#but be unable to resist the urge to grow his power and see how far he can go

[vvitchering]

I’m like half asleep but I’m thinking about a “bad” god!Gale endgame where a heartbroken Tav is unwilling to just let what they had with Gale go because he’s lost himself. Under the divine veneer, there’s still something of the mortal man left and Tav is going to find a way to bring him back.

Whether he wants to or not.

[loominggaia]

What if Evan got lycanthrope lunacy?

Huh, that sounds like a good horror story prompt...

Evan does everything in his power to avoid lunacy. He drains the blood from meat before he eats it and refuses to eat it raw, even though he craves it. He constantly pushes away violent intrusive thoughts instead of indulging them. He carefully manages his anger. He refuses to indulge his lycanthrope paranoia as much as possible. He even shaves his face three times a day and keeps his hair shaved close to his head so he doesn't look like a lycanthrope.

The more one indulges their lycanthrope urges, the further their disease progresses. The paranoia becomes more intense. The violent thoughts become harder to ignore, and the bestial urges become harder to resist. Once it progresses far enough, a lycanthrope will suffer violent hallucinations and will be unable to control their bloodlust. Their ability to communicate breaks down. They become quick to anger. They'll eventually become cannibalistic and behave more like an animal than a person.

If Evan's lunacy did take over, I imagine it would be a long, slow process considering how hard he resists it. It would sneak up on him, and I think that would actually be worse than a sudden shift because it would go unnoticed until it passed the point of no return.

Evan is beloved by his community. His undying loyalty, acceptance towards others, and selfless kindness has earned him the trust of everyone around him. Even people who usually trust no one (Skel, Zeffer, Javaan...) trust him.

Between his angelic reputation and the slow progression of his disease, no one would suspect him when bad things started happening in the Hollow. He'd literally get away with murder for a long time.

I feel like Lukas would be his first victim, simply because of how much time they spend together. One minute they're hanging out at Lukas' house, and the next minute Evan is biting his throat out. It's a quick kill, and Evan spends the rest of the night devouring the evidence, bones and all.

Maybe he feels remorse, or maybe the disease has taken those feelings from him. Maybe his delusions are telling him this was for the best. It says, "You didn't kill Lukas, you just made him part of you. Now you'll be together forever! This is what he wanted! He's happier this way! :)"

But part of Evan is still resisting this disease, and though his mind is muddled, he still aware enough to know his community won't understand what he's done. He knows he has to hide this from them. When they notice Lukas is missing, he plays dumb and sends them all on a wild goose chase to "search" for him.

One by one, random villagers and crewmen meet the same fate over a period of months. Whoever Evan manages to isolate late at night gets chomped. There is no rhyme or reason to the kills, no patterns to follow. It seems completely random, which confuses the villagers. People are starting to freak out. They point their fingers at everyone except Evan as tensions grow.

I feel like Isaac would be the one to finally catch him in the act. One tiny shred of Evan's humanity is still rattling around inside him, and deep down he's relieved that he's been caught. Now his reign of terror is over. He says nothing to Isaac and keeps eating the corpse in front of him, and in that moment Isaac knows he can't be saved. Isaac uses the Divine Executioner to put him out of his misery like a rabid mongrel.

The end?

So...yeah, basically what I'm saying is, indulging his lycanthropy is the worst thing Evan could possibly do. Lunacy something he fears more than death itself, and it's easy to see why. It would only end in tragedy for himself and everyone he loves.

Contrary to popular belief, Lycanthropy isn't a cool disease to have. In the World of Looming Gaia, it's considered a terrifying curse.

*

Questions/Comments?

Lore Masterpost

[inkykeiji]

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

[sunder-soul]

hii what about Tom Riddle being fucking jealous about reader ?

So I got massively carried away with this one lol, apologies if this isn’t what you were expecting, my imagination went wild!

PART II AVAILABLE! 💖

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.  

Jealousy

Summary: Reader has to tutor an insufferable jock and Tom Riddle starts acting very strangely indeed. Wordcount: 1.8k Content warning: none.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The Great Hall was bright and lively with morning sun and the chatter of students, spoons clinking against bowls and butter spreading on toast.

“What is he doing?” you whisper to Margot sitting next to you at the table.

“I think he’s attempting to show off,” she giggles back.

You were both watching Austin Varrowe, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, obnoxiously demonstrate his Beater swing for a series of very bored looking Ravenclaw girls who weren’t paying him any attention in the slightest.

“Slughorn’s making me tutor that idiot,” you grumble.

“No way,” Margot grins, rounding on you.

“Yup,” you sigh, “can you believe it? Two evenings a week for the rest of the term… I think I’ll brain myself with a cauldron by Friday.”

Margot pats your shoulder sympathetically.

That evening, you reluctantly set off for the dungeons to meet Varrowe with your bag slung over your shoulder, but as you round a corridor you very nearly bowl straight into someone coming the opposite direction.

“Riddle,” you say, surprised, “sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Riddle takes a step back and tidily clasping his hands being his back. “You’re out rather late,” he said smoothly. “And in the dungeons, no less. Are you lost? The library is that way.” He nods back down the corridor.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Riddle was such a know-it-all. “I’m meeting someone, actually,” you say dismissively, checking your watch. “In fact, I better get going or he’ll think I’m standing him up.”

Riddle looks very briefly surprised, and then a cool look of disapproval settles on his fine features. “I don’t suppose I have to remind you that curfew is in two hours,” he says stiffly, “you wouldn’t be intending on breaking that, would you?”

You snort a laugh and step past him. “Thanks for the reminder,” you say sarcastically, “see you later, Riddle.”

You manage to get away before he can say anything else.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Varrowe,” you call, giving your friends a quick wave as you dash to catch up to him in the throng of students making their way to their next class. “Are you free tonight?”

“Oh – right,” Varrowe says, looking dispirited. “Sure. Seven o’clock?”

You nod and lean closer. “Please make sure you actually bring your textbook this time,” you mutter, managing to keep your exasperation off your face. “You do in fact need to read it at least once to pass the class.”

Varrowe grins and reaches out to ruffle your hair. “You’re smart,” he says loudly, “barely understood a thing you said last time.”

“Right,” you say through gritted teeth, trying to tidy your hair. “Well, see you this evening.”

“Sounds good,” Varrowe shrugs, wandering away.

You sigh. Slughorn better appreciate your sacrifice; tutoring Varrowe was the equivalent of torture. You turn on your heel to catch up with your friends, but once again you come face to face with –

“You have got to stop sneaking up on me,” you say dryly, “seriously, Riddle, it’s creepy.”

Riddle’s eyes slide from Varrowe’s retreating form to your face. “Is Varrowe the one you were meeting last week?” he asks smoothly.

The question surprises you. “Yeah, why?” you frown.

“And you’re meeting him again?”

You arch a brow at his decidedly clipped tone. “Yeah but don’t worry, I promise I won’t break curfew, I know that’s of the utmost importance to you –”

“An odd choice,” Riddle interrupts, something uncharacteristically irate in his voice, “Varrowe.”

You stare at him. “…Is he?” you ask pointedly, unable to think of anyone more in need of tutoring. Only yesterday Varrowe had lost his phial of Flobberworm mucus and had asked Slughorn if he could just use some of his own instead. “I think he’s the perfect choice.”

Riddle’s eyes flash. “I should be going,” he says curtly, “see you in class.” He gives you a single, stiff nod and leaves without another glance.

You blink after him, shaking your head in confusion. Riddle was acting very, very strangely.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“So if you overboil it, it’ll turns green,” Varrowe said slowly, peering at the notes on Veritaserum on the desk between you, “but if you underboil it, it’ll get those weird lumps?”

“Yes,” you say with great relief.

“Is it better to overboil it or underboil it?”

You immediately regret having felt relieved. “It’s better to do neither,” you say flatly.

Varrowe heave a great sigh and carelessly leans back in his chair. “I’m too tired for this,” he complains. “Did I mention that we had an extra Quidditch practice this morning?”

He had. Six times.

You slide your things into your bag and stand. “You’re right, it’s late,” you mutter, “we can pick this up again on Monday.”

Varrowe gleefully stands too and is out the door of the Potions classroom in a heartbeat. “Are you coming to the game next weekend?” he asks you in the corridor outside, unsubtly flexing his shoulder muscles as he pretends to roll them out.

You very nearly roll your eyes. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

“Excellent,” he grins, “I’ve been working on this tag-team move with Procker that’ll really have Slytherin guessing, I’ll have to show you later –”

“Varrowe.”

The voice is crisp and cool, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess who it is.

“Riddle,” Varrowe says, looking disgruntled. “Why are you here?”

“I’m a prefect, if you recall,” Riddle says in a glacial tone, “patrols are part of my responsibilities.”

“How very fortunate indeed that you were patrolling this exact corridor at this exact time,” you say with a hint of sarcasm. “Merlin, imagine if we’d forgotten about curfew.”

Riddle’s dark eyes flash to you, and you impassively hold his gaze. “You should return to your common rooms,” he says delicately, “or I will be forced to give you both detentions.”

“Steady on Riddle,” Varrowe grins, “we’ve got half an hour yet, give us a second to say goodbye.”

Riddle wrenches his eyes off you and fixes Varrowe with a very cold look. “You will go at once,” he says in a dangerously soft tone, “do you understand?”

Varrowe bristles, standing taller and pushing his chest out in a way he clearly thinks is intimidating. Riddle looks utterly unfazed.

Sensing trouble on the horizon, you grab Varrowe’s sleeve and tug him back. “Come on, Varrowe,” you say quickly, “let’s go. You’ve got practice in the morning, right?”

Varrowe glares at Riddle who was yet to move an inch, his expression still cool and blank. “Right,” Varrowe growls, “yeah, let’s go.”

