from your voice and ask, “What... what about Thane? Have you seen Thane?”

As though summoned by the mere mention of his name, a rough voice calls out, “Over here, Lass.”

Under your feet, the ground shudders with the familiar and unmistakable footfalls of an approaching maker. Craning your head around Blackroot's side, you cast your gaze towards the back of the arena, only to blanch and slap a hand over your mouth at the sight that emerges from the shadows.

The old warrior hobbles eagerly towards you, dragging one leg behind him as though it's nothing but a hunk of useless, dead flesh sitting inside his boot. Belatedly, he hopes you'll assume that the water trickling down his face is merely from the incessant rainfall and not from his eyes watering thanks to the sodding, great bruise that's already sprouted across the bridge of his nose. Yet, in spite of the blurry vision and the aggravated pain in his fractured shinbone, Thane's relief at just knowing you're alive temporarily overrides the agony from his injuries...

...Injuries he forgets to hide until he sees your hand fly up to your mouth.

Wincing at the frozen, wide-eyed stare you’ve locked him in, Thane lets out a strained grunt and forces himself to walk a little straighter, placing the weight back onto his wounded leg and plastering on a smile that hardly makes the rivers of blood that pour down his face any less noticeable.

Blackroot moves further aside to make room for the warrior, who at last staggers to a halt and collapses heavily onto his good knee in front of you, his sturdy chest heaving.

“You're alive,” he sighs wearily, more for his own reassurance than yours, “You're alive... The others... are they...?”

Trembling, you lower your hands from your mouth, determined not to make him wait for the answer. “E-everyone's alive, Thane,” you tell him with your eyes glued to the bruise blossoming over his nose, “A little beaten up, but... they'll be fine.”

Bowing his head, the maker lets out the enormous breath he'd been holding onto. “Thank the Stone... When the Guardian ploughed through the village, I.... I thought, you might've been...” Trailing off, he averts his gaze to emit a low grumble from the back of his throat before he looks at you again, causing you to gulp when something fearsome and chilling sparks to life in his stormy eyes. “That stone bastard didn't hurt you, did 'e?” the warrior growls.

Lightening flashes above you and you stare up at his glowering face in a daze, the world around you cold and quiet whilst crimson rivulets trickle steadily and relentlessly out of a gash in his temple, pushed by every pulse of his immense heart.

Not even the rain can wash the blood away fast enough.

You have to squeeze your eyes shut after a few seconds, fighting to regain your composure when the coppery stench permeates your nostrils and conjures up memories of crimson streets utterly saturated with life's most precious liquid.

Thane notices that you've begun to sway on your feet and, without thinking too hard about it, he reaches out a hand, curling his fingertips around your torso and effectively propping you upright. His heart-rate spikes in the meantime, now more concerned than ever that you've suffered in some, unseen way. Before he can bare his tusks and promise to tear the Guardian limb from limb however, your eyes flicker open again and you swallow thickly, glad that the rain is disguising your tears.

“No, no,” you sniff, wiping at your eyes to banish the terrible memories vying for your attention, “The Guardian... he didn't hurt me.”

The hand that isn’t holding you upright moves to his chest and he splays his fingers out over it, mumbling, “Stone be praised...”

“But – shit, Thane – Look what he did to you!” you continue, pressing your hands earnestly to his glove.

“What, this?” The warrior glances down at himself and gives you a tusky smirk. “Ach, nothin' wrong with a few more battle scars. Ain't like they'll make this mug any uglier, eh?”

He allows a glimmer of satisfaction to ignite in his chest when the attempt at humour is rewarded by your weak, wet bark of laughter, although the humour fades almost as swiftly as it had come and you suck down a hitching breath, turning away from him and looking towards the intact staircase.

“Eideard and Death...” you begin hesitantly, “They'll need help.”

Following your gaze, Thane's face drops and he shifts uneasily.

Though it's a loathsome thing for the proud warrior to admit out loud, he grits his teeth and gruffly says, “I'm in no fit state to assist. Reckon I'd only get in the way n' give the old man somethin' else to worry about.”

Your only response is to let out an evasive hum whilst you continue staring at the path ahead.

You never said that it needed be Thane who went to help.

Gradually, your brows knit together until they form a hard, determined line.

The old warrior casts glances between you and the direction your eyes are pointed, his expression becoming more and more incredulous with every turn of his head. He doesn't like stormy cloud that's growing on your face. It's similar to the look Karn gets whenever the youngling is about to make a stupid decision.

“Lass,” Thane growls warningly, “Whatever’s goin’ through that head of yours, knock it off. You’ve done enough...”

Have you?

If it weren’t for you and Death, the Guardian wouldn’t have even woken up to wreak this havoc on Tri Stone and the makers. If you’d have just stood your ground and stopped the Horseman from putting that damn corrupted heart stone into the construct, nobody would be in this mess. You could have found another way...

Huh... Is this your fault?

‘Well,’ you say to yourself, eyeing the blood oozing from Thane’s nostrils, ‘I’ve certainly done enough to make things go wrong... Maybe it’s time I helped do something right.’

You take a breath and begin sidestepping around him, shaking your head apologetically. “I'm sorry, please don't be mad. But I – I have to go!”

At once, the maker’s face grows several shades paler. He’d been so sure that you had the sense to avoid the Guardian now that you’ve seen the damage it can do to a village full of adult makers.

Evidently, he's overestimated the intelligence of humans.

“You don't have to do a bloody thing!” he barks, swiping a hand out after you and growling when you deftly slip around his reaching fingers, “Damn it, girl! Get back here! Don't you dare leave this village! You hear me!?”

He's too late in shoving himself up off the ground and hobbling after you. On any other day, he'd manage to catch you in just a few, short strides, but with the injury to his leg, he doesn't have a chance of keeping up. The first step he takes is too sudden, too vicious on his battered limb and he stumbles immediately, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the training dummy nearby. He raises his head and his expression contorts, eyes growing wide when he sees that you're almost at the top of the steps.

Huffing like a frantic bull and woefully out of options, he tries for rage instead, hoping that he could frighten you into returning.

So, sucking down a lungful of air, he roars, “HUMAN!” and uses the dummy to desperately drag himself upright. However, when you still don't turn around, and instead hop over the lip of the staircase, he peels his lips back, bares his teeth and all but howls, “Y/N!”

......

Sadly, his efforts prove to be in vain.

You don't return to the steps, you don't even turn around, you simply break into a jog and vanish inside the waiting tunnel, followed by a foreboding snarl of thunder.

---------

Frigid winds hit the bare skin on your arms and face as soon as you burst out into the Stonefather's vale like a bullet shot from a gun. Your lungs are on fire, burning up every ounce of oxygen that you manage to suck down a swiftly-closing throat.

You've pushed yourself – are still pushing yourself – to your limit, and the wear and tear is beginning to show in the way you trip over your feet every few steps, the bruise from your run-in with Karkinos throbbing to a loathsome beat that threatens to bully you into giving up and turning back to Tri Stone.

But your threshold for pain, whilst certainly nothing to brag about, is at least high enough to keep your feet pointed defiantly on the path ahead, despite your brain screeching in protest.

The soles of your boots hit the sodden grass underfoot and you raise a hand to shield your eyes against the pouring rain, focused entirely on the figure standing in your path up ahead.

Death's pale back is to you, but his awareness of your presence is more than obvious, given that his head twitches in your direction and his hands snap into vice-like fists when you slow to a stop several metres behind him. He’d had an inkling - given your track-record - that you would find a way to return to his side eventually, despite his best efforts in trying to keep you at arm's length.

“Oh, well isn't this a surprise!” he scoffs, “And there was me hoping you'd have learned your lesson by now.”

You wonder how much more upset he'd be if he realises you haven't even paid attention to a word he'd just said.

As it is, you manage to remain relatively undaunted by the Horseman's animosity, namely due to being faced with something far, far more terrifying than his ire.

Further down the valley, towering like a living monolith into the storm-blackened sky, is the Guardian, its heart stones aglow with that same, putrid, yellow light shared by the gigantic eyeball swivelling manically behind it.

Just then, a flash of lightening brightens the dark valley and your eyes drop to the ground next to the Guardian's cylindrical feet.

Of its own accord, a strangled gasp leaps out of your throat. “NO!”

Eideard stands close – much, much too close – to the behemoth, with his arm raised high above his head and a blue brilliance radiating from the tip of the staff he has clutched in his powerful grip.

Even after all you've seen, the visible presence of magic still sends a rush of goosebumps along your arms. There's no time to marvel over magic's existence though, because all of a sudden, the Guardian shifts, drawing your gaze up to it once more, and in an instant, your heart takes a flying leap into your mouth.

“EIDEARD!” you scream, darting forwards, though for what reason, you couldn't really say. The old maker is halfway across the valley, and the impossibly immense pommel of the construct's hammer is hurtling down on top of him with enough force to split the earth in two.

Even Death takes an involuntary step towards the old maker, stretching out his hand and shouting, “NO!” over a particularly vicious thunder clap.

But it's too late.

You can already tell that it's far too late.

Nothing that you or the Horseman do could ever stop the fall of that terrible hammer.

The blunt end of the weapon's handle comes down on top of Eideard just as you collapse to your knees and unleash a shrill scream that cuts clear across the valley, hair gripped tightly between your clenched fists.

This can't be happening.

This cannot be happening!

You know without a shadow of a doubt that you won't be able to keep going if you lose Eideard. Not on top of every other loss you've already suffered.

Not him.

“Please,” you hear yourself gasp, “Please, god, don't. He's not – He can't be...!”

You really don't want to look, too afraid to lay eyes upon his mangled corpse laying there in the dirt, but you can't tear your eyes off the spot he'd disappeared behind a plume of debris and dust kicked up by the hammer's impact. It feels as though fingers have closed around your throat and cut off the air supply to your lungs. All you can do is let your mouth flop open around a silent, horrified scream.

Unstirred by your anguish, the Guardian grips its hammer in one, colossal fist and gives it a vicious twist.

You're waiting for it to hit you, for your mind to catch up with the world around it and send you spiralling down into a bottomless pit. In fact, you're certain you can already feel it happening. Grief rushes towards you, a tidal wave that crests high above your head, but just as it threatens to come crashing down and drown you under its overwhelming pressure, the Guardian lifts its hammer.

Through a steady mixture of rain and tears that blur your vision, you manage to catch sight of a real impossibility.

Somehow, through force of will or magic or just plain old luck, Eideard is standing upright in the spot where the Guardian's hammer had slammed down on top of him, and curved above his head like a transparent shield is a dome of shimmering, blue light.

The air that rams back into you tastes like mana from heaven.

“He's alive!?” you croak.

The Guardian seems far less pleased by Eideard's survival.

Its stone jaw drops open and although entirely solid, the construct manages to pull its rocky features to form a deep scowl as it roars indignantly, rearing back and this time swinging its hammer up over a shoulder, egged on by the murderous corruption guiding its hand. It brings the weapon's head down on Eideard again.

And again, the magic shield flares angrily in response to its vicious assault, but although you almost swallow your tongue when the hammer crashes to the earth a second time, you soon feel the ember of hope rekindling to see Eideard's forcefield still in place once the gigantic hammer is removed and its wielder steps back, evidently perplexed by its small, yet mighty opponent.

Wincing, Eideard shakes his head, flicking away the droplets of blood that have begun to trickle from his nose and mouth. Magic, for all its uses, can often be just as much of a hinderance as it can be a help. Using too much isn't unlike overexercising a muscle. Continuous strain can eventually lead to injury – predominantly of the mind, and many a delver into the mystical arts has fallen victim to exertion by trying to accomplish feats of magic that are far more powerful than their bodies can withstand. Feats such as blocking two, devastating blows from a four-hundred foot construct, for example.

“Maker's bones...” the Old One pants, staggering backwards on unsteady legs, “...that hurt.”

Frustration crawls up his spine at the prospect of having to back down from this fight. He has a home to protect, after all, and a family. It goes against every fibre of his being to stand aside. However... he wouldn't have survived to be so old if he hadn't learned how and when to pick his fights.

If his magic alone is not enough to subdue the Guardian, then perhaps the raw, unbridled power of a Nephilim will have to suffice. The old maker had heard Death's shout, had wondered what in the world he'd done to earn the Horseman's concern, and then, he'd heard a smaller and shriller voice, one that subsequently sent his heart into a dizzying frenzy, wailing out like some wild, distressed animal.

What in Stone's name do you think you're doing here!?

Exhausted, yet determined, Eideard raises his staff and focuses his mind, drawing on the subtle magics that are woven into the very air around him, feeling the atoms in his body resonate and tremble in kind. Comforting, blue light seeps from the end of his staff, swelling and growing in size and intensity until the old one's eyes snap wide open and then, with just a single thought, an explosion of energy erupts from the staff and ripples outwards through the vale, an after-effect of the sudden displacement of an entire maker. One moment, Eideard is standing directly in the path of the rampaging Guardian, then next, he's disappearing into thin air, earning a bewildered hum from the construct, who lowers the hammer it had drawn back in preparation for a third strike.

Meanwhile, you're nearly hysterical as you whip your head around in search of the old maker, dropping your mouth open to blurt out, “Wh-where did he-!?”

All of a sudden, you're interrupted by a blinding flash of light.

Before the spots have even faded from your vision, you find yourself wrapped in a firm but gentle grip and you let out an embarrassing yelp as you're lifted off the ground.

Startled, you even call out for Death, though after another few moments pass, you start to recognise the fur trim of a sleeve and the angular, protruding knuckles that belong to the hand clasping you against a heaving chest.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wriggling yourself around in his grip and getting nothing but a face full of white beard for the trouble.

When the maker speaks, his voice booms all around you. “He's beyond my help, Horseman!” he calls, keeping his gaze trained on the Guardian as he retreats backwards towards the tunnel's entrance, “Do your worst...”

It shouldn't have surprised you to hear Eideard's voice lined with bitter regret. You'd almost forgotten that the Guardian isn't just another naturally occurring phenomenon in this mystical, ever-changing realm. For all intents and purposes, the beast is man-made. Well, maker-made. And one of those makers is currently having to witness his creation destroying the very home it was built to protect.

Bracing your hands against his thumb, you lean back to peer up at the old one, perturbed by the way his head drops in defeat. Another blink, and suddenly, you let a horrified cry pierce the air.

His face... It's a mess.

Worse than even Thane's had been.

Blood – a lot of the stuff – streams from the maker's nostrils and dribbles onto his lips, staining the ivory beard around his mouth red. His eyes too, are blood-shot and sunken, older, wearier than you've ever seen them before, like all the life has been sucked out of them and left deep, dark shadows underneath.

All it takes is one glimpse at the old one's stricken face, and you find yourself wishing your shoulders were even half as wide as his so that you could take the weight of at least some of his grief.

You're pulled from your thoughts as the rain stops falling on you, and suddenly, a chilling realisation occurs as you're carried backwards into the tunnel; Eideard is leaving Death to fight this battle alone.

You find yourself torn between relief that that the old maker isn't putting himself in harm's way anymore, and distress that Death is facing down a construct the size of Big Ben. Grunting with the effort of twisting about in such a protective grip, you strain your neck to see over Eideard's fingers, your focus zeroing in on the billowing, green mist that heralds Despair's arrival.

At least the Horseman won't be tackling the Guardian on foot.

Though that's of little comfort, from where you're standing.

Helplessness once again rears its head and sinks its teeth into your stomach.

“Eideard!” you wriggle impatiently in his grasp, “You have to put me down! Death needs help!”

The maker's immediate silence unnerves you, but you're pleasantly surprised when he lowers himself onto a knee and places you carefully back on your feet, his once patient gaze now frantic with worry as he inspects you for injuries, his fingertips lingering bare inches from your shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” he exclaims, taking one of your arms between his massive fingers and lifting it from your side, regarding your face for any sign that the motion causes you discomfort. You, on the other hand, are far too preoccupied with his own, very visible injuries. With the maker looming so close, you can see the blood welling up inside his mouth as it begins to ooze out from between his tusks and teeth, spilling down into the dip of his chin.

“Eideard...” Hesitant, you reach a hand up and touch your fingers gingerly against his cheeks.

Shaking his head, the maker wheezes, “Are you hurt?” The insistent desperation in his tone catches you off guard and you find yourself shakily replying, “Uh I – I'm okay! I'm okay, Eideard!”

Your confirmation seems to knock all the air out of him at once and he sags forwards, releasing your arm with a sigh. “And... Karn?” he asks after another moment.

“Karn's okay, too. He's taking care of Muria and the others,” you assure him.

He nods slowly, taking in a lungful of air as your words finally start to sink in. You're okay. His makers are okay. Things could have easily turned out so much worse... So much worse. Shakily, he pushes himself back onto his feet and sways a little before he manages to plant his staff on the ground, clinging to it with a white-knuckled grip as he frowns down at you and prepares to give you a stern lecture for frightening the life out of him. “You should not be here,” he starts, drawing himself up to his full height, “I am glad to see you unharmed, but I must insist that you return to Tri Stone at once.”

“But - The Guardian!” you protest, “There has to be something I can do to help!”

“You can help me by returning to the village and staying there.”

Picking anxiously at a fingernail, you avert your gaze from Eideard and peer out across the valley, your eyes landing on the Horseman, just a speck of grey facing off against a mountain of stone and rage. “But... What about Death?”

“Y/n, please...” The maker pauses to expel a hot breath, his frown softening before he continues, “The Horseman has faced great odds before. It's my makers who need you now. Karn will be beside himself once he realises you are gone, and I'm not sure how much more stress Valus can take, the poor lad.”