Varrowe turns and stalks off, not noticing that you don’t follow. Instead, you round on Riddle.

“Will you explain what the hell is going on?” you whisper angrily.

“Watch your tongue,” Riddle says sharply.

You glower at him. “So sorry – I mean, will you please explain what the hell is going on?”

His eyes narrow. “It would not be wise to antagonise me,” he says icily.

“Would it not?” you breathe, stepping closer. “What are you going to do, dock me points? Give me detention?”

Riddle’s eyes are dark and hostile, and something works in his jaw as he glares back at you.

“Back off, Riddle,” you snap, “I don’t know what your problem is with me, but seriously, drop it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he breathes.

“Oh? You always threaten people with detention when they’ve done nothing wrong? I’m sure Slughorn will be overjoyed to hear that his favourite prefect is abusing his power like that,” you hiss, leaning closer.

Riddle visibly grits his teeth with fury on his face. A tense silence falls, and you suddenly realise that the two of you are standing far, far too closely together.

You step back at once, trying to ignore the strange feeling that swells in your stomach. “Goodnight, Riddle,” you mutter, turning to hurry away.

“Why Varrowe?” he says sharply, stopping you in your tracks.

You look over your shoulder at him. Riddle’s hair looks even blacker in the dark corridor, his burning eyes on yours, the flickering light from the torch on the wall beside him throwing shadows down his cheekbones. “What?” you frown. Now was definitely not the time to get distracted by Riddle’s good looks.

“Why Varrowe?” Riddle repeats stiffly. “He’s a simpleton.”

You blink. “Exactly,” you say slowly.

Something hostile flickers on Riddle’s face before he quickly tempers his expression back into composure. “I appear to have misjudged you,” he says coldly, looking away.

“What are you talking about?” you exclaim in exasperation. “Do you not understand how tutoring works? If he wasn’t absolutely thick I wouldn’t have to waste my evenings explaining to him that Cough Potions are for curing coughs and not inducing them.”

Riddle stares at you. The silence drags on.

You sigh impatiently. “I’m going to bed,” you grumble, turning away again.

“Wait,” he says sharply.

You wheel around, annoyed. “What?”

But your frustration is wiped away in an instant because Riddle is once again much too close. So close, in fact, that you can see the shadows his eyelashes are casting down his cheeks and the heat in his eyes as he looks down at you.

“You’re tutoring him?” he asks quietly.

You nod silently, your throat suddenly thick with nerves.

“That’s why you were meeting him.”

You nod again, unable to look away from him.

Riddle hums contemplatively, his expression smooth as his dark eyes roam your face. “Good,” he murmurs.

“Good?” you whisper.

Riddle’s lips curve into a small smirk, his head tilting slightly, and you absolutely do not blush at the sight. “Weren’t you going to bed?” he asks silkily.

“Worried about me breaking curfew, are you?” you say with a flicker of a taunt, trying to ignore your heart pounding quickly in your chest.

Riddle’s smirk grows. “I told you not to antagonise me,” he says smoothly as he steps in even closer, so close that his robes graze against your arms and you can feel warmth radiating from him as he looms over you.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, “seems to be going pretty well for me so far.”

Riddle’s eyes flick between yours, and for a single burning moment the tension is so thick that you can hear your pulse thrumming in your ears, your gaze dropping to his full lips and seeing his do the same to yours – and then just like that, Riddle steps away.

“Goodnight,” he says evenly, “I trust you can get back to your common room without supervision.”

You nod blankly but Riddle is already turning away and disappearing down the dark corridor, melting into the darkness. You stand there a moment frozen in place, your cheeks burning and your heart still racing as the cold air rushes in where his warmth had been brushing up against your skin.

Riddle was acting very, very strangely indeed.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

PART II AVAILABLE! 💖

[imagine-darksiders]

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.

[donutloverxo]

Messed up

*gif is not mine*

Kinktober day 5 - face sitting

Note - This is a sequel to past self. But can be read as a stand alone as well I think. Dividers by @whimsicalrogers.

Summary - Steve messed up and he's determined to make it upto you.

Warnings - 18+ only please, smut (m/f), daddy kink, age gap.

Pairing - Nomad!Steve Rogers x reader

Word count - 3.4k

Masterlist is linked in the bio!

“No.”

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

You weren’t used to being told no, at least not after you used your secret weapon, if he was anything like his best pal it has to work. Blinking and fluttering your lashes you broke out your Disney princess eyes, “Buck buck, please let me braid your hair,” you cooed.

He stared at you, his lips pressed in a thin line, “Fine,” he sighed finally, giving in.

You squealed, running off to your bedroom to get a brush.

“I remember I used to braid my friends hair at sleepovers, it was such fun,” you said, dividing a strand of his hair in three parts, one over the other, “Before I got my powers anyway, after that they’d all just be scared of me...” you trailed off.

“Steve’s excited to see you,” he told you after a beat of silence.

He had only been living with you for a week or so, it was surprising how close he already felt to you. You had a certain vulnerability that made him want to protect you. That and it was obvious how far gone Steve was for you. You were down so he had to say something to cheer you up.

“Wait what?” your hands stopped, “He’s coming here?”

“Yeah, he left yesterday. Should be here this evening. He wanted it to be a surprise.”

You took a sharp breath, remembering how he had so cruelly rejected you and sent you off to Wakanda just so he wouldn’t have to deal with you.

He abandoned you.

“I don’t want to meet him. I’ll stay over at Shuri’s, she wanted to have a girls night anyway,” you grumbled.

After you had gushed your love for them, baking brownies in your jammies and talking about boys while watching chick flicks, she seemed curious and fascinated, wanting to try one with you.

He hummed at that. He knew something had went down between the two of you, Steve said so himself, ‘I have a lot to make up for.’ He was curious as to how his clueless friend had messed up, but it wasn’t his place to ask.

Which is why he brought Steve to the cottage he shared with you. Listening to him talking about all the missions in Europe and Russia, how he was excited to see you, how he had missed him terribly. Bucky told him he spends his time taking care of his new goat and his beautiful cat. They often keep him occupied.

“Y/N said that I’m ‘totally a cat person’,” his lips curling up at how you had helped him pick a name for her.

“Hm, that’s true. Are you... you live with her... are you two close?” Steve stumbled over his words, his jaw clenching as he stared his dear friend down. He was more than happy to see him, but couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of you getting too cosy with him.

“In a way,” he smirked. “She’s a bit upset with you, just a heads up.”

“Yeah, I know, I deserve it,” he hung his head.

His palms shaky as they both entered the small cottage, going over what he would say to you. You were sitting on the couch in the, your feet propped up on it as you flipped through a magazine.

“You’re home early,” you smiled as you looked up at him. Your sweet smile turning into a frown when you saw him.

“Hey there, doll,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

You slapped the magazine on the couch, standing to your feet, your arms over your chest. “Captain,” you spat

His heart ached at that. He knew you were upset but to have you be so hostile to him, he didn’t know if he could take it.

He could easy handle being tortured by hydra agents but not this.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Bucky interrupted you both before taking off to find his cat, who knew where Alpine had wandered off to this time.

You both stood awkwardly, a few feet away from each other while you looked anywhere but his eyes, refusing to even look at him.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Fine, I guess,” you mumbled, finally looking up, “as fine as I can be after being shrugged off like yesterday’s news.”

“Honey,” he took a step towards you but then stopped in his tracks when you backed away. “I’m sorry, I made a terrible mistake. I.. just couldn’t deal with my feelings, I thought I’d be taking advantage of you.”

You scoffed, “Taking advantage of me? Really? I’m not a child! I can decide for myself what’s good for me and what’s not.”

“I know that now. But... you’re so young and I’m supposed to be looking out for you and helping you,” he tried to reason with you while you shook your head in disbelief.

“Right, because you’re Captain America. Everyone should just do whatever you say. You always know what’s best, unlike us mere mortals,” you rolled your eyes.

He was in front of you in just two long strides, his brows furrowed and his patience running thin. “I’m not Captain America anymore,” he reminded you as he inhaled your soothing scent.

“You’ll always be Captain America he’s a part of you. And I’ll... never be good enough for you.” You stared at the henley stretched out over his broad chest, willing yourself to resist the urge to hug him. Him standing so close to you, you could inhale his unique scent you had grown to love so much.

“What?” he frowned. “Where did you get that idea?” It was absolutely ludicrous. He would have to pay a visit to whoever it was that said that to you.

“It’s the truth... that’s why you don’t want me. And I don’t blame you.” Why would someone like him be interested in you anyway.

“Doll,” he cupped your cheeks, tilting you’d head up to make you look at him, “I’m the one that doesn’t deserve you. I mean look at me.”

You arched a brow, giving him a once over before looking at his blue orbs again, his strong jaw covered in a thick beard, long locks that feel so silky in your hands, “You look like you belong on the cover of GQ, and before you have to ask, I’ll spell it out for you, since you’re like a thousand years old - GQs a magazine with pretty people on it.”

“I didn’t always look like this. I used to be very small, smaller than you.”

“Yeah, I know,” you smiled. “I’ve seen pictures, you were adorable.”

“Would you believe me if I told you a secret?”

“Yeah...” you’d believe him if he told you the sky was falling. Steve never lied.

“I love you,” he confessed as your jaw dropped, “I’ve loved you since the moment I met you. And I might not deserve you but if you consider me worthy of you, then I’d... like to have you.”

Your breath hitched as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “Wh - really? Nobody’s ever said that to me,” you blinked as tears started welling up in your eyes.

“I love you more than life itself. And I have a feeling that we will end up together,” he grinned.

“Well, don’t get too cocky now, I haven’t said yes yet,” you slapped his chest.

He grazed his fingers over your knuckles before holding your smaller hand in his, “So? What do you think?”

“I think... if you hurt me again I’ll punch you so hard. And my punches are much better now, thanks to Bucky, he’s been teaching me lots of stuff.”

“Never,” he shook his head, “I’d never hurt you. You’re so precious,” he kissed your knuckles.

“And you’d never leave me again,” you wanted it to be a fierce demand but your pout made it more of a needy request.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again. We’re partners. Captain America is gone. It’s just you and me now,” he promised.

You blinked your tears away, standing on your tippy toes to place a lingering kiss to his soft plump lips.

Smiling as you pulled away, you grabbed his hand, leading him to your bedroom.

“Where are we going, doll?” he chuckled, holding onto your hips and pulling your back against his chest, attacking your neck with a flurry of kisses, unable to keep his hands off of you for even a moment.

Your squirmed in his hold, “To the bedroom. Just in case Bucky comes back,” you let out a giggle when he blew a raspberry in the crook of your neck, which then quickly turned into a moan as he sucked a mark on it.

Somehow, you managed to drag him to your small bedroom, if he had his way you’d have fucked in the hallway.

Straddling his lap on your twin bed, which looked much smaller now, what with a super soldier on top of it.

Kissing him deeply, you pulled away, breathless but only to say, “I love you, too, this is just too good to be true,” you heaved.

“A lot of unbelievable things have been happening to me lately,” he pulled you back, groaning into your mouth as you rolled your hips against his crotch. Looking at you sternly, “Doll,” he warned you.

“Please,” you whined, humping his growing erection through his jeans and your thin shorts, you could feel your panties getting wet with your arousal. “I want you, so bad,” you kept rolling your hips till he stopped you by digging his fingers in them.

“This is not how it’s done... I’m supposed to take you out on dates and buy you flowers and chocolates - ” he choked on a moan as you palmed him through his pants.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he gritted, snaking his fingers in your short shorts, he brushed his fingers over your weeping folds. “You want me?” he asked as you desperately nodded your head. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

You gulped, looking into his eyes and opening your mouth to answer him, his intense gaze intimidating you as you hid your face in his neck, “You know...”

“What?” he asked again, “I’m like over a thousand years old, I’m rusty, you have to tell me,” he teased you, swirling your juices around on your soft petals.

He wasn’t rusty. He had been with 'you' just a week ago, only it wasn’t you. This would be your first time with him but not his with you. It was still strange, he couldn’t really wrap his head around it or bring himself to care.

“I want you... to.. to make love to me,” you said.

“You know I would never say no to you, sweetheart,” he kissed your hair, retracting his hand from your shorts he sucks your juices off his fingers, you taste the same.

You helped him as he rolled your shorts and your panties down your legs, pulling your tank top up and tossing it away. You fumbled, making yourself small and covering yourself up with your arms. But he wasn’t having any of it, he pinned your hands behind your back, latching onto your nipple.

“I’m...,” you gasped as he bit your hardened bud, bunching his henley up in your hand, “you’re wearing too making clothes,” you complained.

“Then why don’t you help me take them off, doll?”

Your eager hands pulled him out his pesky clothes, hiding his magnificent physique from you. You had seen him shirtless a handful of times, while dressing his wounds, but you always stared at him in awe. He did look like he was made in a laboratory.

You knelt before him, between his legs, eager to find out if he tastes as good as he looks.

He tried to stop you but you swatted his hands away, “You’ll hurt your knees, doll,” he reasoned.

You snorted, wrapping your hand around his thick girth, “I thought we were partners. I won’t have you treat me like I’m some damsel in distress again.”

He pouted, pulling at your kiss swollen bottom lip with his thumb, “That’s too bad because I’m always going to take care of you, especially now that I’m your man.”

You rolled your eyes, he really was getting ahead of himself, he’ll have to do a lot more to prove himself before you accept him as ‘your man’.

But you decide to let that go for now, instead focusing on his cock glistening with precum, peaking your tongue out to taste some of it and swirling your tongue around on his bulbous head.

“Don’t tease, doll,” he groaned, holding onto the back of your head, not really pushing but to urge you to take more of him because he was at the end of his rope, feeling as if he’d burst right there.

You pushed away at his hand, “I’m in control,” you stated, “no touching till I say so. Is that understood?”

He didn’t care, he just wanted you to stop your cruelty and put your mouth on him so he simply nodded, not knowing if he could actually keep the promise.

With a victorious smile you wrapped your mouth around his head, leisurely sucking on it, moaning at the taste of him before taking in as much as you could, pumping the rest of his length, fondling his balls with the other hand.

He was about to touch your perky breasts, but then remembered your ridiculous ‘no touching' rule so he ran a hand through his head hair, wiping the sheen of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“God that mouth of yours,” he growled when you pulled him out with a loud ‘pop’.

A string of saliva connecting your lips to him, “I want you to come in my mouth,” you instructed.

“You want to swallow daddys cum?” he couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the incredulous look on his face.

“Who would’ve known... Steven 'golden boy’ Rogers, of all people...” you shook your head, a small smile on your face as you thought about the times you had called him that in your head while rubbing one out to the thought of him.

You pressed your lips to the vein on the underside of his cock, sucking on it, “You’re going to come in my mouth, daddy, and stay there until I swallow all of it,” you told him, if only to remind him that you were in control, even if he ‘convinced' you to call him that.

You lightly scraped your teeth over his length before swallowing around him, gagging a bit as you tried to take more of him, but it seemed impossible to fit him whole no matter how hard your tried.

“I’ll try,” he teased, releasing a shaky exhale, his balls tightening in your palm as he held onto the sheets, painting the back of your throat with ropes of his spend.

You swallowed all of him, suckling on his length till you felt him softening in your mouth, you opened your mouth to show him, “Told you I’d swallow it all,” you licked your lips, just in case you missed anything.

“You’re such a good girl.” He praised, cupping your head and leaning down to kiss you, tasting himself on your lips. Easily picking you up and flipping you so that you were on your back, he spread your thighs, licking his lips as he caught a glimpse of your cunt. “What do you want to do now, sweetheart?” he asked again.

You whimpered, mumbling nonsense but you knew, once Steve set his mind to something it was impossible to convince him otherwise. He was really gonna make you say it out loud. “I want your mouth on me,” you turned your head to the side, shutting your eyes, completely flustered.

He dove in for his prize, giving your bundle of nerves a soft kiss before smearing your juices around your cunt with his fingers, prodding one at your entrance he plunged it in, your walls hugging it so wonderfully, “You’re so tight, all for me...” he blew a breath of air on it, kissing the soft patch of hair on top of your mould.

You were much too delirious to think of anything but his fingers teasing you, his lips pressing butterfly kisses to your thighs, his hands massaging your titts, but you vaguely heard him call out your name.

“What?” you rasped, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“Come, sit on my face. You said you wanted to be in control,” he shrugged.

“Wh - what... do you even know how that works?” you heaved. You had never done something like that before, while it sounds enticing, it would be impractical... maybe...

“I thought they had like two sex positions in the forties. The missionary, and uh...”

He shushed you, “I’ve never been a prude, you should know that by now,” lying on his back, he felt his dick hardening again and aching for any kind of attention from you, but he’d have to take care of you first.

“Come here...” He held onto your hips, pulling you up till you were over his mouth, “Take what you need, doll.”

You hummed, running your drenched pussy over his face, a shiver went up your spine at the feel of his coarse bread on your sensitive skin, “I can’t,” you mewled.

“Yes, you can, doll. Come on, be good for your daddy,” he spurred you on.

Taking a deep breath, you held onto the headboard, arching your back as he wrapped his mouth around your bundle of nerves, you started grinding your hips over him, soon getting accustomed and even liking the burn his glorious beard gave you.

“I’m gonna... come, daddy,” your voice breathy, your hand massaging your breast as you gushed around his beard.

You held onto the board, trying to catch your breath, your other hand in his long locks as he kept lapping you up.

You shuddered as you crawled down his body, hovering over his hard cock which was pressing against his taut stomach. You spread your lips with your fingers, peaking up to see him looking at you with dark, lust ridden eyes, coating him in your juices by running your clit up and down his length.

It was too much for your sensitive clit to be rubbing against the velvety skin of his cock but not nearly enough for him.

He digs his nails into your hips, growling, “Get on with it,” he held onto the base of his length, nudging your lips aside before plunging into your heat.

“Oh,” you gulped, trying to sink your hips down on him but even after all that preparation he was too big for you.

“You’re so small, doll,” he smiled, noticing your evident struggle as he caressed your cheek, his eyes fixed on you trying to take him in, “is it too hard?”

You nodded, “I can still do it though,” still so eager to please him...

“You don’t have to. You’ve done so much already, you must be tired.”

You opened your mouth, to argue that he was the one who had taken a long journey to get here, but he circled a hand around your waist, bringing you down, flush against his chest.

“You just lay there and let me do the work, okay, sweetheart?” you whimpered but nodded with your cheek pressed to his heart as he thrusted deep into you.

“Okay, daddy, I’ll try,” you murmured, tears streaming down your cheek when he brushed against your sweet spot.

He stopped his hips when he heard you son, “You all right, doll?” he asked, looking down at you.

“Yes, it’s just so good, please don’t stop,” you requested.

And he had promised to never say no to you so he kept fucking up into your tight hole, whispering sweet words to you, telling you just how good you were at taking him, how well you were doing.

“My one and only,” he kissed your head as you cried into his chest, clenching around his cock. Triggering his own climax as he came inside you, staying inside you even after he was done.

Content with knowing that you’ll be his forever.

As long as he doesn’t fuck up again...

Tags will be in the reblog! Click the link in the bio to join the taglist.