You don't... not want to return to the village. There are so many ways you think you can help the other makers, and your heart gives a guilty twist for breaking your promise to Alya and Valus.

And yet...

You can't bring yourself to tear yourself away from the valley.

-----

Despair rears back onto his hind legs and Death swings himself gracefully into the saddle with the practiced ease that only a millennia will teach, unwittingly baring his teeth at the roaring Guardian and noting that its attention has shifted down and landed upon him now that he's the only idiot still foolish enough to be in the vale.

Sharp talons squeeze into his shoulder and Dust aims a particularly jarring squawk right in Death's ear.

“Thank you for that,” he drawls, giving the crow a filthy look, “You know, I was so hoping to go into this battle deaf, as well as out-sized.”

The ground trembles when the Guardian takes a very deliberate step across the valley and heaves its weapon into both hands, causing Dust to flap madly back into the sky with a caw that could have meant 'it's been nice knowing you,' or, 'good luck!'

Just this once, Death decides not to call the bird out on his cowardice.

At least Despair has managed to retain the proper amount of dignity.

The Horseman's fingers lower to brush against the snorting animal's muscular neck. “Easy, old friend,” he murmurs, scanning the Guardian's bulk.

There has to be something that will play to his advantage, though admittedly, his odds are underwhelming.

But then... when has that ever stopped him before?

A bitter smirk tugs at the Horseman's lips and in response to some, unspoken command that's felt rather than heard, Despair rears back onto his powerful hind legs before surging forwards into a headlong gallop, ears pricked forwards in anticipation of the upcoming battle.

Obviously, size and strength are not going to be tools in Death's arsenal, so they'll have to rely on the horse's speed to keep the distance between themselves and the Guardian whilst he searches for an opening.

Gritting his teeth, he twitches the reins and Despair reacts less than half a second later, turning his nose to the left and letting his body follow suit, galloping in a wide arc around the construct. Death almost breathes a sigh. In spite of the astronomically impossible odds, there's little to no denying that he's always felt better going into a fight astride his trusted companion. Despair's powerful hoofbeats pound with a sure and solid rhythm against the ground, an adequate stand-in for the beat of a heart, and it's in moments such as these that Death feels at his most 'alive.'

The Guardian's challenging roar is quick to bring his mind back to the coming battle.

With slow, unhurried movements, it swings itself about to keep the comparatively tiny creatures in its line of sight.

Death's teeth grind together as he pushes the horse into a wider arc that takes them both further down the valley's Eastern side, drawing the enormous construct from Tri Stone and allowing for a larger window of time to think of a battle plan.

The goal itself is clear: Sever corruption from its host by removing the heart stones. That should cause enough damage to put the Guardian out of commission, even if only for a little while.

The execution of such a plan, however, will not be as easy in practice as it is in theory.

Death exhales, and through an understanding built on a sturdy foundation of trust, Despair responds without missing a stride.

Skidding to a stop in the slick mud, he rears up and twists himself about all in the same move before bombing forwards into a break-neck gallop, heading straight for the Guardian.

Emitting a thundering growl, the construct raises its hammer high into the air, so high that the head nearly disappears into some of the lower-hanging rainclouds. Seconds later, the weapon abruptly begins to fall.

Despair suddenly lurches to the right mere moments before the pommel comes crashing down into the mud.

Even from halfway up the valley, you can feel the ground shudder violently from the impact.

When the horse stumbles trying to gallop over the shockwaves, your heart leaps up into your throat and almost falls out of your mouth as Death stands up in the saddle right as his steed dashes between the Guardian's legs.

“What the Hell is he doing!?” you blurt out.

Seconds later, you get your answer.

Just as the duo pass directly beneath the construct, Death springs from Despair's saddle and throws himself at one of the towering pillars of stone, latching onto it determinedly.

Despair – now riderless – bursts out on the other side of the construct and gallops around and away from it in a wide arc, leaving a trail of green wisps in his wake.

Unfortunately, though you assumed that the Guardian's attention would remain on the horse, you soon realise that the corruption driving it must have some semblance of a brain after all, because it abruptly tips its head down and the searing, yellow gaze flashes dangerously when it peers past the hefty bulk of its torso and catches sight of the Horseman clinging to its ankle.

Palpable indignation explodes from the construct in a terrible roar and it wastes no time in raising its leg and stomping it hard on the ground in an attempt to jar the Nephilim loose.

But the Guardian's efforts fail to dislodge its unwarranted passenger, and Death starts to climb, and climb, and climb, hauling himself up the mountain of stone, inch by nail-biting inch.

“He's climbing it!?” you blurt out suddenly, gripping your hair when the Horseman narrowly avoids getting crushed by a gargantuan swipe of the construct's hand, “Has he got an effing screw loose!?”

At your side, Eideard's brows are so furrowed, they nearly form a neat, fluffy line across his forehead. “He has to reach the stones,” he calls over another earth-shattering bellow, “Unless he can remove them from their casings, Corruption will never relinquish its hold of the Guardian!”

As he speaks, Death's ascent takes him up to the construct's hip, where he disappears from view for a moment behind the stone thigh guard.

Your stomach sinks as you fully comprehend how much of a climb ahead he has ahead of him.

Outraged, the construct tries to twist its immense body around and as it does, it bends one of its arms backwards to try and swat the Horseman off.

It's only by doing so that you happen to chance upon a blessedly familiar sight.

Corruption has stretched like a dark blanket all along the underside of its host's arm, oily tendrils holding the limb fast to an immense shoulder socket like a terrible, oozing spiderweb.

But spread about inside the writhing blackness, hidden deep between the strands of corruption, are faint, golden flecks of light, each glowing just enough that you can spot them through the gloom and rain.

“Shadow bombs,” you breathe.

Whatever hand is guiding your fate has apparently got a thing for explosions...

----

Death is fairly confident that he'll have no fingernails after this.

Flattening himself against the rock, he barely avoids the Guardian's wall of a hand as it passes by him, close enough that even the ensuing rush of air buffeting him is enough to have him jamming his fingers and the toes of his boots into the slippery, wet stone.

Scaling a rampaging Guardian is difficult enough. Frankly, he could do without the rain adding to his troubles.

Casting a heated glance up at the sky, Death braces his feet and prepares to launch himself another few metres up the torso.

Another bolt of lightening takes a stab at the valley, the Horseman kicks off, swinging an arm overhead to grab a segment of rock above him and the Guardian's colossal fist rushes towards him once more...

He could have sworn he'd had the timing spot on...

Death is hit from the side by a force so great, his vision goes white upon impact and his world turns upside down as he's knocked out of the sky by the construct's blow, thousands of receptors screaming in pain even though he bites down hard on his tongue and refuses to utter a sound.

Well... at least the fall is short...

Far sooner than he expects to, the Horseman collides with the soggy ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and he rolls over and over through the mud until eventually coming to a halt on his back about a hundred yards away from the Guardian's feet. Stunned and staring stiffly up at the cloudy sky overhead, he blinks against the raindrops that manage to pelt his eyelids through the sockets of his mask.

Somewhere far away from his ringing ears, he picks up the trace of a scream, dimly registering how familiar the sound is.

“Death! Please, get up!”

Yes, he will. Of course he will. He doesn't need a distant voice to tell him that laying motionless in the mud is a terrible idea.

Curling his fingers until they're squeezed into tight fists, the Horseman pushes himself into a sitting position and gives his head a shake, his senses returning to him all at once.

That had been your voice. For an unsettling second, he pictures you doing something stupid – like running out into the valley towards him.

“Human!?” he rasps, throwing his gaze about wildly until he at last spies you still standing in the entrance to Tri Stone’s tunnel.

He only refrains from heaving a sigh of relief through sheer willpower alone.

Moving his head to the right, he catches sight of Despair galloping madly in his direction, hoofbeats swallowed up by the thunderous, booming footsteps of the Guardian as it approaches Death's flank.

The Horseman is on his feet in a flash and takes several, loping strides towards his steed, who doesn't slow for a single beat, not even as he tears past Death's side, confident that his rider will be safely back in his saddle with hardly a crumb of effort.

And of course, a pale hand shoots out as the horse passes, snagging the saddle horn and Death hauls himself up and onto Despair's back as though they'd practiced it a thousand times.

Which, upon the insistence of a figure from their past, they have.

“Now then,” the Horseman grumbles, snatching up the reins and turning his steed in another wide arc, intent on coming at the Guardian from another angle, “Let's try that again, shall we?”

------

“He's not seriously gonna try that again, is he?” Watching the spectral duo thunder towards a now increasingly belligerent construct, you clap a hand to your forehead, staring out from underneath it with your mouth agape. “Oh my god, he is.”

“Tenacity is sometimes one of the only tactics that will work,” Eideard puts sagely.

Letting out an incredulous scoff, you squint an eye shut and gape sideways at the Old one. “Tenacity? What the Hell does he think will happen if he -!....Wait a minute....” Suddenly, you cut yourself off, frowning hard at the grass by your feet. “...Tactics...”

The gears in your head grind faster and faster as you try to recall a far-off memory, holding up your hand to hush the maker when he draws a breath to speak. “Wait, wait, wait. What about... Yeah, what about uh, if we use the Hammer and Anvil?” Snapping your fingers together, you raise your head again and shoot Eideard an eager look.

He, on the other hand, appears entirely lost, turning to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the village for a moment before he returns his gaze to you, one eyebrow raised. “A hammer and anvil? What use would those be in this fight?”

“No, no, it's the, um... the name of a military tactic!” you explain, chewing your lip anxiously, “So, I took History for GCSE, and I think, I think, I remember learning about it there. So, one group, or I guess, one person, is the anvil, right? They pin down an enemy, and then somebody else – the hammer - moves around to the flank and -” You firmly thump your fist into the palm of your opposite hand for emphasis.

In spite of himself, Eideard's eyes gleam with barely-concealed pride at your insight. He hadn't realised you'd once been a Historian. Seconds later, he gives his head a firm shake to dispel the fog of intrigue.

“I remember it because it sounded cool,” you say wistfully, “And I was going through my phase of wanting to be a blacksmith to make swords and stuff at the time...”

The Old one raises his eyebrows in surprise and you chuckle wanly, adding, “Yeah, I know. Don't tell Thane. Think it might break his heart.”

Eideard is inclined to agree. It would certainly pain the warrior to know that he might potentially 'lose' you to Alya, who has a very likely chance of combusting on the spot if she learns about your interest in her profession.

Blinking, the maker looks down at you and realises that you're still peering back at him expectantly, and it takes him a further moment to work out that you're actually waiting for him to offer approval for your plan. “Well... Whilst it may certainly be a useful strategy, in theory,” he enunciates, subjecting you to a pointed stare, “have you taken into consideration the size of the enemy in this fight? How could a construct so large ever be pinned down long enough for the Horseman to reach the heart stones?”

You fall silent beside him, and at first, Eideard assumes that you don't have an answer for him, when in truth, your focus has simply returned to the underside of the Guardian's dominant arm.

You know precisely how you can pin the construct down.

All it will take is a well-placed shot... and every last ounce of courage you have left in reserve.

Heaving out a shaky sigh, you tug the little handgun from your waistband and thumb the cylinder's release latch, swinging it open and peering down at the chambers.

Three cartridges left.

Three empty chambers... One for the demon general you'd slain to save Death.

One for the demon in the graveyard...

...And one for the gun's original owner.

A shudder prickles up your spine at the memory of the dead man staring at you with wide, terrified, but unseeing eyes as you pried his means of salvation right out of his hands.

Then, the moment passes and you shove his expression to the back of your mind, flicking the cylinder into place with a purposeful snap.

You have to do this. The Guardian has to be destroyed, even if it means you've come all this way for nothing, and the Corruption blocking your path to the Tree of Life will remain where it is.

You'll just... have to find another way through.

There's always another way.

When you look up towards Death, you see that he's circled Despair away from the Guardian again and they're skirting dangerously close to the swollen, yellow eyeball that tracks their journey across the valley.

“I'll be the anvil...” You take a step forwards, your voice soft, though not soft enough that it goes unnoticed by Eideard.

The old maker tears his gaze from the construct currently hammering holes into his valley and fixes you with a suspicious glare. There are certain instincts that elders tend to accumulate after a near-eternity spent just being alive, none of which are more potent than the instinct to simply know when a youngling is busy concocting some terrible, ill-judged and outright dangerous scheme in their heads.

Striking before the seed can take true root, Eideard lifts his staff and plants its narrow end on the ground right in front of you, a less-than-subtle barrier that both breaks you from your thoughts and stops you from making further advancement towards the tunnel opening.

Understandably, you're startled by the sudden shaft of solid metal appearing in your path and you whip your head up to shoot a glare at the old giant, only to find that he's giving you his own, similarly stern look.

Holding your gaze for a few moments, he eventually expels a sigh and lets his expression ease into a more solemn frown. “Not this time, little one,” he utters.

“Not this time?” Your hands ball slowly into fists. “What do you mean 'not this time?'”

He opens his mouth to tell you, to explain every, complex thought that's been on his mind since you followed Death into the Foundry. He wants to tell you exactly why he can't bear to watch you run into danger again – that his old heart aches to see Muria wring her hands so much more often these days, or Valus pacing anxiously back and forth across the forge while his sister tries to coax him into crafting something that might take his mind off you. It had even hurt more than he'd care to admit to hear Thane explode at him after the warrior learned that you'd gone inside the Foundry.

Likewise, Eideard had hardly been able to think straight for worrying whether you'd come back out again...

His soul, of late, seems as though it's pulling itself in two, very different directions. One half of him knows that you're your own person - an adult, so far as humans are concerned – who is more than capable of making decisions without needing the input of an interfering old maker. But then, there's the other half of him - the half that has spent eons being a teacher, a leader and a protector.

That half wants nothing more than to keep you safe and nurtured, to see what you could become as a human among makers.

How can he possibly make you understand that watching you run out into the valley would be the final nail in his coffin?

However, he doesn't get the chance to even try and explain as you misinterpret his pensive silence for surrender and you press, “It could work! You know it could! I could be the anvil, if I can just... get close enough to-”

“-Absolutely not,” he interrupts, his eyebrows pinched with concern, “It's far too dangerous.”

You aren't entirely sure where your sudden spark of irritation comes from, but it's there before you can think to extinguish it. “What, so this is too dangerous, but you let me go into the Foundry?”

“Against my better judgement, yes, I did,” he retorts, “And the Drench Fort, and the Cauldron. Time and again, I have stood by and allowed you to follow the Horseman into danger-”

“You've allowed me?” you scoff, recoiling.

“-But I'm afraid that this is where my leniency ends,” he continues as his voice steadily grows louder with every passing moment, “This is where I have to draw the line, if not for your sake, then for the sake of the others. They've suffered enough loss to last them a lifetime, and I will not allow them to lose another friend!” Breathing hard, he swallows down a painful cough and rasps, “I will not lose another friend!”

If only you were ten feet taller, you'd grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into the sentimental old giant.

“If Death doesn't manage to beat that thing, you're gonna lose a whole hell of a lot more than just a friend!” you argue, hardly noticing that the maker's knuckles have turned bone-white around the handle of his staff, “Eideard, I am trying to help Death save this place! You can't stop me from helping!”

The soft-eyed maker's gaze narrows to something uncharacteristically sharp and he replies, “I can. For your own good!”

You wrinkle your nose as indignation rises through your chest like smoke from the fire in your belly, swelling into a ball of heat and anger. “My own g-!? You're not my dad, Eideard-!”

“- I AM TRYING TO BE!”

The force of Eideard's shout punches through your chest like a gunshot and you stagger back a few steps, your eyes growing wide with alarm. You aren't sure what's more disconcerting, what he'd shouted, or the fact that he'd shouted at all. It's the first time you've ever heard him raise his voice at you...

Staring up at the old maker, you slowly draw your hands close to your chest, clasping them together and pulling in a hitched breath.“...What?” you utter, voice small and uncertain.

Just like that, the giant blinks and his eyebrows twitch out of their frown as the realisation of what he'd just admitted aloud catches up with him. A pit in his stomach opens up and everything above it drops.

He stares back at you in muted horror that he tries desperately to disguise as stern sincerity.

Stone's breath... He swore he'd never... You've only just lost your family, and now here he is behaving as though he intends to replace one of the most critical figures in your life. He has no right. No right at all...

Even beneath the ivory beard, you can see his jaw clench after he snaps his mouth shut.

Not even the rain that cascades from overhead is loud enough to drown out the rigorous pounding of your heart.

"Little one,” Eideard croaks, fumbling over his words for the first time in centuries, “I-”

Suddenly, from across the valley, the Guardian unleashes a triumphant bellow and your eyes rip away from the maker for all of a second, just long enough to see Death take a hit.

Just like that, the whole world grinds to a screeching halt.

---------

Despair is in the middle of a charge, heading straight for the Guardian's legs, no doubt intending to bring his rider in close so that he can make another attempt at climbing his way up to the infected heart stones.

The construct, however, doesn't move to meet them as they expect it to. Instead, the colossal beast takes a few, booming steps backwards, seeming as if it’s on the retreat to the valley's eastern cliffs.

Seconds later, Death realises its intent.

The mile-high hammer that it grips in its fist has a reach that practically extends halfway across the valley, and only by putting some significant distance between itself and a target does the Guardian stand any chance of landing a devastating blow.