I guess that was cheating because the face sitting was just a small part of it😅😅 But I hope you still liked it! Comments and reblogs are really appreciated💖💖 I'll try to write one more part with jealous endgame!Steve.

Please note that my work is not to be reposted or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or AO3 account without my permission. Reblogs are most welcome though!

[divina-yae]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲 𝐘𝗼𝐮 𝐋𝗼𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐭. 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝗼𝗼 𝐓𝐞𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐫𝗼̄

❥𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨

✹𝘉𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘒𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵.

Requests are open!!

It was obvious in his clinginess, how you were someone that he confided in, even in the way that he spoke to you, that Kuroo truly cared for you, maybe even loved you, if you thought about it.

However, it was in some of the other small things that made you doubt it as well. Before you, it was his ex-girlfriend, Sayaka. For almost a year they dated, the two of them being known as Nekoma’s power couple.

That was until Sayaka was caught cheating by Kuroo and his friends. As one of his best friends, you were in charge of picking up the pieces. And you did. So well, in fact, that five months later, the two of you were the new power couple.

Months had past since then, but the feelings of insecurity still lingered. As much as you would’ve loved to chalk it up too silly, nonsensical fears, you couldn’t.

The overwhelming difference in your relationship and and his Sayaka’s were glaringly obvious. Things he wouldn’t hesitate to do with her, he’d never once brought up with you.

Whereas Sayaka proudly wore Kuroo’s volleyball jacket at every game, you’d never once seen it. The cheesy love notes he had you proof read before he put them into her locker had yet to make an appearance in yours.

All the since deleted posts of Sayaka, hadn’t been replaced with even one of the two of you, no matter how many times he’d made it onto your social media accounts.

It was the small, yet significant things like this that had you doubting good feelings. You’d had a first hand view to how much being cheated on had crushed him. Was it possible you were just a rebound, a replacement of convenience?

With every day your insecurities continued to grow out of control. With his growing responsibilities and focus on volleyball, he was beginning to become distant, only adding onto your worries.

Not wanting to distract him or seem overly clingy, you began to pull away, as hard as it was.

And yet, you still found yourself sitting with Kuroo on his bed. Upon his insistence, he’d placed you in his lap, stating that it’d been far too long since he’d been able to just hold you.

You didn’t bother pointing out that he could only blame his schedule for that.

“(N/N)-chan~” You huffed, amused. “Just call me ‘(Y/N)’, Tetsu, that nickname doesn’t make any sense.

The ravenette chuckled, pressing a small kiss to your shoulder. “Aww, but it sounds so cute!” You laughed a little, leaning back into his embrace.

You repressed your shiver when his lips landed on the curve of your neck. “I’ve missed you... I’m sorry for being so busy lately.” The feeling of his lips dragging over your skin with every word banished your negative thoughts, at least for the time being.

You interlaced your hands with his, which were placed on your waist. “I missed you too, baby.” It was almost embarrassing, really, how easy and effortlessly your boyfriend could put you at ease and wipe every insecurity away with just a few words.

You spun around in his lap so you could wrap your legs around him and lean your head into his shoulder. “Tired, kitten?” He teased softly.

You nodded, pushing away your flutters. “How about we watch a movie, yeah? You pick something and I’ll get snacks.” You grinned at the suggestion, a relaxing night being exactly what you needed.

“Deal!” The captain pressed a quick kiss to your nose before gently lifting you up and off his lap so he could get up. “I’ll be right back, doll!”

You smiled fondly as he left the room and you grabbed the remote. In no time, your opened Netflix and flipped through the different categories.

You went to his list and settled on a show you liked. You pressed pause content to scroll through your phone as you waited.

However, Kuroo’s phone buzzing caught your attention. The notification was the last thing you’d expect from his phone.

‘Log in your cycle today!’ From Flo, the very app you used to track your own period. You blinked, nothing short of surprised at the notification.

“I got popcorn and skittles, your favorite~” Instead of accepting the treat, you stared back at him, a question in your expression.

“Tetsu, do you have a period?” He immediately choked on a mouthful of popcorn, his shock rivaling your own.

“What the hell- no, (Y/N)! What even?” You laughed at his dramatic reaction, showing him his phone. “Then why do you have Flo, you weirdo?” His expression turned sheepish.

“Ah... I used to keep track of... Sayaka’s so I could I be prepared to help out. I guess I just never got around to deleting it.”

Didn’t bother to delete it? It’d been nearly a year. Was he still hung up on her? The one who’d broken his heart?

You didn’t bother to tell yourself you were overreacting when you felt your heart all but plummet. Never once had he bothered to do anything for you during your weeklong suffering.

You quickly thought of an excuse, all the while feeling bile rise in your throat. “Shit, what time is it?! I totally forget I have a test tomorrow! I have to go. Sorry to rush out, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Except, he didn’t see you the next day. Or even the day after that. You were going out of your way to avoid him, even going so far as to fake being sick.

Your best friend, (R/N), bright you your schoolwork and was even willing to take it to school for you.

They didn’t pry past what you said willingly and went above and beyond for you. They had truly been your saving grace during these last few days.

You knew you couldn’t hide out forever, but you at least wanted to have your thoughts and feelings together before you saw him.

It was the third day and you were sure that you only had the rest of the day to get yourself together. Your family had caught onto your lack of an actual illness on the first day, but they had been giving you grace. Now, you could tell that you were on thin ice, however.

School had just gotten over, and you were expecting (R/N) to come over to give you your homework and also save you from boredom.

You’d even prepared a quick snack to thank her. Nothing major, just onigiri and some fruit. Just as you went to flip on the television, the door rang.

You smiled, relieved, and bounded over to the door. You opened the door, ready to greet your friend.

“Hey! I made oni-“ “(Y/N)?” A voice interrupted, causing you to snap to attention. Your mouth went dry as you looked up at the one person you weren’t ready to talk to.

“Tetsurō... what are you-“ You started, not at all feeling ready to talk to him. “You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?” You blinked at him, seemingly unable to formulate a coherent response.

“We have to talk. (R/N) told me you were upset, not sick.” Wordlessly, you moved out of the doorway, permitting him entrance.

Here went nothing and everything...

The room was deathly silent as both you and Kuroo stared back at each other. You were sitting at the dining room, each waiting for other to speak.

As much as you wanted to get this conversation over with, the words just wouldn’t seem to come.

“Will you at least tell me what I did wrong?” He pleaded. You bit your lip, resisting the urge to clutch his shaking hand.

“Tetsurō, I- it’s complicated...” You immediately averted your gaze from his face, the hurt in his expression too much to bear.

“I love you, so much, but... sometimes I don’t believe that you love me like I love you...” A pained sound left his mouth but you pressed on.

“I know how much you... loved Sayaka, and I know how much she hurt you, but Tetsu, I don’t want to be a replacement-“

Arms all crushing you to his chest cut you off, arms belonging to a now sniffling ravenette.

“(Y/N), I-I love you so much, and it hurts that I haven’t made it obvious. Sayaka fell in love with the image of me, the thought that I was some... intimidating bad boy. But you know better than anyone that I’m anything but that.”

You felt your own tears gather at his revelation and you held onto him as he continued. “She got tired of being doted on, or me showing her off. She didn’t like that I was... soft. I didn’t want to lose you because of that so I tried to stop,” He admitted shakily.

You reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “Tetsu, I’ve known you since we were kids. I know you. And that’s the guy I fell in love with. All your ‘soft habits’ are a part of you, and I love all of you. You deserved better than someone who only loved the idea of you, but please don’t let it hold you back from real love.”

Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. “Thank you, I love you, so much, (Y/N),” He cried.

You placed your hands into his hair and on his back as he whispered teary declarations of love into your skin.

“I’m sorry I avoided you, Tetsu,” You murmured. He exhaled shakily and hugged you tighter. “I’m just glad I have you back. I’ve missed you, Angel.”

You pulled back so you could look him in the face. “I promise you’ll always have me.” His smile was wide and genuine as he pulled you back into his warm embrace.

The two of you stayed there for some time, comforting each other until the disparaging atmosphere faded away.

Once you punched Sayaka in her throat, everything would be perfect.

[sinfulforrest]

This is one of my new ocs, Pelleas! If you want to know more about this awful man, there'll be info under the cut! >u<

Pelleas is a prince from a royal line of merpeople and has grown up being adored by all. That adoration and attention has however turned him into a vain and rather spoilt man. His bloodline is blessed with the powers of hydromancy, and he loves showing off with it. Over many years, he began to grow bored of his life under the waves and yearned to explore above the waves.

Breaking the royal code, he would begin to sneak out and would exit the water, unknown to his family and people. When not in water, his tail begins to twist and split into legs, and though it was painful, he was excited. He could now do what he wanted amongst lesser beings! He found that he loved the party scene and because of his cutesy façade, men, women, and folks in between would find themselves buying this charming stranger drinks. His feminine sense of style would draw people in, and that would further his superiority complex and would make him more absorbed with his vanity.

Eventually, using treasures from the deep, he would buy a little villa by the ocean for his base of operations for his…activities, as well as doubling as a nice convenient spot for him to store his mountains of clothes that he found himself buying. As his alcohol tolerance is much greater than that of a regular human, he could be totally sober whilst his drinking partner would be drunk, and he would eventually offer to take them home for a fun time. Depending on how he feels, he’ll either simply have sex with them and then keep them around for a while to practice his hydromancy on before discarding of them, or if he felt greedier, he would invite them back to the ocean for a night swim.

He would make his victim skinny dip, and he would follow behind them so that they wouldn’t see him slowly begin to melt back into his true form. Then he’d rush them, pushing them out further into the sea and would begin to grow more aggressive when he’d feel them struggling against him. To put it bluntly, he gets extremely turned on when seeing others drowning and struggling in the water, and he would take great pleasure in prolonging the speed at which somebody drowns. He enjoys when people watch from a distance, unable to do anything as he drags the victim down under the waves. When the victim eventually drowns and if Pelleas still hasn’t satisfied his urges, he’ll take the drowned body lower and lower and have his way with it until he feels content. The body will never be seen again.

He is very unlikely to fall in love with any of his captives, as he just sees them as cheap tickets to give him a thrill, but if he did, that captive would truly be in hell. He’d be huge on waterboarding a resisting captive with his hydromancy and would look for new ways to use his powers by torturing his beloved. He’d say that they’re blessed to feel his powers for themselves, but…they’re really not.

This is all the info I have for Pelleas right now, and to those who read this far…thank you! I hope you like the sound of him! >w<

[the-widow-sisters]

Shamelessly

Summary: When Yelena begs Natasha to let her go to one of the cool kids meetings, she quickly realizes she made a huge mistake. She is bored out of her mind. Luckily, Natasha keeps her distracted with her gentle affection, but that quickly becomes quite embarrassing given their company.

Word Count: 2243

  “And that’s why we need to initiate this protocol. We have to try to improve our—”

  It was quickly becoming clear to Yelena that she never wanted to go to anything called a collaborative conference ever again. And if she ever forgot that lesson and wanted to go again, then she would specifically hire someone to slap her in the face and shake her out of her episode of insanity.

  Steve Rogers was a really nice guy, albeit a goody-two shoes, but he definitely could not hold the attention of any audience whatsoever. He was one of the most boring speakers that Yelena had ever heard, but she had to at least pretend that she was paying a little bit of attention to him, despite the fact that she did not care about anything he was saying at all.

  The only reason she was here was after begging Natasha to let her come so she could earn more favor from the group and hopefully more greatly secure her place with them and get them to officially initiate her on the team.

  Natasha was sitting next to her at the moment, her eyes on Steve. To most people, she was attentively hanging on his every word. However, Yelena could easily see that her sister was somewhat unfocused since it seemed that she was more just looking through him than at him. It was clear to Yelena that Natasha was as bored as her.

  So Yelena did what any self-respecting younger sister would do. She very surreptitiously pinched Natasha’s leg under the table in an attempt to simultaneously aggravate Natasha and get her attention. The redhead immediately turned her head to face Yelena, confusion and slight irritation in her gaze as she was drawn back into the real world outside of her own mind.

  Yelena just grinned a little, mouthing the word “boring” to her older sister with a bit of an eyeroll and a miming of a loud groan. Natasha immediately understood, sighing a bit and leaning nearer to the blonde while keeping her eyes on Steve carefully.

  “We’ve only got about five more minutes,” Natasha softly spoke, and Yelena’s eyes widened a little with surprise, joy from the prospect of getting out of the stuffy little room suddenly flooding through her.

  “Only five more minutes? That’s a blessing,” Yelena whispered, her words barely above a breath as she smiled with relief as her posture loosened significantly. Natasha smirked a tiny bit, and Yelena quickly lost her smile, knowing that her sister’s mirth was definitely not a good sign.

  “And then we have to give our input on the whole thing,” Natasha explained to her with a smug look in her eyes, and Yelena almost groaned aloud as she just looked at Natasha with something that could only be described as pure suffering.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Yelena quietly replied, and Natasha just flashed her an affectionate, slightly pitying smile.

  “You practically begged me to let you come, remember?” Natasha whispered to her, her mouth not far from Yelena’s ear. Yelena could easily hear her amusement despite the quietness of her voice. Yelena flashed her a halfhearted glare in response. Yelena could easily see that Natasha was enjoying this way too much and she was quickly starting to realize that her suffering in this meeting was becoming Natasha’s entertainment for the afternoon.

  “I didn’t know it was going to be like watching paint dry,” Yelena sarcastically informed her, her eyes half-lidded as she just locked her eyes with the redhead’s light green eyes. Natasha just huffed in reply, shrugging noncommittally with a lopsided grin and returning her gaze to Steve as he concluded his speech and quieted, giving them all a chance to voice their thoughts.

  It was all that Yelena could do not to groan when someone piped up and started presenting an opposite opinion to the super soldier, which launched them all into a debate. She took that opportunity to just lean forward and rest her elbow on the table while propping up her chin with a hand, the entire room abuzz with conversation that she really had no input in whatsoever.

  She had almost totally zoned out when she suddenly heard Natasha start speaking. Everyone quieted, and Yelena was shaken back into reality just from the sheer quiet that fell across the room as they listened to Natasha’s words.

  It was then that Yelena truly understood the quiet power that Natasha held in the room. It was shocking to her just how well-respected that the redhead was. She had never really thought about it before, but she now was starting to realize that almost any time Natasha wanted something to happen, it would come together for her. Any time Yelena wanted to come along on a mission, Natasha saw to it that it happened, and Yelena knew that it could not have been something that was commonly allowed.

  It made her somehow admire her big sister even more. Of course, she would sooner die than admit that fact, but she nevertheless felt it deep within her as she stared at Natasha.

  Once Natasha had finished her piece, everyone started conversation about Natasha’s input. Yelena stared at the side of her sister’s face, and Natasha glanced in Yelena’s direction, hesitating as she realized Yelena was looking at her. Yelena just raised an eyebrow at her, and Natasha smiled a little.

  Soon enough, things grew boring again as the rest of the group were arguing and Yelena started to lose interest, her eyes glazing over a little as she just stared in a random direction, not really paying any attention to anyone.

  However, she was swiftly grounded when she felt a gentle hand on her back. Yelena glanced in Natasha’s direction quizzically, recognizing the touch immediately. Natasha was not even looking in her direction and actually seemed to be somewhat invested in the conversation occurring before them.

  Yelena, on the other hand, could not think about much besides how nice the contact felt and how she just wanted to melt on the spot. She also was a bit stuck on just how embarrassed she was going to be if she gave in to those impulses.

  To her pure surprise, Natasha slipped her hand underneath the blonde’s shirt and started gently tracing along her back, her fingers tickling barely in the softest of touches. Yelena almost froze up, but the sensations were just so comforting.

  Yelena could not even really bring herself to turn away Natasha’s affections, and she felt her stomach twist uncomfortably as she realized that the Avengers were going to inevitably see her so weak and defenseless. She really did not want them to witness her in that state. However, she definitely did not want Natasha to stop gently raking her fingers along her back in that manner that always made her feel so immensely loved.

  She tried to fight the urge to lean against Natasha, valiantly holding out against Natasha’s gentle touches. She knew she could not hold out for long, but she was going to do the best she could for as long as possible.

  She felt Natasha running her fingers along her back in a specific pattern, and Yelena swiftly felt a letter “I” on her back. Natasha swiped carefully, erasing, and then wrote “love.” Yelena knew precisely where this was going, remembering the last time Natasha had pulled this trick when they were alone in their house and definitely not surrounded by the cool kids. It made Yelena’s heart ache with love and adoration before, and it was having that same effect now. She knew that as soon as Natasha wrote the last word on her back, she would be unable to resist just melting into her sister.

  Sure enough, Natasha wrote “you” on her back, and after a long moment of the most resistance that she could possibly manage, she finally leaned over sideways and rested her head against Natasha’s shoulder heavily. As soon as she did, she felt a huge weight leave her and most of the irritation about the stupid conference disappearing in favor of basking in the love offered to her by the redhead. Embarrassment was coursing through her almost as strongly, but not persistently enough to make her move away from Natasha’s touch.

  She quickly noticed that Clint had immediately noticed them, and she supposed that was not the most embarrassing person to see it, but she still felt quite a bit of humiliation anyway. However, it did not seem to phase Natasha’s gentle strokes and touches at all, and Yelena just looked down at the table, avoiding looking at Clint.

  “Is she okay?” Steve suddenly questioned after several beats, and Yelena felt her stomach drop to her feet, embarrassment flooding over her as she realized more than just Clint had apparently noticed her. However, she still could not quite pull away from her sister’s affections, instead moving her face to hide it a little in Natasha’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, of course,” Natasha replied, a bit of humor in her voice, and Yelena felt as if she might die from pure embarrassment as she realized that Natasha found her humiliation to be quite humorous.

  “Huh. Who would’ve thought that disaster Russian number two had such a soft side?” Tony commented, and Yelena felt herself bristle a bit. She could practically feel Natasha’s gaze on her.

  “She’s a cutie,” Natasha doted on her, her voice affectionate in an almost teasing sort of way, and Yelena pulled her head away from Natasha’s shoulder, stubbornly looking away from the group and her sister as well. This was growing to be much too humiliating.

  She could feel Natasha starting to move her hand away from her, but Yelena just moved her back and followed Natasha’s hand. Despite her embarrassment, she was not giving up the attention now.

  “Oh, and you can pet her like a housecat, too?” Tony asked, laughing a little, and it was then that Natasha’s hand froze on Yelena’s back. Yelena could almost feel the joking tone in the air totally drop in favor of something much graver and more serious as Natasha apparently did not entirely take that last comment as a joke and it crossed into risky territory.

  “Man, I’ve got to get me one of those,” Tony pointed out in his typical manner, and even though Yelena knew that he did not mean anything by it, it still made her bristle as it reminded Yelena of older days when the handlers, trainers, and higher-ups at the Red Room simply saw her as a fresh slab of meat to be distributed as they pleased. Natasha seemed to pick up on it, and Yelena could feel Natasha’s hand against her back tighten.

  “So, what have we decided on?” Natasha questioned, totally skipping over the quip, but anyone could read the extreme warning in Natasha’s tone and the venom percolating just beneath the surface. She was daring every single person to challenge her and say something.