And Death has just galloped directly into the firing line.

As the hammer begins its downward swing, Despair lets out a whinny that's carried off on the wind until it reaches your ears, filling them with the sound of shrill, animalistic fear and you turn your body around to stare out at the valley just in time to see the Horseman fling his steed's head to the side with a brutal tug on the reins. Obediently, Despair follows his lead, hoping to escape underneath the side of the rapidly-descending hammer.

You know in your heart of hearts they'll never make it.

You can hardly bear to watch.

Then, at the very last second, right when the hammer's shadow utterly engulfs both horse and rider, you notice that Death's hand lifts from the reins and he does a wild gesture and before you can make sense of what it means, without warning, Despair's solid outline seems to collapse in on itself and the horse erupts into a cloud of sickly, green mist.

Bellowing out a final, lingering scream of righteous indignation that's soon lost to the wind, he disappears completely and his rider falls to the ground, tucking himself forwards into a haphazard roll.

Not half a second later, the monolithic face of the hammer connects with the dirt just inches behind him.

Another flash of lightening coincides poetically with the impact, burning an image into your mind's eye – of mud and rocks exploding outwards in every direction, a seismic shockwave that flings Death away from the epicentre. He lands hard in the wet earth and tumbles for several metres before he finally comes to a stop, face down against the grass, unmoving.

You barely even register that you've ducked beneath the maker's staff and hurled yourself into a clumsy sprint until you emerge from the tunnel and your face is suddenly struck by ice-cold rain. At your back, Eideard shouts something frenzied, crossing the line into panic, but his words are drowned out by another clap of thunder. You don't see the desperate horror sweep across the old maker's face. You don't see his eyes illuminate with the ensuing lightening strike. You don't see the Guardian peeling its hammer from the earth and slowly turning towards you.

All you can see, all you care about right now, is the Horseman in front of you.

Shaking off his daze, Death pushes himself onto his hands and knees and immediately becomes irked by the rainwater dripping in through the sockets of his mask again. He gives a few, hard blinks and twists his gaze to one side, trailing it all the way up the Guardian's legs columns.

The great beast flares the plates around its neck and a low, rumbling growl trickles from its throat and travels all the way down into the ground, causing Death's teeth to rattle in his head.

Dimly, his eyes rove up to the hammer, now raised once more into the sky high above the construct's head.

“Damn you,” he hisses at it through a clenched jaw.

If he hadn't banished Despair when he had, the horse may well have had its hind legs crushed. He'd felt his steed's rage once it realised what he planned to do, but frankly, he'd rather deal with an angry Despair than see the stubborn beast get hurt.

He's in the midst of heaving himself up onto one knee when all of a sudden, from across the valley, there comes a familiar cry that would have turned his blood to ice, should his veins carry any.

“Death!”

The Horseman jerks his head over one shoulder, eyes widening when he sees you haring across the valley towards him. “No,” he growls, voice rising into a ragged shout, “NO! Stay back, you fool!”

However, rather than heed his warning, you very nearly end up crashing into him as you hit the brakes and skid to a halt in the sodden grass just in time to avoid a collision.

Somewhere unbeknownst to the Horseman, a wild and familiar presence rears its sleepy head.

Meanwhile, with all the grace of a bungling drunk, you wrestle your pistol from your skirt's hem and aim it at the clustered web of corruption that stretches across the construct's raised forearm.

The Guardian is so vast, each movement carries with it the illusion that time has slowed right down to a crawl.

Gripping the handle of your gun between two, quivering hands, you don't even spare a second to think or to worry about what'll happen if you don't make this shot.

You only have this chance. There will not be another.

There's a storm raging around you, a giant hammer rising above you, Death's incoherent bellow rings in your head and Eideard's distressed calls tug at your heartstrings.

You've never been more terrified in all your life.

But you still take aim.

And with blood and wind howling in your ears, you draw in one, deep breath...

… and pull the trigger.

It's strange, you realise with a blink, that until now, you've never really put much thought into whether the dice of life rolls in your favour. You wouldn't say that you're especially lucky, nor would you claim to be naturally unlucky either.

At this moment however, when the tiny bullet from your pistol sails straight and true towards its target, you finally begin to consider the scope of your luck. Then, the bullet hits its mark and you feel like the heavens have just aligned in your favour.

The shadow bomb explodes, setting off a chain reaction among the other bombs embedded in the webbing. Each of them erupts in rapid succession of the one before it, and the Guardian is instantly thrown off balance by the ricochets, roaring in pain and staggering back a step as its entire arm is quite suddenly blown sideways and asunder.

Whatever elation you might have garnered from the success is short-lived though, because Death is abruptly towering over you and snatching you up by the arms, holding you so that your feet dangle several inches from the ground.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?” he bellows, shaking you for good measure.

You open your mouth to reply, but just then, a dark shadow falls across Death's mask, prompting you both to whip your heads back and look to the sky.

It appears that while the explosion has blown the Guardian's arm to smithereens, some of those 'smithereens' are still absolutely enormous and haven't been blasted quite far enough to render you safe should they come crashing down to the ground.

Which is, of course, precisely what they do.

The familiar presence that had awoken deep inside the Horseman's psyche suddenly starts to go bezerk.

Barrelling down towards you at a rate of knots is a stone slab the size of a bus.

Instinctively, you fling your arms over your head and slam your eyes tight shut, hardly caring when Death drops you onto your backside and you topple over, your skull cushioned by the wet earth.

Pressed your spine into the grass, you brace yourself for impact and spare the last second of existence cursing at how bitterly unfair it is that you can do something right and still have everything go so wrong.

The slab falls, the air grows cold and still. And then...

WHAM!

The sound is loud enough to blow out your eardrums and smack your heart up against your sternum. It's deafening, it's terrifying... But it isn't painful.

'Why isn't it painful?.... Am I dead?' The rain seems to have stopped falling on you, at least.

Bewildered, you peel open an eye and tentatively lower your arms a little to peer up at a dark, shadowy mass looming over you.

Two, empty eye sockets stare right back at you, pinpricks of light sitting at the centre of each as a rattling breath as cold as winter washes over your face.

“Death?” you utter in a tremulous whisper.

The monstrous form of the Reaper towers above you, its exposed ribcage heaving up and down in the face of its agitation. Long, skeletal arms are raised above its head and when you roll your eyes past the indigo hood, you let out a gasp to find that the creature is holding the gigantic, stone slab aloft, keeping it from crushing you flat.

How a beast with no visible muscle can be so strong is utterly beyond you.

The Reaper stares down at you for a moment longer with an unreadable expression before its arms suddenly flex and it lets out a soft wheeze as it hurls the enormous slab sideways and out of the way.

The stone hasn't even rolled to a stop before the gigantic skull is lowering down towards you.

Sprawled out on your rear and immensely mindful of the beast's fangs, you lift your arms up and hold them out in front of its approaching face.

“Woah – wait a second! I – I know you're mad, but I just!-”

You're interrupted when the Reaper's nose bumps into your palm and continues to advance, despite the meagre resistance you try to put up. For one, horrible second, you grow sick at the thought that the beast's teeth are so close to your vulnerable hands.

But then, with a gentleness that contradicts its size, the skeleton forces its skull through your raised arms and, to your astonishment, pushes its nasal bone firmly into your chest and stomach – as though it isn't supposed to be a monstrous reflection of the fabled Grim Reaper, as though there isn't a stone giant gathering its wits behind it.

Too startled to react, you close your eyes and raise your chin away from the beast, unable to swallow a whimper as it nuzzles gently into your torso with a warbling croon.

'It's only Death,' you have to remind yourself, 'Death won't hurt me.'

Your fingers twitch and you gulp, hesitating for another second before you finally gather the nerve to press your palms flat against the skull's cheekbones, earning a gush of frigid air against your belly in response. Cracking an eye open, you find yourself blinking straight into one of the Reaper's softly glowing pupils. It surprises you with a sudden, insistent nudge to the stomach, like it's trying to push a sound out of you. Hardly daring to disappoint, you swallow around your dry tongue and breathlessly stammer out, “Hah, yeah, I'm... I'm all right.”

The vertebrae on the beast's neck clack together when a croak rattles up from somewhere deep inside its chest.

It almost sounds relieved.

A little more boldly, you sweep your trembling fingers underneath the curve of its cheekbones and try not to ponder on how utterly absurd it is that you're talking to a creature that wasn't even supposed to exist this time last week. Regardless, it's a hard truth to deny when said creature currently has its skull pressed up against you.

After another moment, it gives you a second bunt to the stomach, this one short and sharp and accompanied by a whuff of air through its nasal cavity as the malleable bone above its eye sockets draw together to resemble something vaguely displeased. You're beginning to recognise more and more of Death in its expressions.

The Horseman is still in there somewhere, and it takes you a moment to register that your plan, as foolish and risky as it was, had actually worked. You don't even care that an angry monstrosity's fangs are sitting flushed to your abdomen.

“Hey. I'm glad you're okay too,” you mutter weakly, trailing your fingers down a sturdy mandible.

It's ensuing rumble of contentment is interrupted by a sudden, booming roar that rips the sky apart and you jump, feeling the Reaper's teeth scrape against your belly as it lets out a furious growl and draws back at the sound.

Using one hand to shield your eyes from the rain, you squint up at the Guardian.

It would appear the the colossal juggernaut has already mourned the loss of its arm and is now raring for vengeance.

It tears its gaze off the rubble scattered around its feet and aims a furious growl down at you and the Reaper, the promise of retribution evident in the corrupted tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, whilst its heart stones shine through the gloom like terrible beacons of fetid yellow.

“Wait.. .The heart stones!” you realise aloud.

Skeletal fingers suddenly cut you off as they snatch you up by the collar and hoist you onto your feet, and then you're rudely shoved in the direction of Tri Stone by a snarling Reaper.

Stumbling backwards, you stare after it as it whips around and puts its back to you, flapping its bony wings menacingly up at the Guardian - as if anything it does could deter a construct that size.

The corrupted behemoth takes a threatening step forwards, bringing it far too close for comfort. In response, the Reaper's wings flare even wider across its back and it issues another hiss.

“Death! The Heart Stones!” you cry out again, “We have to destroy them now!”

Your gaze travels to what's left of its shattered arm that lays in the grass like the ruins of an ancient building. There, sitting unassumingly amongst the debris, is a familiar, pulsing glow.

Your hand curls around the grip of your sword.

Without wasting another second, you burst into a break-neck sprint and hurtle towards the first heart stone, immediately hearing the alarmed hiss of the Reaper behind you. Throwing your head over one shoulder, you point frantically at the Guardian's head and shout, “I'll try and deal with the one on the ground! You have to deal with the other two!”

The Reaper's half-buried instinct to snatch you up out of danger and bundle you away somewhere quiet and safe is almost overpowering, but there's just enough of Death lingering below the wild and primal nature of the beast that it recognises the sense in your words.

Eliminate the heart stones, eliminate the Guardian, eliminate the threat.

...Threat.

The Reaper snarls, its spinal column quivering as it finally cuts through the haze of protective anger and focuses on the solution.

Eliminate the Guardian, and you'll be safe.

The goal is clear.

Teeth snap together in a warning and the Reaper gives its wings a tremendous beat, soaring into the storm-choked sky and making a bee line for the Guardian's left shoulder where the second heart stone lays in wait.

Responding instantly, the construct roars its defiance with the force and volume of a thunderclap as it raises its remaining arm, aiming to swat the Reaper out of the air like a bothersome gnat.

But whilst the Guardian's size might have leant to its advantage on the ground, it proves a hinderance to a creature as adept at flying as Death's spectral counterpart.

Swift and nebulous like a shadow, the Reaper flits higher and higher, skirting close to the construct's arm and either diving or spinning easily out of the way if it swings too close for comfort. By the time it reaches the heart stone, you've slid to a halt beside the one on the ground.

Whipping your sword from its scabbard, you barely hesitate to catch your breath before ramming the tip of the blade underneath the stone's edge.

“Oh, I hope this sword is stronger than I am!” you worry aloud, taking a firm hold of the weapon's grip and heaving backwards with all your might, your feet slipping in the mud underneath you. Something gives and the blade sinks a little deeper, and you're struck by a renewed burst of desperate urgency. “Come on!” you gasp, shaking rainwater from your eyes and readjusting your grip before throwing yourself backwards again, and again, and again, each time levering the sword a little further underneath the stone.

You're only lucky that the heart stone had fallen at the angle it had: tipped forwards towards the ground. There's no chance you'd be able to dislodge a stone so large without a lot of help from gravity.

The relentless downpour causes your feet to nearly slide out from under you, but step by agonising step, you manage to haul yourself backwards, never once giving back an inch of what you take in the way of progress.

Overhead, the Reaper hovers just above the second heart stone.

A flash of lightening illuminates the sky behind it so that for just a second, a gigantic shadow is projected onto the Guardian's body, ominous and foreboding, a billowing cloak and skeletal wings contrasted in black against the pale, sandy stone.

Then, the spectre draws its scythe.

The curved blade gleams as it's raised over the Reaper's shoulder, and with a startling ferocity, it brings the weapon down hard, driving the pointed end deep into the stone like a knife through butter before heaving its scythe back again, wrenching the stone from its place in the Guardian's shoulder and allowing it to fall into the mud far below with a wet, unpleasant 'thwump!'

You miss it hitting the ground, because right as it does, you throw yourself at your sword's hilt with everything you've got, one, final time. There's a moment of resistance, and then suddenly, you're toppling face-first into the mud as well when the heart stone finally comes loose and thumps down just inches away from where you’d been standing.

There's no time to celebrate though.

Scrabbling up onto your feet again, you immediately have to clap both hands over your ears when the construct throws its head back and howls, the terrible cacophony of noise mingling with Corruption's wretched screeching.

The inky substance, separated from its source of power, withdraws like an octopus whose tentacles have been burned by fire. The tendrils tear themselves away from the construct’s stone body and in doing so, they leave every slab without an adhesive to keep it all together.

The resulting carnage isn't unlike witnessing a building being demolished.

First, the hammer is dropped to the ground as its fingers fall apart one after the other, followed swiftly by its entire hand and before long, both of the Guardian's arms are laying strewn about in pieces on the ground, the heavier pieces sinking into slick mud.

All that remains now, is the third and final heart stone.

High over your head, the Reaper rolls its shoulders in satisfaction and turns in the air, scanning the ground below for any sign of the human. It finds you soon enough, a speck of colour almost hidden amongst the rubble, waving your arms madly at something behind it. Cocking its head to one side, the Reaper spins about again and looks up, its eye sockets growing wide.

With two heart stones down, the Corruption's hold over its colossal host has weakened significantly. One leg tries to take a step forwards, but with nothing to keep its stones adhered to one another, the entire construct begins to collapse underneath its own weight, its legs buckling and breaking and its enormous torso teetering forwards...

… It's only once the sky above you is blocked out by falling debris that the Reaper realises why the construct's collapse is not necessarily a good thing.

You're standing directly underneath it.

It seems to register your predicament at the same time as you do, and the valley is suddenly ringing with the sound of its feral shriek.

Angling itself straight down in your direction, the Reaper raises its wings and is just about to break the sound barrier with a single flap, when all of a sudden, a dome of familiar, azure light arches over you like a cresting wave.

In the throes of alarm, it had clean forgotten that there is another in the valley who's protective instincts are just as strong as its own.

You yelp, not even noticing that there's a shimmering barrier that has appeared over your head.

Throwing yourself forwards into the mud again, you curl into a ball and shake as the Guardian's detritus slams down all around you. The din is ear-splitting, drowning out your screams.

Hours seem to pass before the noise finally dies down.

It takes you longer than you'd care to admit to realise you haven't become a stain on the valley floor.

It feels as though you need a crowbar to pry your arms from their position over your head, yet somehow, you manage without and push yourself up onto your rear, mouth dropping open once you spot the destruction all around you. Small stones and dust skitter down the side of an invisible force arching over your head, washed away by the pouring rain as you twist yourself about in a daze.

Suddenly, your eyes land on a familiar figure standing just beyond the Guardian's remains.

“E-Eideard?” you cough.

Blood trickles in a steady stream from the maker's nose and his mighty chest rises and falls with every, spasmodic breath he takes. Rolling your eyes up, you notice the crackling staff that's pointed in your direction and then the hazy wall of shimmering, blue light that stands between you and him, and at last, the pieces click together in your brain.

The old maker had just saved your life.

Only when he sees you moving does he exhale the rigidity from his spine and lower his staff, effectively dispelling the magical barrier from over your head. Deep in his chest, the maker's heart finally stops thrashing like a wild beast.

You're still alive.

He meant what he'd said in the tunnels. He won't lose you, not so long as there's still life in his old bones.

But what relief Eideard feels is abruptly superseded by dread when the rubble before him starts to shudder.

His gaze snaps up, travelling past you and zeroing in on the Guardian's head that has landed in the grass just metres away from you, and he blanches when swirling, yellow light bursts to life in its eye sockets.

A gust of rancid air nearly bowls you over and invades your nostrils, threatening to drown you under the stench of sulphur and decaying flesh.

Whirling your head around, you let out a cry and try to slide backwards through the mud when, from the Guardian's mouth, a writhing, squealing mass of tentacles spews forth, each one as black as night and all flailing wildly for just a moment before they whip out in every direction and begin to snatch up the fallen pieces of their host's body.

Every tendril, that is, except for one.

A single appendage remains poised above your head whilst you stare up at it, incapable of tearing your eyes away as it sways hypnotically from side to side, like a snake waiting to strike.