  Yelena moved her head to the side, taking in Natasha’s face. Her face was neutral enough, but Yelena could see the danger in her eyes that prohibited anyone from saying anything else about Yelena. Yelena was surprised, but she was very much grateful to Natasha for her to take such a deep offense to it and stop it immediately. That last comment had definitely stepped over the line.

  Everyone cleared their throat, an awkward silence falling over them before Steve suddenly called for a vote. Yelena looked at Natasha with a great bit of admiration, her heart melting despite the embarrassment that Natasha had caused her earlier.

  She moved back nearer to her sister, leaning into her side heavily and not caring who saw. No one would say anything about it anyway. Not after Natasha’s display.

  Soon enough, they all ended up settling on some version of the plan that resembled Natasha’s suggestion but also had some of Steve and Tony’s ideas thrown in as well. They quickly dismissed after that, and everyone dispersed.

  When Yelena and Natasha were walking down the hall together in a comfortable silence, Natasha as calm as could be, Yelena spoke up.

  “Thank you,” Yelena told her quietly, and Natasha raised an eyebrow, smiling affectionately at the blonde as she slowed a bit to fall more into step with Yelena.

  “Nobody gets to embarrass my sister but me,” Natasha told her, an uncharacteristic lightheartedness and teasing in her voice despite the seriousness that was in her eyes. Yelena rolled her eyes, shrugging at Natasha’s arm that was now thrown over her shoulders. Natasha started to move it away, her chuckle ringing near Yelena, but the blonde reached up and grabbed Natasha’s hand, keeping her arm where it was.

  “You’re a real prizewinner in the jerk category,” Yelena grumbled despite leaning into Natasha a little.

  “I learned everything I knew from you.”

  “Ha,” Yelena let out a short, fake bark of laughter. “You must be a fast learner if you figured it out that well in the relatively short amount of time that we’ve been reunited.”

  Natasha just chuckled in reply to her. Yelena just raised an eyebrow with a smirk. After a moment, she just looked over at Natasha and eyed her softly, her heart swelling with affection. Natasha returned the gaze, her eyes conveying all the warmth in the world.

  “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

  “Ya lyublyu tebya yeshche bol'she.”

[whumpinggrounds]

All Caught Up

woohoo here for day 1 of @whumptober2021 with some superhero/sidekick content :) as i’m sure you’ll figure out, this is for the barbed wire part of the prompt

tagging @whumpy-writings, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed :)

CW: barbed wire, (duh), blood, field medicine, cuts, pain, crying, sidekick whump, environmental whump (kinda??)

The mission is going well, as far as August can tell. He’s been relegated to recon, which is a nice way of saying that he’s spending the night running circles around the action. Beck, ever the diplomatic leader, makes sure to talk up the importance of it, emphasize how August is keeping them safe by watching everyone’s back. August, young and green though he might be, is smart enough to know that it’s a little less dramatic than all that. At least he’s contributing, August tells himself. Mercer, his fellow trainee, is back at the compound with the medic girl, Valerie. Perhaps it’s only because August’s power is more useful, but he’d like to pretend it’s a little deeper than that.

By his fifteenth lap around their perimeter, August has to call his wishful thinking what it is. He’s not any more capable than Mercer, and certainly he’s less useful than Valerie. He’s just convenient for the current mission, which, by the way, he doesn’t even get to know about. After just a few minutes of the task, he has to admit what he’s really doing, which is running pointless circles around a warehouse in the dark, keeping his eyes open for anyone suspicious.

“What kind of suspicious person should I be looking for?” August had asked, overloaded on adrenaline as Beck and Donovan briefed him on the mission. Beck had nodded at the question, but Donovan had looked nothing short of disgusted.

“We’ll be at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city in the middle of the night. Anyone shows up, they’re suspicious. Is that simple enough for you?”

After weeks of training with him, August was well used to Donovan’s digs, but hearing it in front of Beck made him flush like it was the first time. He ducked his head, cringing from the friendly pat Beck tried to land on his shoulder.

“Don’s just stressed,” Beck had explained with an apologetic smile. August had forced a smile. If that was true, Donovan’s spent the past several weeks stressed, every minute of every day.

The memory of the conversation cheers August, just a little. It reminds him that he’s out here, jogging easy laps around the warehouse, instead of inside, within range of Donovan’s caustic comments. At a steady, sustainable lope, August cuts through the clear, slightly cool night air like a knife. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, including a mask pulled down over his face that hides his spiky, strawberry blonde hair. When he first dressed out like this, August had been tempted to ask what would happen if someone thought he looked suspicious, skipping around dressed completely in black. Before he got the words out, though, he imagined Donovan’s withering response, and Beck’s awkward pity. August decided it was better just to keep his mouth shut. Now he focuses on watching the world around him, scanning alleyways and empty roads in widening circles. It’s easy, meditative, the most familiar motion August knows.

Around him, the night is thick and silent. His footsteps echo down quiet streets, only the sound of buzzing streetlights and distant sirens there to keep him company. Of all the sketchy parts of the city, August wouldn’t have picked the warehouse district for a criminal hotspot – most of these places are legitimate shipping contract, complete with a rent-a-cops posted outside their chain link fencing. This building is on the edge, though. August examines it on his closer loops, trying to glean from the outside what must be going on within. He has a lot to learn, and it’ll take him twice as long if Donovan and Beck won’t explain things to him outright.

They’ve been in the area almost an hour when a new noise makes August’s ears prick up. Something rattles in one of the side streets, a way that’s been empty the last three times August checked it. Tightening his circle, August trots toward the sound, not sure whether he should hope for a stray dog, or something a little more exciting.

As he draws closer, August tries to note the ways the alleyway might’ve changed, but he just hasn’t been paying enough attention in all this quiet. There’s a bottle, gleaming empty, in the center of the alley, which may not have been there before. Slowing to a walk, August scans both sides of the way carefully, making sure to check the window sconces above him. He gets to the street on the other side, ready to give up, when he sees him. Across the way, there’s a man watching him – dark clothes, shifty eyes. Their eyes lock, and August feels his heart rate pick up.

Before he can say anything or start to move, the other man is turning and running. Despite himself, a smile spreads across August’s face. Perfect.

Springing into action, August throws himself into the chase. After all the casual jogging, it feels so good to run – muscles firing at top speed, peak efficiency. The world blurs past his face as August’s legs pump beneath him, fine and strong. Fully confident in his abilities, August charges forward, fighting the urge to grin.

Up ahead, the stranger doesn’t look back. Presumably, he can hear August’s footsteps, catching up to him in leaps and bounds. The guy darts into a nearby building, dodging through dilapidated rooms, no doubt as a last-ditch attempt at evasion. Smirking, August tears after him.

The only thing that keeps the man out of August’s reach are the doorways and minor obstacles that block August’s path. He has to slow down to dodge, and the stranger pulls ahead again, fleeing out the back door a few precious yards before August. Growling, August hurls himself forward again, springing off the bottom steps of the house. He takes two massive strides and then –

And then August is on the ground, for seemingly no reason. Heart pumping hard, adrenaline surging through his veins, August tries to bounce back to his feet without even checking what might be wrong. That’s when the pain hits.

It’s stinging, at first, in his legs, and then a strange, metallic rattling sound. August lies still, brain still trying to catch up to what exactly is going on. Slowly, tentatively, he tries to separate one leg from the other, and then sucks in a breath as the tearing pain sharpens. Peering down, he whimpers as the source of his agony is revealed.

A bunch of old, rusty strands of barbed wire are wrapped around his legs. He must’ve run into them, almost full speed. If they were stapled to something before, his momentum must’ve carried him straight through, but it’s just as likely that the coils were just sitting there. Either way, the wire is now wrapped tight around his legs, digging in with every little motion he tries to use to escape.

Okay. Okay. August tries to keep his breathing level, but it’s hard. It’s getting shaky. Okay, he tells himself, just, just sit up-

But sitting up moves the wires, makes them tear at his skin in new and agonizing ways. Hissing through his teeth, August gives up for a second, lies panting on the ground like a landed fish. The weight on his legs makes the barbs dig in all the deeper. Whining, August pushes himself up on his elbows and, fighting pain, reaches back to try to pull the damn thing off. Every single motion makes the barbs dig deeper, rip and tear at August’s skin like they have teeth and independent, vicious will.

Despite his gritted teeth, his clenched fists, his desperate attempts to control himself, tears leak from August’s eyes. Angrily he swipes them away, panting through the waves of stinging pain, trying to think. He needs to…he needs to…he needs to get upright, so he can untangle himself.

The thought of standing, of all the maneuvering he’ll need to do, puts a sob in August’s throat. He just wants it to stop hurting. Adrenaline is draining from his system, leaving him with helpless, useless pain. August wants someone to come help him – but even if Donovan and Beck are out looking for him, he has no way of knowing when they’ll find him. Besides, he’s a full-on adult. He’s supposed to be a superhero. He’s supposed to help on this mission, not hinder. August needs to fix this himself.

Drawing in a long, unsteady breath, August steels himself, eyes closed. He can’t fix anything from his current position, facing the ground and unable to see just how bad the knotting is. Trying to stand is going to dig the barbs even deeper into his thighs and calves. Flipping over on his back will tangle him further in the loose strands of wire. There’s no good option, but he can’t just lie here on his face and let the barbs bury themselves in his skin, hoping someone finds him soon.

Gritting his teeth, August makes his move fast, giving himself no time to chicken out. Throwing his body to the side, he flips himself onto his back, dragging the strands of wire with him.

The pain is blinding. Either the wire is still attached to something, or its own weight resisted August’s move – whatever it is, the wire wrapped around his legs drags hard against August’s flesh. Caught off guard, August screams, a harsh, ragged sound that echoes loud into the night. He screams just once, and then bites down savagely on his cheek, pressing a fist to his mouth to muffle his sobs. Below the waist, his pants grow wet with blood.

Fuck. Fuck. It hurts so bad his body shakes with his tears. It hurts. Inside his head, August is wailing, but on the outside, all he can do is lie on the ground shaking, pressing his fist so hard against his teeth that his knuckles split and bleed.

Fuck. Fuck. Just breathe. He has to breathe. He has to breathe, and then he has to get it together, and then he has to fix this.

After a few minutes of regaining his composure, August sits up gingerly. In the dim glow of flickering streetlights, he looks at the mess wound tight around his legs. Just seeing it makes his stomach drop. He has no tools with him, nothing that could be used to cut spiky steel wire. August will have to sit here and peel each piece away from his skin by hand, even as tugging at one strand pulls another strand tighter.

It's going to be agony. But August doesn’t have another choice. Already, his pants are damp, and it won’t be long before a puddle starts to form. He can’t just sit here and weep until his mentors come to save him.

With one shaking finger, August tries to trace the wire, to figure out where and how to start. Eventually, he abandons that idea – he’s held by at least two, maybe three separate pieces of wire, and they’re all twisted together, a chaotic tangle that engulfs his legs in too many different places. Locking his jaw together and vowing that he won’t scream, August sets out to free himself.

It feels like it takes forever. A few times, August wishes dizzily to pass out from blood loss, or pain, but though the barbs cut deep, he’s not losing a dangerous amount of blood. The pain, rather than knocking him out, seems determined to keep him inescapably, unbearably present, aware of every little agony that razor wire can cause. Every shift, every tug, every careful little motion sends searing pain reverberating through his body.

Driven to distraction by the pain, by gritting his teeth and reducing his screams to grunts, August casts around him, finally landing on an old cardboard box collapsing in on itself nearby. With greedy fingers he hauls it to himself, folds it into a packet as thick as a wallet, and stuffs it in his mouth. Cringing from the taste of earth and mold and damp, August draws in a difficult breath around the mouthful and then attempts a particularly hard yank.

Head falling back, August yowls into his makeshift gag, biting down so hard he chokes on his trapped tongue. Coughing, crying, keening into the cardboard like a wounded animal, August works an especially tight strand away from his calves, not letting himself stop, no matter how painful or loud the going is.

When the loop is finally loose, August lets his teeth creak apart. His jaw aches from the clenching, and his teeth have worn deep, blurred impressions in the old cardboard. His hands are trembling, stained with blood from his legs and from where he’s cut his palms heaving at the wire entrapping him. Swiping a bloody hand across his mouth, August tries to get his breath back, all the while moaning, letting out little repetitive whimpering cries, like an animal caught in a trap and begging for aid. Distantly, he’s surprised at himself – he’s never heard these little pleading whines before and wouldn’t have thought it was something he would do. He’d always thought of himself as a yeller, before, someone who outright bellowed their pain. Tonight, he’s timid and pathetic as a child.

By the time Beck and Donovan find him, August is working on the last round of wire, surrounded by the bloody remnants of his prior successes. He’s too exhausted and pain-sick to focus on anything but freeing himself, so he isn’t alerted to the presence of the other supers until he hears Beck’s murmur. “Oh, fuck.” The leader sounds horrified, sick. “Oh, fuck, August, what happened?”

Too weary to have dignity, August just opens his mouth and lets the cardboard fall out, hands dropping to his sides and away from the barbed wire still stuck in his legs. “Saw som’n watchin’ the warehouse.” It’s been so long since he tried to talk that August isn’t sure why he’s slurring – maybe exhaustion, maybe the pain. Maybe because he’s been biting down so hard on cardboard his jaw feels like it won’t work right ever again. “Trieda chase ‘em. Didn’ see…didn’ see the wire.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Don’ know. Feels like…a long time.”

August looks up at Beck with total, hopeless, bottomless despair. Swallowing hard, Beck drops to his knees beside August, hand slipping down to his toolbelt. In seconds, he has a pair of wire cutters out and ready, and August feels hysterical laughter well within him at the thought of how easy this all would’ve been if only Beck had been around.

From another street floats a familiar, four note whistle. Beck replies in kind through his teeth as he brings the clippers to rest against the wire. August grits his teeth, steeling himself for the snap, the sudden retraction of the coils. Hesitating, Beck peers at him. “This…this could hurt.”

“’ve peeled…plen’y of it off m’self,” August grits out. “Jus’…hurry.” He drags in a shaky breath and wills himself to be brave. “…please.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, August remembers the cardboard too late. Without it, he lets an agonized grunt escape his lips as the wire cutters sever the last loop. Even the minute relaxation of his newly released legs is enough to jerk cruelly on the barbs embedded in his thighs. Fresh tears spring to his eyes beneath his mask, and August wonders wretchedly if Beck can see them.

If Beck does see his youngest trainee crying, he’s good enough not to say anything about it. When August peeks through slitted eyes, he sees his leader bent over the wire, focusing hard, drawing each barb out carefully and trying not to jostle as he does.

It hurts only a little less than August’s work on himself, but it’s over blessedly quick. When Beck finally sits back on his heels, August is left panting and bloody, but finally free. For a long moment he just sits there, leaning back on his elbows, trying to catch his breath. Opening his eyes, he discovers that sometime in the last few minutes, Donovan arrived, and is now staring at him, green eyes unreadable under his mask.

“August was trying to chase down a possible spy and ran into some razor wire.” Beck’s voice is low, distracted. “Maybe night vision goggles next time? Or-”

“Or the trainee learns not to run into shit like fences, walls, and goddamned barbed wire.”

“Don-”

“Can’t teach common fucking sense, Beck.” Donovan snorts. “Or maybe you can, but you shouldn’t waste your time.”

Letting his head drop, August bites his lip hard to avoid dissolving into tears. He’s tried so hard to be brave. When he speaks, his voice comes out as a wavery, exhausted whisper. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long silence from his two mentors. “Come on, Donovan.” Beck sounds tired. “He’s lost a fair amount of blood.”

Donovan just grunts, and crosses the courtyard, and scoops August up in an effortless bridal carry. He isn’t especially gentle, but he isn’t especially rough either, and he carries August, bloody and teary and exhausted, all the way home.

[thedeathdeelers]

Okay just because I fucking love your writing unmm something about Julie maybe reflecting on how Luke was brought to her, by the universe or her mom etc, and just fucking soulmate fluff. I loved your religion drabble btw!!

thank you so much!!!🥰

sorry for the delay :$ but i hope you like it!! (ps it turned out to be way longer than i anticipated, so, ya)

pps: you can now find this on my AO3 🤗

——

i think i dreamed you into life

   It was a Julie & Luke writing session, just like any other. They were sat, hunched over their shared journal on the faded black couch, too absorbed by the words and notes scribbled on the pages in front of them to pay any attention to anything else.

   Julie had just had an epiphany, finally finding the right words to lead them into the chorus following the first verse. With a stiff neck and a cramping hand, Julie stretched her arms over her head, sitting up for a second before collapsing back onto the back cushions of the couch. She heaved a large sigh, looking around and only just registering the low setting sun. They had somehow managed to lose track of time, again, spending well over what she assumed was 4 hours working on this one song. She shook her head, a small smile on her lips as she looked back at her writing partner, still fully focused on the journal in his lap.

   They were so alike sometimes, it scared her a little. How could they be so perfect for each other when they were never meant to meet? Cross paths? She often found herself wondering about the way they were brought together, the reasons they were in each others’ lives. But then as soon as her mind wandered towards the mysteries of the universe and its guiding powers, she always ended up spiraling - no matter how she looked at it, Luke and her were somehow meant to be. Fated. Star crossed....whatever.

   Her train of thought would always start off innocently enough - she was part of a ghost band. She could see ghosts (well three particular ghosts, at least) - the only lifer who could without Caleb’s help (as far as Willie could tell). She had never really been one to believe in the supernatural, but she was now so intrinsically involved, that she frequently wondered whether everything about her life wasn’t just a dream. Maybe after years & years of practice, she had managed to hone in her daydreaming skills to a point that allowed her to create a world that sounded a little too much like she was the protagonist in a movie or a show. This couldn’t actually be real life, could it? Her life?

   The couch shifted, Luke reaching over to grab his guitar, testing out a line before placing his guitar back on the ground, and crossing out a whole section. No, she doesn’t think her mind could have ever managed to dream up Luke.

Don’t get her wrong, there were definitely moments where Julie felt just as normal as she used to. She’d forget that the boys were anything other than her lovable, goofy bandmates. Normal teenage boys, messing around and playing music in her mom’s studio. But then she would look up and see bright hazel eyes staring back at her, and she‘d unexpectedly be hit again by the storm of emotions that washed over her the first time she had accidentally walked through Luke. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She had felt cold, then warm, and then this peculiar feeling of being....whole. Like she had just come home after a long tiring trip. She couldn’t describe it properly even if she tried, but the only thing that came close to summing it up was home.

Julie closed her eyes, trying to recreate the feeling, bringing it back up to the surface.

Her logical side knew soulmates was just a term used to romanticise romance, she knows that, but whenever she remembers that feeling, just like she is now, she wonders whether she had somehow felt his soul in that kitchen - sneaked a peek before latching onto it. These thoughts made it harder to hold onto logic.

Ugh, she was spiralling again. Julie lifted her hands to her face, rubbing furiously at her eyes, trying to dislodge some of the thoughts clouding her mind. She could feel a headache coming on, and that was the last thing she needed right now. She rolled her head back, resting against the old cushions, and looked at the floating chairs on the ceiling.

Her mother. Didn’t her mother always tell her that there was more to the world than meets the eye? That it wasn’t always wise to think only with one’s mind, but to trust your gut, your heart?