Behind you, Eideard hurries to raise his staff again.

But it's too late.

The Corrupted tendril snaps forwards, lightening flashes in the sky and renders you momentarily blind, there's a loud, metalling 'shing!'...

… And suddenly, the Reaper is just... there, hovering between you and the Guardian like a protective wall of enraged bones and prickling wings. Peering around its cloak, you can make out a severed portion of the tentacle flopping around uselessly in the grass.

For a brief instant, everything is silent.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The Guardian's disembodied jaw splits open wide and Corruption screams its outrage for all the realm to hear.

Around you, all of the stones that had once made up the construct's body start to roll across the valley towards its head, drawn by whatever hateful power still exists within the last heart stone.

“It's trying to repair itself!” you cry, feeling your chest hitch when fear cups your heart in its icy fist.

At the sound of your voice, the Reaper snaps its skull to one side, focusing a soft, white pupil on your form, huddled on the ground, shivering, afraid.

Its enormous fingers tighten around Harvester until its grip is crushing.

Eliminate the threat. Keep you safe.

The mantra surges to the forefront of its mind and it squares its shoulders, returning its attention to the Guardian's head. The air is alive with dark, oppressive magic that spills from the heart stone like a physical current, and as if by invisible strings, the head is pulled up into the air like a marionette, its neck plates slotting back into place underneath its jaw.

All too soon, it's staring hatefully down at both you and your skeletal guard and emitting a low growl as it waits for the rest of its body to arrive.

With all the viciousness it can muster, the Reaper hurtles towards the heart stone and draws its weapon back, gliding effortlessly to a halt just before the construct's skull, scythe drawn high over its shoulders where, using the momentum of its flight, it hurls the blade forwards, and rams the tip straight into the centre of the stone.

Corruption's screeches turn to wails of terror.

It's a satisfying sound to the Reaper's nonexistent ears.

With a grip like iron on its weapon, the beast braces itself and lurches away, pulling the third and final stone from its casing.

The result is instantaneous.

A howl explodes from the Guardian's gaping maw, loud enough to rival the tempest raging all around you and causing the whole valley to shudder with the force of it.

Letting out a scream, you slap your hands over your ears and grit your teeth so they stop rattling inside your skull.

After several, long, deafening moments, the lights in the construct's eyes begin to flicker weakly until finally, they're extinguished altogether, and its parted jaw thuds shut, no longer pried open by corruption. Without a source through which to power their host, the flailing tendrils slip uselessly down through the construct's mouth until they fall to the grass below and start to sink, still squirming about in the slick mud like fat, overgrown worms.

Your eyes land on one that doesn't seem to be dissolving quite as rapidly as its brethren, and with a sudden rush of horror, you realise that it's wriggling its way towards you, as if it had a sinister goal in mind, as if it had a mind at all.

You try to scrabble backwards on your rear, kicking out, but find no traction in the mud, and instead, you're helpless except to look on in horror as the vile tentacle closes the distance in seconds, until there are only a few, pitiful metres between you and it. Trembling arms wrench the sword from your side and swing it up to point at your adversary.

You almost needn't have bothered. You should have known that with the Reaper nearby, Corruption would have a hard time getting at you.

The colossal spectre drops from the sky out of nowhere and hits the ground in front of you, wings hoisted high over its skull and its scythe gripped between two, bandage-wrapped hands.

At once, the tendril draws back and gives a violent shudder. Without a host, it is dying, fast, and the monster hovering over it menacingly is far from a suitable replacement. Too dead. Too cold. It longs for the tiny speck of warmth the lays sprawled out on the grass just a few, tantalising feet away. Perhaps, if it had been faster...

A low hiss crawls out of the Reaper's hood and it raises its weapon, braced to slice the last tangle of corruption asunder. But, if there ever was a master puppeteer driving the putrid tendril towards you, they must have decided to cut the strings, so to speak, as one might sever an infected limb. The tendril stiffens and goes utterly still, poised like a cobra on the verge of striking.

Cautious, the Reaper narrows it eye sockets at the tendril. Waiting...

Then, slowly, almost anticlimactically, it starts to... melt. Thick, oozing globules fall from its body, splattering to the ground and dissolving into nothing more than dark stains on the grass, and those too, are soon washed clean by the torrential downpour.

Only once every trace of the corruption is gone and all that remains are the pieces of construct that lay scattered about the valley, does the Reaper lower its scythe.

Resonant footsteps pound through the earth below the spot where you sit, and for a gut-wrenching moment, you're certain that the Guardian has once again started to pull itself together.

A hasty glance over your shoulder soon puts that fear to rest.

Emerging from the haze of mist and rain, steps a vast figure, neither his stilted gait nor his age detracting from the staggering power with which he lumbers towards you, pale eyes wide and swirling with agitation.

You can't tell which expression suits him worse – his current one, or the look of hurt he'd worn in the tunnel.

Worry or pain... Somehow, you'd managed to put both of them on his face.

You don't think you deserve his concern.

Twisting yourself about to face the maker properly, you begin pushing yourself up onto your feet.

But just when you get your trembling legs in order, a shadow falls over you and you're suddenly bowled onto your hands and knees again, splashing mud up into your face and cutting off a panicked bleat that makes its way up your throat.

Like a hulking, hissing shield, the Reaper all but throws itself on top of you and smashes its bony fists into the ground between you and Eideard, warding the maker off, its jaw dropped open in the most vicious snarl that such a rigid skull could possibly achieve.

Some, faded voice deep inside its head tells it that the maker is familiar. But in the wake of the Guardian's threat, there's a red mist that has descended over the Reaper's eyes, clouding its ability to reason and blinding it to everything except the little human nestled underneath its ribcage.

The Old one promptly stops in his tracks.

Peeling yourself up out of the sticky mud, you try to stand again, but the spectre is bent so low to the dirt, your head bumps into its sternum before you can even get onto your knees.

Its pupils are just a millimetre away from being nonexistent as it snaps at the maker and curls its phalanges loosely around you.

Horrified, you barely even register that you've reached up and grabbed a fistful of the billowing, indigo cloak, yanking on it sharply and crying out, “Death! Stop! It's Eideard!”

The Reaper's hood buffets against you, thrown by the thunderstorm that still howls through the valley.

Slowly, the maker ahead of you raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, whilst the other remains wrapped around his staff to maintain his balance. “Easy, Horseman,” he wheezes gently, blood trickling down into his mouth and staining his tusks red, “You've done well. The Guardian is destroyed. The girl is safe.”

As though it had just blinked, the colossal spectre's pupils flicker, softly blooming to larger pinpoints of light, though a low, continuous growl still rattles the bones above you.

Eideard doesn't miss the change, and he slowly bows his head to the Reaper, reassuring, deferring. “She is safe,” he repeats.

Gradually, a low hiss slips out of the phantom's hood and you can feel its pressure lift from your back, the suffocating aura receding until you're able to sit up properly without bashing into a heaving ribcage. As soon as it retreats, you whirl yourself over onto your backside and lock eyes with the beast, your heart pumping a mile a minute.

It's only once you're facing it that the Reaper takes in the state of you.

Muddy. Shaking.

Frightened?

It roves its gaze down to the deep furrows that it had clawed into the grass just metres in front of you. Had it... done that?

Its pupils dilate, and just like that, the rest mist lifts and it can suddenly think beyond its basest instincts.

Hesitant, it backs away a little further and feels it’s control of the ghastly form slipping as its Nephilim counterpart begins to press forward with an insistence that borders on desperate.

Then, right before your eyes, the Reaper's corporeal forms starts to collapse in on itself, indigo mist spilling from its eye-sockets, nasal cavity and parted jaw, a billowing smokescreen that swiftly conceals the enormous skeleton's bulk. In no time at all, you're staring up at the familiar, bone-white mask of Death.

With that amber gaze trained on you, his shoulders quiver once before he straightens up, his eyes trailing from your head all the way down to your toes and back up again.

It occurs to you that he's checking for injuries.

He must have found nothing too untoward however, for he soon averts his gaze and glares off at a piece of the construct's shoulder. “Are you... still in one piece?” he pants gruffly.

Uttering a scoff of disbelief, you reply, “I'm fine. It's Eideard you should be checking on.” You fling one hand up and out of the mud, gesturing wildly in the maker's direction. “I mean, look at him, Death! Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him!”

To the maker's credit, he doesn't take offence to your vague comment on his condition. You are correct, after all. He probably looks about as terrible as he currently feels. But neither you nor Death need to know that...

He catches the Nephilim's gaze and holds it, patient and calm. There isn't an ounce of blame in the old maker's face.

He knows not to expect an apology, which suits Death just fine.

The Horseman doesn't plan to offer one.

Grounding out a rough sigh, Eideard closes the distance to you and stops, taking a brief moment to watch with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as you attempt to pick yourself up off the ground once more, only to slip and collapse back into the mud with a 'splat,' utterly spent.

All too readily, the maker's exasperation draws back a little and he reaches down, circling your waist with his thumb and forefinger and lifting you back onto your feet.

“You, my young friend,” he begins with a huff, gently dusting you off with the pads of his fingers, “are getting far too bold for my heart to withstand. Reckless, I might even venture to say.” His piercing glare seems to bore straight through you like a diamond drill. “Of all things, a human running towards the Guardian at full-tilt, armed with nothing but a sword and a pistol! Why, that has to be one of the most harebrained things I think I've ever witnessed.”

Your throat bobs at his scolding and you drop your eyes to the ground, shame-faced.

All of a sudden though, you find yourself flinching when the rough pad of Eideard's forefinger slips beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, coaxing you to look at him again.

Startled, you blink into the maker's gentle face, noticing that his glare has softened to something far less disdainful and there's even a smile that pushes at the wrinkled corners around his eyes. “..And I could not be more proud of you if I tried.”

The valley, the remnants of the Guardian, even Death all fall away for the briefest few seconds as the weight of Eideard's words slugs you right in the chest.

He's proud of you?...

For what?!

For shouting at him? Disobeying him? For scaring him?

He should be angry, frustrated, annoyed. He should be outraged at worst and disappointed at best. He should be anything! But not proud!

Shamefully inelegant, you sputter, “Huh!? But.. but I-”

“-You were willing to face down the Guardian to protect your friend and save my home, and you’re both still alive,” he interrupts, smiling down at you with a tender gaze, “How could I be anything but proud?”

Baffled, you find it harder and harder to meet the sincerity radiating from his face, so you cast your eyes about instead like a coward, taking in the rubble surrounding you. “I.. I'm sorry -”

'Say it.'

“-a-about the Guardian,” you utter hastily, giving yourself a vicious, mental kick as punishment. There are so many things you want to say, but you don't quite know how to yet with Death lingering behind you watchfully. And you are sorry about the Guardian. In spite of the destruction it had wreaked across Tri Stone, it was undeniably a magnificent beast. But there are certain apologies that are meant for the maker's ears alone. You want to ask him about what he'd said in the tunnel, but more than that, you want to say you're sorry for what you'd done to provoke his admission in the first place, and then...

God, you just don't know. How could you possibly begin to tell the giant that his words had inadvertently wrapped your heart up in warmth and safety and made you feel wanted again, even after you'd been so cantankerous with him?

Right then and there, standing in the rain before the remnants of his greatest creation, you make a silent promise to the maker that you will tell him, just as soon as this whole ordeal is over and you're all safely back in Tri Stone.

Forcing yourself to meet Eideard's gaze, you stiffen your upper lip and try your best to convey the intent of that promise in just a look, hoping that he'll glean an understanding from two, simple words uttered by a sheepish human. “I'm sorry,” you whisper again.

Perhaps it's only your imagination, but you almost think you see Eideard's gentle smile widen as he offers you an understanding nod. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Somehow, he gives you the impression that he's referring to more than just the Guardian.

Awkwardly, you start to fidget with your hands and twist yourself about to look back at the skull of the construct behind you. “So... what happens now?” The whole point of awakening the Guardian had been to let it destroy the Corrupted mass that guards the path to the Tree of Life. “Without the Guardian, how will Death get to that tree?”

Eideard is silent for several seconds, but his expression could not be broadcasting his intentions any louder. His pale eyes meet the Horseman's fiery gaze and he sighs tiredly, a sad smile forming underneath his moustache.

In your peripheral vision, you see Death stiffen.

“What?” you ask, turning your head between them, unable to catch either of their attention, “What is it?”

Wordlessly, the maker steps past you, moving closer to the Guardian's head where he stops just in front of it and raises a withered hand, placing his palm fondly against the construct's intact jaw. Then, turning slightly to peer at you over one shoulder, he answers, and his words send a jolt of panic up through your spine.

“I have no choice but to bring him back...”

A beat passes in silence.

Then, the soundlessness is broken as you blurt out, “What!?” whilst at the same time, Death scoffs, “How many times would you have me kill him?”

“Corruption fled from the heart stones,” the old one explains, peering down at his wrinkled hand and closing it into a fist, “But the makers' souls within should still be intact... I can put them back.”

“I-I don't understand, the Guardian's destroyed,” you pipe up as your hands knead firmly into the hem of your shirt, “How can you put them back if there's nowhere for them to... go...?”

Eideard turns a little to face you and tries to give you his most reassuring smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes.

You can see right through it.

It looks...

..sad.

At your side, Death's brows knit together beneath his mask and he scowls accusingly up at the maker. “You intend to rebuild it yourself.”

Silent, the Old one turns away, prompting the Horseman to growl, “You understand that's suicide, don't you?”

Deep in your stomach, a pit of dread opens up into a chasm and you feel your heart plummet straight down inside it. “What!?” you cry again.

“The restoration of a beast that size will consume more magic than he has,” Death explains, never once shifting his glare off the Old one, “Maker magic is inextricably bound to their hearts. The amount of power required will quite literally burn straight through his.”

Thinking hard, you clench your hands into such tight fists, the nails pierce the skin of your palms. “Well then. He... He just won't do it. Will you, Eideard?”

The maker still maintains his lonely silence, whilst overhead, the sky rumbles ominously.

“No.” You shake your head defiantly from side to side. “No! I mean, there's another way, right? We could... we could go and get the other makers? They can help-”

“-When we built the Guardian,” Eideard interrupts, “construction was slow. Even with all our efforts, the process took nearly a year until it reached completion.”

“So we wait a year!” you blurt out. The idea sits wrongly in your gut, yet if it means Eideard doesn't have to do anything rash, you can be patient. Rationality has long since departed from your head.

Sighing, the maker heaves himself around to face you and Death. “We do not have the luxury of time, little one,” he rumbles with a patience that serves to infuriate rather than reassure you, “Every day, we lose more of our home to Corruption. I will not wait for it to claim another of my people. I-” He stops to take a shuddering breath and his knees begin to buckle, yet his grip on the staff remains strong, keeping him standing upright in spite of his old bones. When he looks to you again, his face is set but calm. Accepting.

It's that acceptance that frightens you the most.

“I cannot,” he utters softly.

Then, to your horror, he turns back to the Guardian's head and raises his voice to be heard over the storm. “Both of you, stay back!” To himself, he adds, “This will require more than a small effort.”

“Eideard!” you cry out, starting forwards.

Inevitably though, Death's long fingers curl into the back of your shirt and he roughly spins you away from the maker and into his torso, grasping one of your forearms with his free hand. Blunted fingernails dig into your skin as you try to wrench yourself unsuccessfully from his grip.

“Let. Me. Go!” Desperate, you beat your fists against his pale, broad chest and strain with all your might to reach Eideard, but you may as well be trying to shift an osmium statue. Not even redoubling your efforts causes Death to sway. Like a boulder in the wind, he remains utterly still and steadfast, looking over your head at the old maker.

Eideard's staff is raised high into the air and held between both hands, striking the very posture that bears an eerie resemblance to a headsman, poised to bring his axe down on the neck of his latest victim.

What cruel irony, the Horseman thinks with a bitter sneer to the Universe, that the victim is to be his own executioner.

With a strength that contradicts his gentler nature, Eideard hammers the pommel of his staff down on the ground, producing a tremor that must have rivalled even the Guardian's earth-shattering footsteps. From the point of contact, old magics explode outwards in a whirlwind of blinding, blue light that forces you to slam your eyes firmly shut, your retinas stinging against the onslaught. The air whips up all around the valley and crashes into you with enough force to send you staggering backwards until your skull connects with Death's broad chest. Wincing behind gritted teeth, you pry your eyes open, your free arm thrown up as a shield to help dull the brilliant intensity of Eideard's power and through squinted eyelids, you see the maker hold unsteady ground against his own magics as they erupt relentlessly from the ground to form a perfect circle of roaring, azure flames all around him.

You're suddenly alerted by movement to your right and you throw your head sideways, struggling to see through the coagulation of icy rain and biting wind that endeavour to force your eyes shut again. You probably shouldn't have worried about trying to see– there's no way in Hell you could missed the house-sized boulder that rolls past just metres from where you stand, making a clumsy bee-line for the Guardian's skull.

The grip on your shoulders suddenly tightens when an immense shadow cloaks both you and Death in an eerie darkness. Craning your neck back tentatively, you can't help but duck further underneath the shelter of Death's chest as the Guardian's detached hand sails over your head, raining dust and slops of mud down on top of you and the Horseman. Mouth agape, you watch on in awed horror as the gargantuan piece continues its journey through the air until it joins several other clusters of stone anatomy, all twisting about and slamming together like pieces of the realm's largest and most terrifying jigsaw puzzle.

And below it all, his head bowed against the storm, tusks bared and legs seconds away from giving out, stands Eideard.

With every part of the Guardian that fits back into place, his hands slip further down the staff, his shoulders drop another inch and every ounce of the powerful maker seems to disappear, replaced with someone desperately fighting to keep himself upright.

“Death! Help him!”you cry, whipping around to face the Horseman and meeting his glare at the same moment as a lightening bolt stabs a line across his blazing retinas,“You have to do something! Please!”

He glances down, peering at the tears that mingle perfectly with the rain streaming down your face.

You look downright terrified.

Ignoring the thunderous growl overhead, Death's brows start to draw together, his gaze staying firmly anchored to yours until he pauses, and then lowers his eyes to the ground at your feet.

It's a silent, solemn and damning admission.

There's nothing he can do.

Death's quiet confession hits you harder than a slap to the face. In fact, you almost wish he'd done the latter, it might have stung less.

“No...” You shake your head in disbelief. If not even Death can do anything, then...

With one wrist still clenched in the Horseman's hand, you can do little more than give it a sharp tug and hurl yourself away from him, stretching out your free arm towards the maker and pulling against Death's hold with all your might. “Eideard, NO!”

You don't expect him to react to you, weak as he is, blood clinging to his eyelashes and staining his teeth crimson. But he does. Somehow, he manages to turn his head over a shoulder to look you right in the eye, the corners of his own crinkling around their edges, and it takes you a moment to realise that he's smiling at you.

It's that gentle smile of his that shows more through the eyes than the mouth, reassuring and comforting - the kind of smile that tries to convey without words that everything will be okay.

That you'll be okay.

But the old maker is wrong.

“STOP!” you beg through sobs, growing only more desperate when his eyes slip shut and he turns away, “NO-NO-NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!”

Still fiercely contesting his fate, you yell his name over the deafening collisions of stone limbs and ligaments fitting together, but your scream is stolen from you, cut short by a large, bandaged hand that suddenly appears in front of you and slides around the top of your face, so large that it covers both your eyes and nose. Startled, you shout in protest and try to push at the Horseman's wrist, only to find yourself spun about and yanked painfully into him, locked against his chest by two, sinewy arms.

The split halves of the last heart stone reach the apex of their height, hovering before their original home in the Guardian's skull. Eideard's pinched eyes burst open wide, wisps of blue magic swirling out of them like dancing smoke and he draws in a breath, focusing every last inch of willpower into the heart stone floating high above him.

The pieces shimmer with that familiar blue light, standing stark against the blackened sky.

With not a second to spare, Death curls himself over you and ducks his mask into your hair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The valley around you goes eerily quiet for little more than a beat of your clamouring heart.

Then, all of a sudden...

'W H U M PH!'

Even from behind Death's hand, the light that explodes from Eideard's staff is damn near blinding, searing across the vale as if the suns had just tumbled out of the sky. You feel the Horseman brace himself just milliseconds before a wall of air slams into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and sends both of you sliding several steps backwards through the mud. Were it not for Death's preternatural weight, you fear you might actually get blown right off your feet.

Then, as promptly as the squall had arrived, it just...

...stops.

The wind suddenly dies down to a far less suffocating strength and the rain no longer stings when it hits your skin.

Cautiously, Death cracks his eyes open and raises his head to look around, letting the hand around your face fall to his side once more. As soon as the Horseman's formidable presence no longer boxes you in, you fling your eyes open and this time, he allows you to pull yourself free from his grasp and turn towards Eideard.

Your searching gaze immediately lands upon the maker and your heart stills as though it were just a rock in your chest.

The colossal, old giant has collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving up and down like a vast ship bobbing lazily on a choppy sea.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wading over churned-up ground towards him.

It doesn't even occur to you to notice that the rain has let up somewhat as the storm that carried it here begins moving north.

Sticky mud clings to your boots and weighs you down, making each step feel as though it might be the one that saps the last of your strength and brings you to your knees, yet you keep going at an awkward and clumsy run, followed closely by Death, who seems to glide effortlessly over the destroyed terrain.

You all but collide with the maker's head when your foot slips out from underneath you and you're forced to catch yourself on his shoulder, all the while uttering, “No, no, please! No – fuck!”

Your rain-slicked hands hover over his face and you try to take in the extent of the damage, your eyes darting between the blood gushing from his nose and the milky white gaze that rolls towards you. Standing so close, you can make out the even paler pupils as they attempt to focus, eventually landing on you and dilating with recognition.

“Y/n...” Your name topples off his lips in a breathless whisper and if you weren't right beside him, you doubt you'd have even heard it.

“I'm here!” you tell him urgently, placing one hand on his cheek and sliding the other frantically underneath his heavy beard to the flesh of his neck in search of a pulse. You suddenly wish you'd asked Karn a bit about maker biology, because you have no idea whether you'll even find a pulse. You know they have hearts – you've heard those beat close enough to your head to be sure – so it stands to reason that the giants should have pulses.

….There!

It turns out to be rather difficult to miss. As you probe around underneath his jawline, your fingertips and rocked by a fluttering beat and you feel your own heart jump in response.

It's definitely a pulse, but oh so terrifyingly weak. Not at all one that should belong to a giant.

He's fading.

Fast.

The knowledge settles like a weight in your chest, as though someone has tied a cement block around your heart and it's dragging you down, threatening to pull you onto your knees unless you keep them locked tight.

“No!” you whisper. Then, clenching your jaw, you firmly repeat, “No.”

Eideard's misty eyes follow you as you pull away from his face and turn towards his shoulder instead, wasting no time in throwing your hands over the lip of the leather pauldron and hauling yourself up onto his shoulder.

Amidst the chaos, none of you notice that high overhead, the newly-rebuilt Guardian's eyes slowly flicker to life.

Behind you, Death gives a start and calls your name, but you ignore him, crawling onto Eideard's vast chest and bloodying his beard with your hands as you lean forwards over his face, your right knee resting directly above a fluttering heart.

Raindrops fall from the ends of your hair and splatter onto his lip, and every breath he exhales washes over you and warms the chill in your bones.

“You-you're gonna be okay!” you reaffirm, shuffling back and placing one hand on top of the other, linking your fingers together to press the heel of your palm over the giant's sternum. You've never performed CPR in your life, at least, not on anything that wasn't a crash-test dummy, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the method is never going to work on someone as large as a maker.

Death knows it too.

He knows that one human simply isn't strong enough to keep the blood flowing around Eideard's body, you'll never be able to do it fast enough or for long enough to get blood to his brain and keep it there....

But Creator, you plan on trying, don't you? Because in your addled state, you can't help but to fall back on what you know, even though you also know that this can't possibly work.

It's an awful contradiction, another facet of humanity, to try and change the unchangeable, to challenge an immutable fact. 'What's the point?' he wonders, 'of prolonging a lie, just because you're afraid to accept the truth?'

Eideard will die. No amount of human persistence will change that.

The old Reaper watches in silence, a mellow resignation haunting his gaze. Several raindrops gather at the bottom of his masks's eye socket before they eventually spill over the edge and trickle down his bone-white mask.

If you'd have chosen that moment to look at him, you might have done a double-take, thinking perhaps that it wasn't rain falling down the Horseman's mask at all.

But you don't look at him.

Your eyes are instead fixated on your own hands as they shove uselessly at Eideard's chest. “One! Two! Three!” Numbers fall from your lips in rhythmic succession. “One! Two! Thr-!”

But movement suddenly cuts you off as Eideard's enormous hand slides weakly up his side until his fingertips press into your ribcage ever-so gently.

Blinded by tears, your gaze snaps to the hand, then to the maker's face and you squeeze your eyes open and shut several times, determined to see him clearly.

“It's all right,” he whispers in a gentle breath, as though it's taking everything in him just to summon his voice.

Gritting your teeth, you untangle your fingers from one another and slip them tightly around handfuls of the maker's robes, croaking, “No! No, it's not all right! You're-! You can't just-!”

You freeze when Eideard's arm shifts again and he raises his thumb towards your blotchy cheek.

There, with the utmost tenderness, he sweeps the digit beneath your streaming eye, a fruitless endeavour to brush away the tears rolling down your face. Blurting out a wet sob, you suddenly reach up with both arms and grab the maker's thumb, holding it against you even as the rest of his hand falls heavily against your back.

Makers, as a species, are seldom known to shed a tear, and those that do are careful to conceal it from their fellows, if only to avoid the inevitable gossip that would follow. If a maker is known to have cried, the general understanding would be that something utterly and immeasurably cataclysmic must have happened to them, and that's if their tears are ever witnessed.

Now, here you are, not only crying, but doing so openly, in front of an audience.

“You're crying...?” he breathes, awed. It breaks his ancient heart to realise that he's your cataclysmic event. Yet there's also something so, incredibly moving about it, that he means enough to you that you're willing to bare your heart so readily in front of both he and a Horseman.

Amidst frigid pellets of rain, he can still pick out the warmth of your tears against his clavicle.

He wonders if this is how humans let each other know that they're loved.

You cling to his thumb even harder, as if letting it go will be what kills him. “Of course I'm crying,” you choke, “look at you. Why did you do that! You're dying!”

But Eideard can't look at himself. And even if he could, he wouldn't, because you're here, so why in the world would he want to look anywhere else?

A blissful smile blooms across the maker's lips and he exhales, emptying his lungs of air even as his heart swells with affection and pride for the little human on his chest. From the edges of his vision, the valley around him begins to fade into brilliant, golden light, but he still gazes at you while it does, and in a single breath, he manages to utter, “A small price to pay... to protect my... family.”

For you, the valley remains dark and dour, a perfect reflection for the state of your sorry soul.

Something brushes past you... No... through you... something that you mistake for another of Eideard's warm and steady breaths.

Using the back of your arm, you make a vain attempt to scrub the frustrated tears out of your eyes. How can he even think that he's worth sacrificing? A very raw sort of ache claws at your throat and it only hurts more when you try to swallow past it. Sniffing hard, you shake your head, hands curling until your fingernails bite into the skin of your palms.

“Your life is not a small price to pay! You think the other makers would want this!? You can't just – just do something like this, Eideard! You sure as shit can't do this to them!” you plead with him, hitting a fist repeatedly against his chest, as if for a second you truly believe that such an ineffective force could somehow bully his stuttering heartbeat back to its former strength, “They're your family! You don't leave your family, Eideard! You don't offer them a home an-and then just.. just leave!”

The maker doesn't respond, and the rain on your eyelashes makes it hard to see his face as the thumb you're still clinging to begins falling from your grasp with the rest of his hand, sliding off your back and trying to fall to his side once more.

Realising that holding on will only drag you down with it, you reluctantly let it go and the appendage lands on the ground again with a dull, wet squelch.

He must be weaker than you realised.

“Everything will be fine, okay? You saved my life, now I'm gonna save yours! They need you, they need you.” Babbling deliriously to the maker, you're completely unaware of the Horseman calling out your name behind you.

Slowly, as though he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Death approaches Eideard, stopping next to the Old one's neck and reaching up towards you. “Come now, you're soaked through,” he murmurs, gentler than the usual gruff and surly timbre, “Let's -”

“Get away!” you bellow, reeling your arm back and whipping about to face him with a sudden ferocity that raises the Horseman's eyebrows, “He's just gonna leave them! It's not fair, Death! It's not fair, he can't leave me, not like everyone else has! He can't!”

“He already has.”

Death's detached reply cuts cold and swift as a blade across your chest.

“Wh..? No, he hasn't.” You shake your head, your voice so, unjustly small, barely audible.

The Horseman falls silent.

He doesn't need to say anything further. He can see the realisation sweeping across your face, wiping away any semblance of a human expression and replacing it with a blank-faced stare, as expressionless as his own mask. He knows that look all too well. You're trying to go numb. Perhaps in preparation for what you'll see as you slowly twist your neck back towards the old maker's face.

Eideard's gentle, white eyes peer straight through you, unblinking even though the wind tugs at his wispy eyelashes. His lips are parted and tilted at their corners ever so slightly, just enough that he could be smiling at you, and yet, though you wait in utter silence and stillness, not a trace of warmth slips between his tusks to chase away the cold on your skin.

Wordlessly, Death watches you inhale and let the breath out again slowly, never once looking away from Eideard's face.

Only when the silence grows heavier than stone, you utter, “Oh,” nodding once, pretending to acknowledge what you can't bring yourself to believe, “Oh, I... I didn't realise -”

From the ground, Death has a perfect view of your face when your jaw sets..

And then, sooner than he expects, he sees it utterly and completely crumble.

Your lips and brows twist up and you suck down a shaky breath that only catches in your throat.

“I think I forgot to say goodbye...,” you bleat, lifting your arms in a useless shrug before you look over at the Horseman and offer him a tragically delirious little laugh. Stoic, he watches you in silence as your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the rattled sob that works its way up your throat.

Behind trembling fingers, you wheeze, “Oh my god.. I didn't – I didn't even say.. I didn't say goodbye, Death! I didn't even say goodbye!”

… Just like you hadn't said goodbye to your mum and dad, or the rest of your family, nor to your friends.

You've never really thought about how important that one, simple word could be, as less of a statement, and more of a means to gain closure.

Looking back... had you even bade farewell to Father Michael?

It's happening all over again, but what's worse now is that you'd actually had the time and a chance to say goodbye to Eideard, but you just... hadn't. And now, some of the last words you said to him had been impatient and unkind, a fact which you know in your heart of hearts will haunt you for the rest of your sorry life.

Sitting back onto your haunches, you fight to keep your face neutral, but the seconds that tick by are interspersed with moments where you allow ugly, angry sounds to burst between your gritted teeth. Not quite sobs, not quite screams.

You're unaware that you've dropped your hands into your lap, fingers tightening around fistfuls of skirt as you're promptly struck by an urge to squeeze something so tightly that your arms begin to shake with the effort.

It feels...

...relieving, actually, to expend some of the pressure building behind your eyes and in your chest.

High overhead, through the clouds, a ray of sunlight bursts through and makes the valley glow marginally brighter. Somehow, that one ray of light feels so much like a betrayal. 'Where has the storm gone?' you wonder bleakly, 'It should still be raging? Eideard is dead! Why the fuck is the rain moving on!? The sky should be mourning!'

What you really want is for it all to stop, for the world and everything in it to just pause for a while, long enough for you to get yourself together and come to terms with grief until you're eventually ready to move forwards once more.

But sadly, the world is rarely so generous.

On the ground beside Eideard, Death kneels and leans over his head. Something comes over him, pushing him to lift his hand towards the maker's eyelids in the same way that he's seen humans do to one another in the past, on battlefields and in the wilderness when their clothes were crafted predominantly from the pelts of animals. He always thought it a strange thing to do, but now, he finds something inherently unsettling about seeing Eideard with his eyes open, staring up into nothingness. In a rare moment of indulgence, Death takes the time to pass his palm over each of the maker's eyes, sliding them shut before pulling away once more and heaving a sigh.

'You're getting soft,' someone tells him, perhaps the voice of one of his siblings, perhaps his own subconscious. But whether it's his or not, he's swift to vehemently tell it that it's wrong.

All of a sudden, a deafening cacophony of stone grinding against stone ruptures the air and Death is on his feet again in seconds, instinctively drawing his scythes and whipping about to face the gargantuan construct with a low growl.

He'll never admit to losing focus, not for all the riches in Heaven, but he can certainly reprimand himself with an internal barrage of curses that would make a demon blush. Amidst the shock of losing Eideard and witnessing the distress of his human charge, Death had entirely forgotten that the Guardian was even there.

Hidden beneath his mask, he peels his lips back and his hackles shoot up when it turns its baby-blue gaze onto you.

'Wait...' Pausing, he blinks and looks again. 'Blue!'

It's eye-sockets are indeed filled with a blessedly familiar, cerulean blue light, just like the light shining out of the three heart stones embedded within its shoulders and head. There's not a trace of yellow to be seen.

It's bending down slowly and – to Death's surprise – hesitantly, a far cry from how it was conducting itself only minutes ago. Tilting its head like a curious child, the beast continues to lower itself until one of its colossal knees hits the ground and sends a quake rumbling across the valley.

“Y/n,” he hisses at you through his teeth, flaring his scythes like terrible wings to his left and right. He isn't taking any chances. “Come down and get behind me. Now.”

You barely even raise your head to acknowledge his command.

The valley around you falls silent, and it's peaceful, in a way. Now that the storm has moved on, there's no sound save for the Guardian's stone joints that creak and groan as it bends its torso a little nearer to you and lets out a rumble that sends even more shockwaves out across the vale, felt more than heard. For a beast so vast, it exhibits a surprising degree of hesitancy as it shifts its arm and reaches out for you and Eideard, causing Death to plant one boot firmly in the mud, braced to launch himself towards you at a moment's notice.

He's not about to leave the makers with two corpses to mourn.

On some, unbidden instinct, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense and bulge before he registers with a jolt how absurd it is to try and appear larger to this particular threat, especially given that, as of right now, it hardly seems to pose much of a threat at all.

As the Guardian's hand draws closer and its shadow passes over Eideard's face, you finally lift your heavy head and roll your neck back to watch the gigantic appendage descend, not unlike witnessing a meteorite come barreling down on top of you.

And yet, for a reason that you're sure Eideard would gently admonish you for, you don't flinch, you don't even move. Wholly unafraid of whatever fate might befall you, you just sit there on the maker's chest, waiting until the appendage slows down and comes to rest just beside you and your old friend.

Even if you live to be a hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to explain where your terror of the beast had fled to, especially when it had been so prevalent before. Its hand, longer than a boxcar, hovers so close. A few hours ago, you'd probably have fainted on the spot. Now, you almost want to peer curiously inside your own soul to see if you can discover the whereabouts of any trepidation.

Using the very tip of one, enormous finger, the construct nudges the maker's shoulder, jostling you both slightly before it pulls its hand back and waits, staring down at its unresponsive creator with bright, expectant eyes.

You register a tug at your heart strings to see those eyes dim as the seconds tick by without a response.

There's a sound that could have been a whine, or perhaps the simple passing of air through the gaps in its gargantuan jaw, and though its head doesn't move, you can feel the moment when its eyes rove from the elder to you, no doubt seeking some kind of explanation.

“I'm sorry,” you choke, throat too tight to produce a more substantial sound, “He's... He didn't make it.”

There's no doubt that it must understand you, because the slabs that make up its eyebrows shift and slide towards the centre of its forehead and it glances at the hammer clenched in its grasp. An agitated groan rolls across the valley and suddenly, the construct's gaze darts to you once more, its features squeezed together somehow, so much so that it looks to be in pain. Something about the expression drags a tiny flicker of compassion out of your obtunding heart and you feebly reach your hand out in a mollifying gesture. When the behemoth looks from you to its hammer again, then to Eideard and back only to repeat the strange cycle, you start to realise that it's trying to convey an urgent and desperate question.

“It's... okay...” you say slowly, watching the construct grow very still and focus its attention on you, “You didn't do this...”

It would be so easy to lay the blame of Eideard's death at the Guardian's feet.

Easy, yes. But you're still somehow lucid enough to know that it would also be wrong and unfair.

The poor beast never asked to be corrupted, just like you'd never asked to be here.

“It wasn't your fault,” you tell the Guardian as it slowly rocks back onto its stone struts, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the writhing, black hillock behind it. At the sight, one of your eyelids gives a brief and imperceptible twitch. “It wasn't your fault...”

Death, playing his part as the silent observer, stands astounded by one of the most unusual exchanges he's ever witnessed.

Angelic scholars would forever attest that humans are, and always have been, ruled by one, core instinct - that being fear.

Death would have been labelled an outlier had he ever bothered to say that he disagreed.

He would have attested that there are two.

Fear, most definitely, is the first. It's a strong instinct, one that has kept your ancestors alive and safe from danger for billions of years. The other, in his opinion, is compassion.

Fear might do well to keep an individual human alive, but it was compassion for their fellow man that ensured the continued survival of communities.

However, even if, several days ago, someone had asked the Horseman which of the two he believed would always, always trounce the other in a life or death situation, he'd have bet his scythes that it would be fear.

So it's tremendously baffling, if not a little refreshing, for Death to discover that fear can be quite easily overridden by something so unorthodox as concern for another.

To think that you, a little human, are offering genuine reassurance to a Guardian who could crush you flat with the tip of its finger, Death can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. Even in spite of all you've faced these past few days, the beast should have been the ultimate symbol for everything that scares and horrifies you. Your fear of the monstrosity should have absolutely crippled you. It posed, by far, the largest threat.

That you're instead communing with the very construct that had been trying to kill both you and the Horseman only minutes ago is... frankly, nothing short of astounding.

In spite of himself, Death lets his expression turn a little less sharp underneath his mask.

He wonders whether humanity would be proud to have someone like you representing them as a whole. Were he a human, shuddersome as the thought may be, he thinks... he would be proud.

Which makes it all the more jarring when, seconds later, you remind the Horseman that for all the soft-heartedness you've demonstrated, you're still descended from the same species who used to tear one another to pieces for sport, for fun, for a concept or a king.

Your gaze slides around the Guardian's bulk and your eyes lock with a sudden fierce and startling intensity onto the corrupted mound behind it. Death had forgotten, after several days spent watching you stitch your heart firmly to your sleeve, why other species are so quick to label humans 'savage.'

As you stare up at the corruption, the Nephilim looks hard into your eyes and sees all the rage and hatred and depravity of your ancestors boiling like a supernova inside them, as though each eye is a star on the very brink of exploding and casting all that dark matter out into the world around you, wiping out everything in its path.

Thousands of years and billions of souls' worth of wrath packed into one, single look.

What choice does Death have but to balk?

Distantly, he hears himself muse, 'By The Creator... War and Fury are going to love this human.'

Drawing in a shuddering breath, you peel yourself away from Eideard's chest and push yourself off him, dropping to the ground noiselessly and taking a step towards the corruption with the most hateful sneer you can muster. “It's that fucking stuff's fault!” you hiss, pointing a shaky finger at the eyeball glaring back down at you. Raising your voice to be heard, you squint up towards the Guardian's head and shout, “You hear me!? That's what killed Eideard! That! The corruption! Right there!”

You feel as if you're egging on a dog, trying to get it to attack, to bite.

The Guardian half turns to look behind itself before swivelling back to you once more, something low and sonorous rolling up from its chest and falling out of its parted maw.

There's a searing heat in your belly that hurts like you've swallowed burning coals, compelling you to turn your murderous glare back onto the eyeball. You meet that terrible gaze and find yourself unafraid for the first time, because how could there be any room for fear when absolutely every single last inch of you is consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge?

You don't care that the Grim Reaper is watching, you don't care that the construct's swirling, blue gaze is fixed upon you either. There is nothing consolable about you now. All you are - all you know – is frustration and pain and rage. Rage that you wield like a sword, pointed out towards the world around you, but most specifically, at the writhing mass of corruption that still blocks your path to the Tree.

You hardly recognise your own voice as you drop open your jaw and unleash a shout so loud and haunting, even Death is caught off guard by the force.

“KILL IT!”

At once, the Guardian throws its arms back, raises its chin to the heavens and, just as you had, bellows out a gut-churning, earth-trembling roar that shakes the very mountains around you, only this time, you don't feel as though you're going to tumble off your feet. In fact, you've never felt steadier.

“KILL THAT THING! FUCK IT UP!” you holler, spittle flying from your lips. Although your voice breaks and hurts to scream so loudly, you hurl your fist out at the corruption like you're throwing a punch, “FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!”

Fuelled by anguish that's barely its own, the Guardian slams its hammer into its free hand and hauls itself around to face the mass behind it. Your furious screams might as well be a powerful set of bellows that feed all that hatred and fury into the Guardian's soul, turning the fire there into a raging inferno, swelling and surging through its body like lava trying to burst from a volcano.

There's the immeasurable power of three, ancient makers' souls thrumming through the air, accompanied by the raw, physical strength of the Guardian, and Death is almost certain that he sees the swollen, yellow eyeball grow wide, its pupil shrinking with alarm.

How satisfying.

The Guardian reels its arm back and you feel your heart give an approving jolt when the enormous beast suddenly launches its hammer forward and down, driving it straight into the eye's squelching centre and pulling forth the most blood-curdling shriek you've ever heard. It's near enough deafening, but you don't cover your ears this time, instead letting the sound fill you up and thrum through the blood in your veins.

You're glad the corruption is screaming. You've never wanted something to suffer so much in your life.

The Guardian draws its hammer back again and reveals the eyeball, now resembling little more than a concave pustule on the inky wall of undulating, oozing filth.

Blackened spatters of ooze spurt from the wound like a disgusting rain and shower the grass around the cliffs, and a closer look reveals the tendrils that had made up the eyelids have been decimated and lay still and unresponsive, unlike the rest of the mass, sadly.

When the Guardian tries to bring its hammer down for another blow, several, gigantic tentacles suddenly shoot out and adhere themselves firmly around its arms whilst a fatter, larger one collides with the construct's chest, blasting out a large segment of stone as its smaller counterparts shove their slimy, wriggling tips as deep underneath the armoured plating as they can go.

Incensed, the construct tries to reel back, tugging uselessly on the insidious vines and belting out a roar of outrage that drowns out your own.

Blinded by hot tears and inconsolable with rage, you start forwards until Death has the presence of mind to march after you and pull you to a stop, his fingernails biting into the bare skin on your arm as you viciously snatch it back. However, you still reluctantly draw to a halt, never once taking your eyes off the battle ahead.

Beneath your feet, another quake rolls across the earth as the Guardian is brought crashing to its knees. Corruption, like the parasite it is, has its slimy grasp wholly and unshakeably fastened to the construct, stabbing its knife-like tentacles into the vulnerable heart stones and pouring its wicked intent into each of them.

For a gut-wrenching instance, something inside Death sinks at the sight of a sickly, yellow glow encompassing the stones, chasing away the soft blue light they'd once emitted.

Corruption is attempting to take control again.

But the Guardian, still hanging onto the final, lingering threads that tie it to sanity, will not go down without a fight.

Summoning the last of its vehemence and contempt for the force that destroyed its home and its creator, the construct braces its neck and pulls back as far as the tendrils will allow it to before they go taut and keep it from retreating further. Amidst the chaos of Corruption's thrashing appendages, the Guardian unexpectedly goes very still and there's an awful second where horror stabs through the red mist in front of your eyes.

No.. No, it can't be corrupted again, surely! That isn't fair! Eideard can't have died in vain! He can't have!

Just like that, your hatred returns in full and with a heaving chest, you scrunch up your face and open your jaw wide.

But just before you can unleash whatever terrible scream is working its way up your throat, the Guardian abruptly raises its head.

From your angle, all you and Death can see is a brilliant, blue light blossoming into existence from the construct's central heart stone, causing your own heart to roar triumphantly at the sight of it. It's magic. But more than that, it's that wonderful, familiar magic that you'll forever associate with Eideard.

The fact may well be that all makers' magic is the same shade, but you don't care.

He'd rebuilt the Guardian with his very essence, literally pouring his own life-force into purifying those heart stones.

There isn't a doubt in your mind.

That's Eideard up there.

Like a flower unfurling its petals, the light swells into a halo of magic that surrounds the Guardian's head and although its hands are still restrained by Corruption, the beast is far from unarmed.

In one, last show of might, it reels back, the plates around its neck shivering and flaring as it glares down at what remains of the corrupted eyeball. Then suddenly, like a colossal, living siege engine, it throws its head forwards into a death-dealing headbutt, smashing its heart stone into the corruption's shrieking core.

Within less than a second, the squirming mass begins to sizzle and hiss like skin under sulfuric acid as the magic encompasses it. The Guardian howls, and you realise that the corrupted tendrils are still tearing it to pieces, even as they dissolve right in front of your eyes until entire waves of it are cascading down to the valley floor alongside great swathes of the construct's stone. The cliffs to the North begin crumbling as well, losing structure as the webs of corruption woven deep inside their foundations melt and die.

The explosion of magic grows bright enough to encompass the entire valley and though the intensity stings your eyes, it doesn't otherwise hurt you. Instead, it lifts the tiny hairs all over your body, dancing and popping across your skin. And it's so warm.

Warm like Eideard...

As the last remaining strands of Corruption bleed away, you let that tight coil in your belly unwind, collapsing onto your knees as if it had been anger alone that had kept you standing all this time.

In the same moment, the Guardian too falls apart for the last time. Like its creator before it, it had used up all the magic residing in its heart stones, pouring everything it had into one, last spell to save its home.

The magic spend, its body collapses in on itself and implodes like a star, leaving its scattered remains in front of the entrance to a once-obstructed canyon pass. Through the settling dust, you can make out a passage devoid of lushness or frondescence. Only flimsy wisps of grass grow further back, away from the acres of ground that corruption had poisoned.

Your gaze drops to the grass soaking your knees, catching a glimpse of red where your fingers rest against the material of your skirt and you let out a quiet hiss of breath, deflating into something small and tired and very fragile.

“Human?” Death's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he speaks too loudly.

Funny. He might be onto something.

You don't answer, not until his shadow falls over you and he tries your name instead. “Y/n?”

This time, you offer up a grunt in response, hardly more than a huff, really. You're spent.

You're done.

For the living embodiment of death, the Horseman behind you isn't sure how best to get you up onto your feet again. He knows grief well, encounters it in almost every aspect of his journeys. It's more of a companion to him than he ever wanted it to be. But for all his experience with grief and the grieving, he still doesn't know how to ease it with words.

'I'm sorry,' he could say. You seem to say it all the time, how difficult can it be?

Apparently very difficult, he finds upon opening his mouth, only to let it click shut again moments later. But then, why should he be sorry? He's not the one who killed Eideard. The old maker made that decision for himself. Death has nothing to be sorry for, so why say it?

He can practically hear your disapproving reply. 'That's not the point.'

Despite usually being such a fan of silence, for Death, every second that ticks by without a word from you feels empty and wrong, somehow. He chooses not to dwell on how quickly he's becoming used to the sound of your voice. Redirecting his thoughts away from that treacherous area, he stubbornly ponders over how much he despises not knowing what to say. Words, as well as weapons, have pride of place in his arsenal.

So he takes a step back, refocuses on what's ahead. And ahead, he knows, is the Tree of Life, and his brother.

Forwards then, to what he knows.

Looking down at you once more, the Horseman clears his throat. Maybe he can't offer you words of comfort, but he can offer you a distraction. “The way is clear,” he promptly observes, tipping his chin towards the canyon but keeping an eye trained on you, watching for a reaction. After a few seconds, he finally gets one.

“Is that all you have to say?” you wheeze through half-gritted teeth, “The way is clear? What about Eideard?”

Raising a brow, Death twists around to look back at the deceased old one and lets out a sigh. It is always a shame to lose the ancients. All that knowledge and experience lost. “What about him? He's dead.” He hadn't meant it callously, merely as a sad reminder of events. There's nothing either of you need to do. The makers will deal with Eideard's body once they find it.

When you suddenly lurch up onto your feet and round on Death, spitting like a cat, he realises he may have interpreted your question a little differently.

“I know he's dead!” you seethe, swiping away the snot that has gathered above your upper lip, “You're happy to just leave him there? Alone? Dead in the dirt?”`

Death pauses, then cocks his head to the side. “Is that not what one usually does with a corpse?”

His brother, Strife, had once informed him that he had a poor sense of timing.

For a long while, you just stare back at him, a faraway and incredulous look adorning your features. Eventually though, you lick your lips and give a small, dry laugh .”Huh.”

He can't help but ask, “What?”

“I've been hearing you say it all this time,” you admit, shaking your head from side to side, “All this 'I have no heart! I have no soul!'... I never used to agree with you.” Your shoulders droop and you fix the Horseman with a defeated glare that lacks any real bite. “Now, I think I finally see it. Anyone with a heart wouldn't just... leave a friend in the muck for his family to find. A person with a heart wouldn't do that. They'd never do that...”

Perhaps he had been too uncouth, but the Nephilim still bridles at your tone. “I told you,” he mutters darkly, “I don't have a -”

“-Yeah, save it,” you snap at him, cold as ice, turning your back and taking a step towards Tri Stone, “I'm going to tell the others what happened. Why don't you do us a favour and just... just go.”

He almost calls out to you. This parting feels... unresolved.

A flicker of anticipation ignites in his chest when you abruptly stop and twist your head around lightly, peering back at him from the corner of your eye.

“You know something?” you ask softly, “I think, if you'd've listened to me in the first place and didn't put that corrupted stone in the Guardian, then Eideard would be alive right now.”

And without another word, you force your trembling legs to carry you on the long trek back into town, leaving Death to stare after you in the silence he wishes he'd never broken.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #imagine darksiders #chwh #cold hands warm heart #reader #eideard #Reaper x reader #whump #hurt/comfort #angst #blood #language #father-daughter #relationship #anger #stages of grief #fanfic

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arvinsescape · 3 years

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i know you are not taking request at the moment, but when you do, consider writing this !!!

y/n and tom at the Oscar’s and they been teasing each other all night, so tom takes her to the bathroom and fucks her with the dress still on.

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience! I really hope you enjoy and it was what you were looking for!

Warnings: Swearing, Smut (minors do not engage) unprotected sex (please practise safe sex).

My requests are currently closed.

Tom couldn’t keep his hands off you, the dress you had on was driving him insane, you were aware of the effect the dress would have on him but you didn’t think it would have him so needy. You’d spent hours looking for the right one, deciding on a red dress that stopped just above your knee, black heels that worked well with your attire and Tom couldn’t get enough.

The entire drive to the carpet was filled with Tom’s hand rubbing softly against your exposed skin and you bit your lip as you thought about what would happen when you eventually got home. Once on the red carpet Tom kept a firm arm around your waist, posing for pictures and not letting you leave his sight for a second.

You were posing for a picture and he was stood behind you with his arms around your waist as he kissed your cheek, you took the opportunity to slightly grind your behind into his crotch and he groaned into your ear.

“Stop it.” He said as he kissed your cheek again. Fans and journalists screaming his name but the moment still felt intimate.

“Stop what?” You asked innocently.

“I’m trying hard enough as it is to not get a boner in public.” He said and you laughed.

“I don’t know what you mean baby.” You said and he nipped your neck quickly before moving you both along. His hand laced in yours. Once you got inside things only escalated. His hand found your thigh under the table and he teasingly ran his hand up and down the inside of your thigh.

“Tom.” You warned as you felt your arousal grow and you watched from the corner of your eye as he smirked.

“I don’t know what you mean baby.” He repeated your words. Two could play at this game.

Your hand found his thigh as you ran your hand up and down it. He smirked again as he realised what you were doing, you both knew he’d win this one.

“Remember who’s got the dress on baby.” He whispered as he cupped your heat through your underwear to prove his point. You almost moaned at the contact as he brought his head to your shoulder, placing a few kisses to the exposed skin. “Quiet love, there’s a lot of people here.” He said and you swallowed thickly.

This continued on for a while as you watched people win Oscars left, right and centre. Tom’s category had come up and you held your breath in anticipation, fingers crossed for your boyfriend who deserved it. When his name was called the entire room burst into cheers for him, he pulled you into a kiss.

“Congratulations baby.” You said as he stood and claimed his Oscar. You listened to his speech, thanking the crew, his fellow co-stars, his family and finally you.

“Lastly I just wanna thank my amazing girlfriend who kept me grounded throughout all of it, she was there at god knows what hours sometimes to support me and I truly couldn’t have done this without her, I love you.” He said as he looked you in the eye and you felt a tear slip down your cheek, this man deserved the world.

As soon as he sat back down and the Oscars continued he picked up his teasing again. Hand back to your thigh and teasingly rubbing it. You doing the same, you were both filled with adrenaline at watching him win and he kissed at your neck and shoulder more frequently.

“I can’t fucking wait to get you home.” He spoke and you moved your hand to cup his very hard boner.

“Me neither baby.” You spoke and he kissed your cheek before speaking into your ear.

“No, I mean I can’t wait.” He said again and you pulled back to look at him, unsure of what he meant.

“What-“ You were interrupted by him grabbing your hand.

“Come on.” He said as he stood and brought you with him, you were lucky enough to be placed in a convenient place to slip out unnoticed as he dragged you down one of the corridors and towards the ladies bathrooms.

“Tom.” You laughed as he pinned you to the bathroom door in the women’s bathroom.

“This dress is driving me fucking insane.” He said as he admired you in it. “You look so good.” He said as he kissed you, tongues fighting for dominance which he ultimately won. He locked the door and picked you up, placing you on the sink counter.

“Tom what if someone notices you’re gone?” You said as he hoisted your dress up to your waist.

“We’ll just have to be quick then won’t we?” He said as he undid his pants. You ran your hands through his hair as he parted your legs further. He practically ripped your underwear off.

“Tom, be careful, those cost me fortune.” You laughed as he shrugged before taking them off and stuffing them into his pocket.

“Better?” He teased.

“Better.” You said and he kissed your cheek before slipping into you and you bit his shoulder to stifle your moan. He gave you a minute to adjust before he moved rapidly in and out of you.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He moaned as he pulled you closer to him, hands placed firmly on your waist as he relentlessly pounded into you. You continued to muffle your sounds against his shoulder as he fucked you. Something about the idea of someone wanting to use the bathroom and catching you making you more aroused as you clenched around him.

“Fuck if you keep doing that I’m gonna explode.” He groaned. You felt yourself getting closer as you moved your hand to rub your clit. “Fuck, that’s it baby, touch yourself.” He said and you moaned again as his pace quickened. “Gonna fuck you properly when we get home.” He said. You both enjoyed the occasional quicky but Tom loved to spend hours worshipping your body.

You felt yourself crash over the edge as your orgasm hit you fast and hard. You clenched around Tom as you orgasmed, feeling his thrusts grow sloppy as he too found hid orgasm, both of you panting as you came down from your highs, your grip on his suits jacket loosening. He kissed the tip of your nose before rubbing his own against it.

“I fucking love you.” He said and you returned the words as he pulled out of you and cleaned you up. You used the bathroom and quickly sorted yourself out in the mirror. Face still flushed and Tom wrapped his arms around your waist as he laid his head against your shoulder. “Just wanna go home now.” He laughed.

“Not long.” You said as you reapplied your lipstick and he kissed your cheek.

“Come on, we should go back.” He said as you both made your way back to your seats, it had seemingly gone unnoticed and the rest of the night went by quickly as Tom showered you with affection, arm around your waist as he nudged his nose against your cheek occasionally, something he did when he was tired, both of you were more spent than you thought by the time you got home that night, falling into each other’s embrace as you slept soundly.

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n

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ecoamerica · 29 days

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

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still want that, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader, ex-yoongi x reader

summary: Fucking Min Yoongi ex-girlfriend? A terrible idea. Being hopelessly in love with her at the same time? An even worse idea. Knowing he was being used and still doing it anyway? Ah, Jeon Jungkook, what are you doing?

warnings: rated M (18+) for language, angst, a whole lot of pining; smut (fem reader, m and f-receiving oral, doggy, mentions of cowgirl, penetrative sex); a whole lot of feels; non-idol!AU; Jungkook’s POV; ex-boyfriend Yoongi is not very nice, oof

‘savage love’ is Jungkook/reader smut after she’s freshly broken up. pretty much just based on the song, lol the original one-shot is less than 3k words and this is a little over 6k XD

Two weeks later, Jeon Jungkook witnessed another woman crawling into Min Yoongi’s lap.

She was wearing a tight dress and high heels, with an awfully familiar face shape. Jungkook knew this because the same face shape had blown him two weeks earlier. This woman’s lips weren’t as nice though. Her eyes weren’t as pretty and she didn’t laugh the way Jungkook liked. He watched her speaking to Yoongi, his bored expression indicating he had no interest, but he was letting it happen because it was attention and Yoongi wanted attention. That’s why he finally emerged from the cave that was his apartment anyway.

Jungkook couldn’t believe Yoongi wasn’t even trying to win her back.

In fact, it made him furious.

He looked away, turning back to Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin’s bickering over… nothing really. They sort of bickered like an old married couple and then the conversation eventually turned into one of them agreeing with the other and they made up. Usually because they would say the same thing at the same time and then be amazed, even though it happened all the time.

Sometimes, Jungkook felt like a third wheel in this soulmate energy.

Most of the time, Jungkook would be out on the floor, finding someone to spend the night with. But it didn’t feel right anymore. She hadn’t contacted him since that day and yet Jungkook didn’t care. He couldn’t think about anyone else. He knew it was stupid. He knew he should let it go, because she obviously was just doing whatever and whoever she wanted, but he didn’t care.

He just kept waiting for her to come back to him.

She did promise.

She was still Yoongi’s ex-girlfriend and Jungkook knew he shouldn’t even try because they were still friends, no matter how annoyed he was with Yoongi’s behavior right now. Bros before hoes.

Or whatever.

He suddenly felt a hand slip onto his shoulder, up his neck, cupping his cheek. Jungkook jumped, turning his head. Short black pleated skirt. Tight little white top. Silver studded black leather jacket. The same teasing, cocked eyebrow, the one that belonged to the very person he had just been thinking about. His eyes widened. She leaned down, eyes shifting to her right. Staring at Yoongi. Of course, she was staring at Yoongi.

She pressed her lips to his, sliding her tongue into his mouth, making him breathless within seconds. Holding his jaw, inhaling his scent, almost as if they were lovers, almost as if he was the only one, almost as if she saved this kiss just for him.

Jungkook knew it wasn’t true, but he still wanted the kiss anyway.

She broke the kiss, releasing his face. Her eyes lingered on his, only for a second, before she smirked and turned around, walking back into the crowd.

“Jungkook!”

He started, lips still tingling, jerking his head around to face Jimin and Taehyung, who were staring at him, shocked. Oh right. They didn’t know they fucked.

“That’s Yoongi-hyung’s ex!” Jimin scolded.

Jungkook sputtered. “S-she just walked up t-to me–”

He turned around, seeing Yoongi’s vicious scowl, shoving the other woman away from him. Jungkook threw up his hands, shaking his head furiously. He snapped back to Jimin and Taehyung.

“I swear, guys, I don’t know why she did that–”

“Jungkook.”

He froze. The ice-cold snarl came from behind him. He swallowed, turning around slowly. Yoongi looked furious. Violently furious. Jungkook hadn’t answered his phone that time when she was in his apartment, completely ignoring the multiple calls from Yoongi and his friends. It wasn’t that uncharacteristic for him to ignore calls. And besides, it wasn’t Yoongi’s business anymore, right?

Yoongi’s black hair shrouded his eyes, making them darker than usual.

“The fuck was that?”

Jungkook opened his mouth, but a cool, calm voice answered for him.

“It was none of your fucking business, Yoongi.”

She appeared, holding a shot glass. Probably whiskey, a habit she had picked up from her ex-boyfriend. The former lovers stared each other down, far too uncomfortable for anyone else in the room. Yoongi narrowed his eyes at her.

“I think it is my fucking business.”

She took a sip of her whiskey, shifting her weight to one hip. “What was it that you said again?” She pretended to think. “Oh, right. That I would fuck anything that walked, isn’t that it?” She drowned the whole glass, slamming it onto the table Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook were staring. Everyone was staring now, music still blaring.

“Guess what? Jungkook’s got legs and I’m going to fuck him.”

She crossed her arms, looking Yoongi up and down, disdain in her eyes.

“Or maybe I already have and you just don’t know it yet.”

Yoongi stiffened, glaring at her. “I was right about you.”

She glared back, just as icily. “Ah, but I had the decency to wait until things were over between us, unlike you. And,” she continued, eyes flickering to the woman who was all over Yoongi moments earlier and then to Jungkook, smirk growing on her lips. “The people I choose to lip-lock with are way hotter than your choices.”

And with that, she reached over and grabbed Jungkook’s hand, yanking him out of his seat. Jungkook stumbled, his long hair falling onto his face, hand trapped in her tight grip.

“Jungkook, don’t,” Taehyung warned.

He turned around to see Yoongi’s face, the hurt evident in his eyes despite his pointed scowl. Yoongi turned away quickly, scoffing.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he spat.

“You never did,” she shot back, dragging Jungkook away.

“Shouldn’t you–”

She slammed him against her car, kissing him hungrily, desperately, clearly upset. Jungkook gasped, feeling her hands all over his white shirt, thighs pressed against his black slacks. She smelled strongly of cheery perfume and whiskey. His body reacted immediately, hips bucking into hers, moaning into her mouth. If he had resolve, it crumbled instantly with her touch, the way she pressed her fingers into his shirt, holding him close as she nipped at his lips.

He wanted to say, shouldn’t you cool off? Shouldn’t you go home and not do this?

But Jungkook couldn’t, because she was finally in his arms again and he couldn’t help himself, he just kept kissing her, even if he knew she was just doing it to piss Yoongi off. Even if she probably didn’t care about his feelings at all.

She probably didn’t even give two fucks.

Suddenly, she broke the kiss, panting. “Sorry I didn’t talk to you for a while,” she muttered. “Had a… lot on my mind. Didn’t see anyone, really.”

But she gave at least one and that was enough.

“It’s okay,” Jungkook breathed, chest tight. “I understand.”

She nodded. Her eyes searched his face, half-illuminated by the streetlights. He couldn’t quite figure out her expression. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, his jaw, his neck, so many kisses, all over him, making him melt and shudder.

“Wanna make your feel good,” she said against his skin. “Right here, right now.”

“You could simply look at me and I would feel good.”

She paused, lips hovering over his skin. Hands still on his waist, holding him close. Jungkook leaned down, kissing her ear softly. Her nails dug into his shirt, scraping his back a little. He whined pleadingly, his hands coming up to hold her hips, pressing them against his crotch.

“Do whatever you want,” he whispered into her ear. “Please.”

He didn’t care that he was in some random parking lot. He didn’t care that Jimin, Taehyung, or even Yoongi could run out and yell at him at any time, telling him to stop. She could have picked anyone but she picked him, even if only for tonight, and he still wanted it, knowing it was definitely not fair.

Jungkook really, really didn’t care.

“Okay,” she finally said. “But I changed my mind.”

His heart stopped.

“Gonna take you home and fuck you there instead.”

Her hands curled in his long hair, hips to his, dry humping him on his own fucking bed. He gasped at her roughness, her kisses firm but coy, toying with his lips with her teeth. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he wrenched it out, intending to throw it as far as he could, but she caught his hand.

“Don’t do that,” she chuckled against his lips. “Just turn it off.”

He chewed on his lip and nodded, turning it towards him. Missed calls, multiple messages. He ignored them all, sending the screen to black. She took his phone from him, sliding it under his pillows.

“Jungkook.”

He was panting hard, black curls all over his face from her hands, pupils blown wide in the semi-darkness of his own bedroom.

“You really still want me?”

She said it with a teasing tone. The moonlight reflected off of her smooth skin, her smirk, her cocked eyebrow. Jungkook couldn’t discern the expression in her eyes. They seemed almost bottomless. And yet those little moments, the way she said his name, the way her fingers tightened around his hand, that smile she gave him before she left the first time.

He held onto those moments tightly.

“Yes.”

She slid down his body, yanking his white shirt out of his pants, pushing it up, lips attaching to his abs, gentle kitten licks setting his skin on fire. Jungkook arched his back, whining, trying to get more of himself into her mouth. Her lips brushed against his skin as she spoke and he drank up every word, becoming drunk with her praise.

“Look at you,” she breathed, undoing his pants, palming him through his underwear. “You’re so fucking hot, Jungkook, you know that?” She pressed her lips against his throbbing cock through the fabric and he moaned her name, desperate for skin-on-skin, caught in her current and following it blindly. She shuddered, breath heating his aching member. “Your voice is so fucking sexy, fuck, I love listening to you moan for me.”

She grabbed the waistband of his underwear and pulled it down his legs, shoving it and his pants down to his knees. For a panicked second, he thought she was going to tease his balls again, but she wrapped her lips around his cock, tongue pressing against the head.

“A-ah, fuck, yes…”

He wished he could sound less pathetic and more in control, but the truth was that he wasn’t, especially as she hummed, lowering her head, the tip of his cock scraping against the roof of her mouth, roughly stimulated and then choked by the back of her throat. He could hear her whimper and he wanted to ask if she was okay, but then she began to move, bobbing her head up and down ferally, hands on his bed. It was like she was ramming his cock into her own mouth, building up speed, saliva slipping out, messy and filthy. And yet the deeper his cock went, the tighter it became, her throat gripping him, almost too much for the sensitive skin of the head.

Jungkook was a gasping mess, confused on how this blowjob was so different from the last one but still just as good, confused as to how there were even different blowjob techniques to begin with, confused to how he never knew about this, how could he ever want another mouth as she ticked her head with each thrust, adding an extra swipe of her tongue to increase the sensation. His eyes rolled back into his head, hands flying up and grabbing his pillows, clutching them as he came, hips rising to fuck her mouth in time with his lengthy moan, feeling saliva drip down his thighs. She tightened her lips at the base of his cock and it throbbed in her mouth, shooting strings of cum into her throat.

She held her mouth there as his body slowly descended, dipping back into the bed. His body felt electrified, shivering with pleasure. Jungkook panted, opening his eyes, not realizing he had shut them when he came. He looked down, feeling her carefully pulling her head back. He gasped as his cock popped out of her mouth, her lips pursed. Her eyes flickered to his.

A small smirk danced on her lips.

Jungkook watched with fascination as her hand came up, lightly holding his cock out of the way. Then her plump lips parted slightly. A thin white stream of cum and saliva dripped down, splattering against his balls, still warm from her mouth, coating them.

Holy fuck.

The act was so dirty that he was breathless. She swallowed the rest before her head dipped down, eyes still on his. Her tongue extended, scooping up the mixture and eating it back up, lapping at his skin with her soft motions. He felt his jaw drop, staring at her holding his cock, licking his own cum off his balls that she had spat out.

“You…”

He couldn’t form any more words. She sucked them clean, shivers running through him as she moaned around them, his name vibrating his own balls. Holy fuck. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. How could Yoongi not want her back? How could Yoongi not want this?

His hyung was a fucking idiot.

She finally rose, stretching out her neck. Her leather jacket slid off her shoulders, pushed aside. Jungkook sat up, feeling the wet spots on his sheets, but not caring as he tugged his shirt off, far too hot anyway. His eyes lingered over her body, watching her pull off the tight white top, the thick fabric releasing her breasts, large nipples already hard and poking out at him. She noticed his gaze, tweaking her nipples at him with her fingers.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” Jungkook whispered softly.

She smirked.

Jungkook knew that he was turning his own world upside-down. He knew none of this was good for his sanity. He knew all of this as he crawled to her, pushing the rest of his clothes down his legs and shoving them off the bed. None of this was fair to him and this was the most savage love he would ever experience, but he wanted nothing else, nothing but her lips on his, still tasting like his salty cum, her hands caressing his body and pulling him close. He gasped as her nipples touched his skin, rubbing her chest against his. He reached under her pleated skirt, yanking her panties down her thighs.

The scent of sex hit him in the face, so strong, so intoxicating, mixing with her cherry perfume, so arousing that he felt his cock twitch, getting hard already, wanting her, needing her. And it was all wrong, remembering the pain in Yoongi’s eyes before he looked away, but she handed Jungkook a condom and he opened it, sliding it over his cock, moaning as he watched her turn around, hooking a finger and twisting her panties, slipping them down her calves and off her feet, tossing them to his floor. Ass in the air, inviting him in.

“Fuck me, Jungkook.” Her voice a breathless plea. “Fuck me like you own me.”

He got to his knees, holding her hips, sliding in slowly, bit by bit, eyes closing as he pushed in, so tight, hissing her name as he buried himself inside her warmth. She squeezed his cock, rolling her hips back into him.

“Please, Jungkook…”

She was using him to get what she wanted but he really didn’t care, biting his lip and ramming his hips into her, gasping at how good it felt, how perfectly they fit together. Her walls massaged his length as he thrust into her, loudly slapping his crotch into her ass. He watched her hands grip his sheets, heard her say his name over and over as he fucked her harder, faster, burning her voice into his memory. Because in his moment, she was his.

In this moment, her head turned, eyes half-lidded, her pink tongue licking her lower lip.

“Fuck, Jungkook, you’re so good at fucking me.”

Her whole body was jerking forward with the force of his thrusts. She closed her eyes and threw her head back in ecstasy, moaning as she came around him, pussy pulsating around his cock, hips trembling in his hands. Jungkook knew he was completely fucked, absolutely in love with the wrong person, but there was nothing be could do about it. He fucked her through her orgasm, pressing a hand on her back to get a deeper angle, groaning as he felt her tighten around him.

“Yes, Jungkook, oh, fuck, yeeees…”

She felt so good, the scent of her orgasm driving him insane, her sounds so erotic that he clenched his jaw, punishingly fucking her into the bed, his thighs screaming at him, until the taut string inside him snapped, pleasure knocking the wind out of his lungs, a choked gasp of her name as he shot into the condom, cock twitching into her walls, cum choked out by her second orgasm pumping him. She turned her head, smirking, looking satisfied and spent.

“Jungkook-ah…”

It was almost real, the way she waited as he fished for the condom, holding it to him as he pulled out, almost real as she crawled over to him, kissing him softly, almost lovingly, almost…

Jungkook got up to clean himself off and came back to her putting her clothes back on. Shrugging on her leather jacket. His heart sank, seeing her beautiful form covered back up. She seemed to notice his gaze and, for a moment, they stared at each other. Him, naked, in the doorframe of his bedroom, her next to his bed.

She took a step towards him. Then another. Then another, until they were side by side, and Jungkook closed his eyes, fully aware that it would end like this, but hating it anyway.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, caressing his skin.

Jungkook turned his head, eyes opening. Her index finger poked him in the cheek when he faced her, making him freeze and his lips part, staring into her eyes, the fogged windows of her soul.

She smiled at him, shrouded by moonlight.

"See you, Jungkook."

And then she removed her hand and sauntered out of his apartment.

"You're going to get hurt."

"It's not worth it."

"He's obviously still in love with her."

"She might even still be in love with him."

Jungkook heard all these things from his friends, but he didn't care. He didn't care, because the second he opened the door and she was standing there in her leather jacket, crop top, and tight miniskirt, no one else mattered.

"Even if she does like you," Park Jimin had told him gently. "It's obvious that you're just a rebound right now, because of everything that's happened."

He knew that. He knew it, and yet he pulled her into his arms, lips pressed against hers, murmuring her name, shutting his front door.

"She's using you to provoke Yoongi."

Jungkook knew that too and still he cupped her face in his hands, kissing her all over, enjoying the feeling of her hands slipping under his t-shirt. He loved they way she quickly stripped off his clothes, with frenzy and need.

He wanted to tell her, "Don't go."

She took his breath away, body on top of his, riding him, driving him insane with her soft noises and pleas of his name. Holding his hands, slapping her hips into his.

He wanted to say, "Please stay with me."

Her hands tangled in his hair as he folded her in half, fucking her into his bed, hot breath mixing with hers as she moaned. Always praising him and reminding him of how good he was, how nice he felt.

He wanted to scream, "I promise I'll never try to hurt you. I promise to always try to protect your heart. I promise I love you."

But in the end, she always shrugged on her studded leather jacket, the metal causing sunlight to scatter over his bedroom wall, haloing around her like golden feathery wings, her hair glistening in the dying sunset. She would notice his gaze on her and she would lean over and kiss him with a smirk and a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

And she would say, "See you, Jungkook."

And he would say, "Okay."

His front door would close and he would bury his face into his pillows, inhaling her cherry perfume and the scent of her cum.

One time, he hesitated.

She said, "See you, Jungkook." And he paused, staring up at her longingly, not saying anything. Her hand lingered on his cheek, his lips still tingling from her last kiss. His hand came up and touched hers, holding it there.

Don't let go.

She smiled and leaned in again. A second kiss, a deep press of lips to lips, no teasing tongue. Then she backed up, pulling her hand out from his.

"There's no other guy," she said softly. "Only you."

And she left, as usual, but with these additional words sweeping him away, lost in these little moments she gave him, clutching his pillows against his chest and trying to calm his racing heart.

It made every happenstance and mention of Yoongi's antics enrage Jungkook more and more, hearing of and witnessing the different women Yoongi took home all the time, all of them with one or two characteristics of her, but never the whole package, because the whole package was on his doorstep with a teasing smirk and cocked eyebrow. And it was so obvious that she was still hurt, that maybe even a little bit of her still hoped. Jungkook saw it in her eyes, even when he was deep inside her, her eyes trying to hide it all and bury it away.

He knew he was being used, but he still let her come back.

He wanted to strangle Yoongi, even though he was obviously in the wrong too.

But the reality was…

He just wanted her to love him back.

Even if only a little.

"I'm sorry."

Jungkook knew that low, raspy voice, laced with alcohol, most likely whiskey. He froze, backing up against the brick wall next to the nightclub. Inside was violent noise, but outside, in this night, next to this alley, it was eerily quiet.

"Little late for that, isn't it?"

And Jungkook knew that voice too, his heart sinking, knowing that playful smirk was speaking to her ex-lover once again. At least there was a hint of annoyance. Jungkook heard the rustle of leather, her soft exhale as Yoongi pressed her body into the brick wall with his.

"Yes, but I mean it this time."

A sharp bark of disbelieving laughter. "Just like how you mean to go home with different sluts every night to try and forget about me?"

The rasp became sharper, cutting. "And you consistently fuck him. One of my best friends, no less."

Jungkook was surprised that Yoongi did not speak about him in past tense. He thought for sure Yoongi hated him, but it seemed like his rage was aimed at her, twisted with regret.

"Guess we're both past forgiveness."

He could hear heavy breathing. Leather on leather, the distinct sound of Yoongi and her together, hands on skin, soft lustful panting. No. Please no. Jungkook's stomach turned into a heavy knot.

"We could let it go," Yoongi murmured. "Forget about it all and come home to me."

The knot inside him twisted as a vulgar smack cut through the stale night air, followed by her soft gasp. Yoongi's hand on her ass. The sound of nails on skin, and then lips to lips. Jungkook felt his glass heart tumble, tumble, cracking as he replayed every one of their moments; her grip on his hands as he heard her moan into Yoongi's lips; her smile to him before she stepped out his front door as Yoongi grunted, shoving her hips into his; her lips forming his name – "Jungkook-ah…" – as the kiss broke, shudders exchanged in the narrow alley as Jungkook stood at the outskirts, listening.

Holding his glass heart, fractured in every corner, so many facets he couldn't see his own reflection anymore.

"That was the most insincere kiss you've ever given me, Min Yoongi."

And then there was a flash of leather and swift running as the combat boots flew past him, short skirt flaring with each step, not seeing him, only shooting past like a black comet into the black night. Upset, untouchable, unhindered by the heavy sigh in the alley. Yoongi clicked his tongue, cursing to himself, his boot kicking the brick wall, sound so loud it seemed to eat up the night.

Jungkook clutched his glass heart and ran after her.

His fist pounded at her door, hurting his knuckles on the metal, scraping them against the number. He had never been here before, never seen her apartment. She lived in a small, run-down complex. His chest was tight, lungs on fire as he had chased after her, following from bus stops to streets, almost losing her at several points. He had waited after she entered her apartment, pacing, unsure what he wanted to do. Unsure whether to scream, to plead, to cry, but, in the end, he just slammed his fist against the door and shut his eyes.

Because, in the end, all he wanted was to see her face.

The door wrenched open.

Jungkook started, throwing himself away from the door. And there she was. Wearing baggy gray sweatpants and a violently short crop top, a white t-shirt cut too high, her movement providing the daintiest flash of under-boob. She looked livid at first, but her features softened instantly when she saw him.

“Jungkook?”

Her voice small, surprised. The light behind her seemed to be low to the ground, so her face and body were lit from below, a pale-yellow glow.

His hands shot forward, his body moving before he had time to think. He grabbed her face, pulling it to him, pressing his lips to hers, closing his eyes and inhaling her cherry perfume, trying to tell her, I love you, I love you, I love you, and he almost sobbed with how soft her lips were, how perfectly they fit against his. Trying to say, please be mine, please know that with this kiss, I am giving you everything I have, his hands pressing into her cheeks, stroking her temples and her jaw with his fingertips. She gasped into his mouth and he tilted his head, kissing her harder, pushing her into her apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.

Jungkook finally backed off to breathe, still holding her face, staring into her slightly unfocused eyes, still trying to process what was happening.

“What about this kiss?” His voice cracked a little, on the verge of crying. “Does this kiss have the sincerity you’re looking for?”

And then her attention was fully on him, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I was there,” Jungkook whispered guiltily. “Because Taehyung told me Yoongi was out and you were there and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand knowing he was so close to you after hurting you so much.” His hands slid down, holding her shoulders, his breath shuddering. “Please… Please don’t give him any more chances.”

Jungkook pressed his forehead against hers.

“I know you are just using me to feel better. I know that. Use me as much as you want. I don’t care. But please…”

He closed his eyes, pushing the tears back, choking out his words.

“Please don’t kiss him anymore.”

And then Jungkook lifted his head, kissing her again, hungrier this time, trying to patch his fears with lust, sliding his hands down her shoulders to her arms, pulling her close. Her breathing hitched as he shoved her into his chest, feeling her nipples through his black shirt. He moaned into her mouth, touching her back and running his hands over her bare skin. She had to grab the waistband of his jeans to prevent herself from losing balance, gasping as he kissed down her neck fervently, nipping at her throat. He murmured her name into her hot skin, sucking on it.

“J-Jungkook…”

His tongue ran over her collarbones, dipping in between them, rolling his hips into hers, savoring the sensation of her body against his. He kicked his shoes off, scattering them as he walked them into further and further into her apartment. Her skin trembled under him, fingers tightening on the belt loops of his jeans. Right up against the wall, pressing her into it, yanking down her gray sweatpants, and she gasped, startled by his need. He pushed her panties down to her knees, trailing kisses down her stomach, fingers pressed into her hips.

“A-ah, Jungkook…”

And he was drunk, drunk on the way she said his name, lost in the sensation of her skin against his lips and the scent of her sex, so strong and sweet and powerful that he buried his nose into it, moaning hotly into her wet opening. He pulled one of her legs out of her pants and fitted it onto his shoulder. The moment his tongue touched her juices, his grip tightened, shoving her hips into his face. Her lovely taste coated his tongue as he thrust it into her. She whined above him, hands tangling in his hair as he began to lick, shuddering as she became slicker, the taste sharpening as he played with her clit, lapping at it roughly. Holding her in place, not stopping, coaxing her to her peak, pushing her to the edge.

His tongue, his, doing this to her, unraveling her in his arms, and overwhelming her with lust.

“Jungkook, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Her hips rutted into his face and he loved it, latching his lips onto her clit, licking and sucking as her viscous juices slid down his chin, dripping onto his neck. He kept going, feelings her thighs tense and hearing his name falling from her lips in her ecstasy. She tasted even better, sweet with a hint of sour, and he slipped his head downwards, moan muffled as he ate up her orgasm, her soft thigh pressed against his cheek.

He licked her tenderly, working her through the aftershocks before he released her leg, standing back up. She was panting, pupils blown wide, blinking rapidly as he kissed her again, smearing her juices on her chin. She whimpered against his mouth, hands clutching his shirt as he sucked on her tongue, taking the hem of her shirt and pulling it up, only breaking the kiss to remove it from her head. It made her hair even messier than before, falling in waves around her face, framing it perfectly.

His eyes on her face, knowing he was so deeply in love that he was drowning.

“I want to fuck you,” he breathed.

His hand came up and cupped her cheek. He leaned in, eyelids closing, pressing his lips to hers, speaking into them.

“I want to love you.”

Gentle, soft pecks onto those perfect plump lips.

“Let me love you,” he whispered, placing his free hand over hers, the ones still gripping his shirt.

His heart was beating so fast that it felt like it was vibrating in his ribcage.

“Jungkook, w-wait…”

And he really didn’t want to wait, he wanted to tell her to shut up and let him make love to her, but he paused, finally opening his eyes to her ashamed expression, looking away. She closed her eyes, shaking her head, releasing him and backing up a little. It was like he was suddenly hollow, carved out when she removed her body heat from his. She still wasn’t looking at him, eyes opening to gaze at the far wall. His eyes followed hers.

And he gasped.

She didn’t have a living room. Instead, the large space littered with easels, canvases, and paper. Tubs and tubs of paint, all kinds, watercolor, oil, acrylic, gouache, all colors, everywhere. Paint-covered cups with dirty water and palettes of dried paint all over the floor. And on the far wall, a large canvas leaned against it, covered in colorful paint strokes. It took up the whole wall, and there was even a step ladder near it so she could reach the top.

Jungkook was breathless.

Absolutely breathless.

He took a step towards it.

Because in striking, full detail, she had captured his face in various shades of blue, pink, yellow, and orange. Only tiny points of black for emphasis. The negative white space carved out his features, the curve of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders. His long curly hair in blue and pink, his eyes in orange and yellow, sparkling, even with the wrinkles that appeared when he smiled, his cheeks round from how big he was smiling.

She had even added the moles on his cheek, nose, and underneath his lower lip.

It was unmistakably him. Jeon Jungkook.

“W-what…?”

He looks back at her. She looked embarrassed.

“It’s not very good,” she chuckled nervously. “Sorry, I…” She pointed at it awkwardly and lowered her hand just as quickly. She tried to start a sentence, but shook her head. Instead, she breathed in deeply so she could speak evenly. “When I paint, I don’t plan anything. I do it when I’m stressed, so none of it is any good.” She rubbed the back of her head, using her other hand to point to the mess.

“I got a huge canvas and started painting, because of the whole…”

She looked pained. She sucked her lips in her mouth, slowly releasing them. Then she sighed.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Jungkook made eye contact.

“It’s me.”

She chuckled, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He turned back to stare at it, stare at himself smiling out to the room in stunning color. This huge canvas wasn’t Min Yoongi. It was him. Him, Jeon Jungkook. She had painted him, larger than life, clearly visible in her apartment, unable to avoid the large canvas. He had only missed it because he had been so upset and focused on her. But the truth was, he was always here.

Here, smiling at her when she got home.

“I don’t look this good,” Jungkook muttered.

She laughed, that beautiful laugh he loved so much. He felt her walk up to him, nudging his side.

“Yes, you do. You always look amazing.”

“Not when I wake up.”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen you wake up after a night of drinking. You’re adorable.”

Jungkook felt his ears heat. There was a long silence of him studying all the details.

“He knows.”

She sighed, heavily.

“He saw it one night. When he came over to try to convince me to take him back. I hadn’t finished much, but he could tell it was you.” She pointed to the mole under his lower lip. “Because of this.”

“You noticed.”

She smirked. Then she turned back to painting. “He was really mad. I hadn’t painted anyone else before him. Before Yoongi, I only painted scenes and random objects. Not people.” Her eyes roamed over the large canvas. “I painted him a lot, on smaller canvases and paper. He has them all, somewhere. Maybe he’s burned them now. I don’t know. But when he saw this, I think he knew, even before me.” Her voice was getting smaller and smaller. “He knew I was falling out of love with him.”

She looked away, to a point Jungkook couldn’t see, into the past.

“I wondered if It would feel the same, if I kissed him again. I wondered if he would still give me the same excitement, the same desire.” She closed her eyes. “But I didn’t feel anything.”

She lifted her head and looked at him, the Jungkook in blue, pink, orange, and yellow.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook.” It seemed like she was speaking to the painting because she couldn’t face him. “I’m sorry for being so cruel to you.” Her lips curved into a sad smile. Her eyes flitted to every corner of the large painting, arms around her naked body, hugging herself, an empty, lonely feeling surrounding her as she spoke.

“Love is fleeting anyway.”

Jungkook reached out and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. He pressed his nose into her hair, inhaling deeply.

“Stop listening to his stupid words and listen to me,” he mumbled. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I’ll tell you a thousand times. A million times, until you believe me. Stay with me and I’ll tell you every day, every night, all the time.”

“You… deserve better than me, Jungkook.”

“I don’t care,” he retorted stubbornly. “Is another woman going to paint an entire wall of my face? No. I love you.” And you love me, he wanted to add. I know you do, because I can see it right in front of my face, even if you can’t.

She lowered her head, burying her face in his arms.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she mumbled, a shudder running through her.

Jungkook thought of all those times, those confident smirks, those powerful strides, her strong words and firm affirmations. Everyone thought she had it all together. Everyone thought she was over Yoongi, because she had shot him down so hard. So cool that she was able to be so self-assured.

But the truth was here, painted in vivid color.

He placed his lips on the top of her head, kissing her softly.

“Why me?” he whispered.

He heard her chuckle at the familiar question.

“If you want the truth,” she murmured into his forearms. “I don’t know. I only went over to your apartment because I thought…” She raised her head, sighing apologetically. “I thought, ‘It’s going to be easy giving Jungkook a mind-blowing orgasm.’”

“I had two, in fact.”

She really did have a beautiful laugh.

“Now I’m corrupted,” Jungkook teased, squeezing her in his arms. “I won’t leave you alone.”

She looked up at the painting. Her tone was different now, less sad, warmer.

“No, I guess you won’t.”

masterpost

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