It used to be comments like those that led Julie to believe that her mother was more than just her mother. Could Rose have been an angel in disguise all along? Fate, Love, personified? Julie would be lying to herself if she said she had never thought about her mother being the key instigator behind the boys’ presence in her life. She just somehow knew that Rose had handpicked these boys, and sent them to her. Sent Luke to her. She had known that Julie would need divine intervention to pull herself out of her slump, and who better to do that than the one person, the one soul in the universe that perfectly aligned with hers?

Julie rolled her head to the side once more, staring at Luke’s profile, his brows drawn, deep in thought. If he hadn’t died all those years ago, if he hadn’t eaten that unfortunate hotdog, this never would have been possible - they never would have met. Julie shuddered at the thought, her heart and soul aching in protest.

A connection of heart, mind and soul, her mother had told her. “They really do exist, mija” she‘d say, but Julie would only smile and nod, never truly believing that soulmates were real, that they were part of the universe’s grand design. But now-

Oh. Soulmates.

“Did you say something?”

Startled, Julie blinked herself out of her daze, realising too late that she was thinking out loud.

“N- no, no, nothing. Just uh- just thinking of the next verse, you know,” she chuckled awkwardly, avoiding Luke as she tried not to fidget. “Always working!” She pointed to her temple, immediately regretting the movement, cringing at her awful attempt at a cover up.

She could feel Luke’s unwavering gaze, focused on her as he sat up, pushing the journal onto the seat next to him. He shifted, turning towards her, even as she continued to face forward. Her cheeks were definitely getting warmer. Not good.

“Did you-” she saw him tilt his head to the side from the corner of her eye, “did you just say Soulmates?”

A lie was on the tip of her tongue, ready to burst, but as she reflexively slid her eyes to meet his, the words died out before they could be vocalised.

He was looking at her with a peculiar look in his eyes, a slightly awed expression etched on his face.

“I- I was just thinking...” She stuttered, unable to take her eyes off of Luke’s, even as her fingers fiddled with the loose threads of her jumper.

“About?”

“You know,” she lifted her hands, gesturing at the space around them, trying to be as vague as possible. “Life.”

Eyebrows shot up, disappearing under his orange beanie.

“Life? Really?”

“Yes. Life. Just..you know, how things change. Like the way you grow up thinking one thing but then something happens and it completely changes the way you see the world around you, the way your beliefs...shift.” She shrugged, trying and failing to seem nonchalant.

“Hm, deep thoughts for a Saturday afternoon.” He studied her for a second, before cocking his head to the side. “Any reason this led to the conclusion of Soulmates?”

Julie shifted uncomfortably, trying hard not to look away even as she felt her cheeks somehow growing even warmer.

“I...I was just thinking about my mom. And things she used to talk about and believe in with a certainty that always...confused me I guess. How could she believe in something so easily, when she couldn’t even see it? Feel it?” Julie diverted her gaze, choosing to look at her mom’s piano instead. Her voice took on a quieter tone, almost reflective as she continued with her new train of thought. “What if she wanted me to believe again? What if she had somehow found a way to not only get music back into my life, but to believe in love and fate and-“ Julie stopped short, her eyes darting back to Luke - his face was now frozen, showing her nothing of what he might be feeling.

Julie suddenly felt very silly.

“Never mind,” she laughed awkwardly, trying to play it off as just silly musings. “My mind was just wandering, but now I’m back and maybe we should just get back to that second verse...” Her voice trailed off, Luke’s face still giving nothing away.

Crap. She just made it weird - this is what she gets for letting her mind go down the rabbit hole that is the universe and its misguided mysteries. Way to go, Julie.

   Just as she was about to jump up and flee to her bedroom, hoping that maybe her floor would do her the courtesy of swallowing her up, Julie felt the couch dip further down to her right, Luke’s knee pressing up against her thigh. Resisting the urge to look at him, her eyes flickered to her fingers, to their journal and then back to her mom’s piano.

   “You know,” Luke spoke up, voice soft, almost a whisper, “I never gave fate much thought back when I was alive. I always figured a person forged their own fate by believing hard enough in what they wanted and then working even harder to get there.” He reached over, grabbing hold of her right hand, ceasing the fidgeting motions of her fingers. “Even when it came to my soul, I only ever considered it when thinking about music and the power it had over me and my life. If music was so important, wouldn’t it mean my soul was constantly connected to it? My instrument, an intrinsic part of who I am?”

   He went quiet for a few seconds, prompting Julie to turn her head back towards him, as his calloused thumb started rubbing gently against her knuckles. His gaze, which had been glued to her face the entire time, was now locked on their hands.

“So I always figured I was “fated”, I guess you could say, to follow that connection I had with music, and just see where that took me.” His fingers were now tracing little circles on the back of her hand. “But then we died, and became ghosts, and it changed the way I think about things, but at the same, my core beliefs remained the same. I’m still not sure about fate, and the role it plays in how things are dictated in my life, but I know that music is still such a major part of me. Because, I mean, if that wasn’t the case, how could you have possibly pulled me back from the dead and down to earth by playing our song? How could you, a lifer 25 years after I died, have been the one to pull me back, and make me feel alive again?” He shook his head before he continued. “And every time I ask myself these questions I just come back to the same conclusion,” he stops for a second, lifting his eyes back up to hers. “You embody music to me. You, Julie, have always been what my soul was connected to - not my guitar, not just music in general - but you, my own personal musical goddess.” His lips tilted up at the corners at his last words, his eyes boring into hers.

   “So yeah, I know what you mean about not necessarily wanting to believe in something unless you can see it or feel it. But at this stage, how could I not believe in soulmates when you’re right here, somehow a part of my life, 25 years after I’ve died?” He shook his head again, his smile getting a little sad. “We technically never should have met, would have never crossed paths, but fate....fate had other plans for us I guess. Our souls just couldn’t bare being separated, and the universe just....found a way to rectify that.” 

   Julie could do nothing but stare at the beautiful boy in front of her, her mind trying to process the prose he just recited to her. Almost as if by reflex, Julie slowly lifted her hands up, cupping his face and held onto him like he was the most precious thing in the entire world - because he was.

Luke mirrored her actions, his eyes soft, as his fingers traced her cheeks, wiping away tears she didn’t even know were there.

And just as she was about to let loose the words that had been rattling around in her mind ever since he had stumbled into her life, Luke beat her to it.

“I think we might be soulmates, Jules.”

FIN

[hopeamarsu]

Moon and Starlight

@autumnleaves1991-blog​ Writer Wednesday entry. 

Ronnie Peterson x reader 

Word count 1k

Warnings: None I think. Maybe a tiny mention of wars and fighting. 

A/N: I’m jumping slightly on the Soulmate AU train, but it’s a sidecar called Reincarnation AU. 

He remembers most of his lives, though some of them are mixed together in a haze. But he always remembers you. 

He remembers the time in Russia, working in the glamorous palace of the Tsar as a kitchen boy. He remembers the blistering winters when the wind would seep through the cracks in the walls and you huddled in his arms, sharing body heat and thin blankets.

He remembers Rome, the warmth of the new stone pathways under his sandals as he walked among the free men and women. He remembers your smile from across the macellum and the scent of the exotic spices you carried in large doliums.

He remembers being a soldier during the Ming Dynasty though he has forgotten under which Emperor he served. But he does remember the sensation of calmness that washed over him as he entered the house you shared and sat down to eat.

He remembers the time of the conquistadors, the fear and fighting. He remembers urging you to flee, to hide and live but you had remained by his side until the very end. It’s not his fondest memory but your fierceness and willingness to be with him still warms his heart.

So many lives, so many times but you have been the one constant in all his time on this Earth. And he can always look forward to your reunion, it’s often one of his happiest memories. It’s always the same, the tingle that runs up and down his body when you are near. He will never grow bored of that feeling, no matter how many times he experiences it.

His long legs carry him forward, taking in the scents and the background voices of humans and animals. He suddenly feels the need to duck into an alleyway, to find shade and reprieve from the blistering heat. Something tugs at him and he follows the movement. An open archway beckons him and unable to resist, he folds his long body so he can fit under it.

He is greeted by a vision: long vines drop down from the ceiling and down the walls. All over the room they grow, the leaves lush and green as they tickle his neck when he advances towards the clearing. He sees the beautiful blue water in the pool, and can count down the number of mosaics on the bottom. The pattern feels familiar somehow. Has he seen it before? Has he been here before?

He leans against the railing and lets his eyes roam the patterns and variations in color as he waits for you. He doesn’t mind waiting, the tingle tells him you are near. He lets himself wonder what you will wear, will something in your attire reflect times shared. Sometimes he is sad that the belongings don’t follow you, he distinctly remembers a pearl necklace he gifted you once, how it looked against your skin. 

“Excuse me, sir?”

A voice interrupts him and he knows by the powerful tingling that you are here. Slowly he turns around, running his hand through his inky locks to lift them from his face. His dark eyes raise up to meet you and for a moment, the world stops spinning as he looks at you. 

You look so different, yet so same. He catalogs the arch of your brow, the shape of your mouth and the familiar eyes that he has seen a thousand times and he feels himself falling in love again. Nothing else matters, your eyes will always be filled with your soul and complete his. 

“Starlight?” He murmurs as he steps closer so that your noses almost touch. You look up - you’ve almost always been shorter than him in your shared time. It’s another familiarity that he keeps in his heart for all the times when he has had to find you again.

The name sparks something in you as suddenly he can see the crinkling of the corners of your eye as you smile at him. You take his hand into yours and give it a small squeeze. He looks at the tongue that peeks from behind your lips as you wet them and he wants desperately to taste you. Will you taste like the food he smelled when he arrived in this town, in this place? Or will it be something else, something he will spend a lifetime chasing and hoping to recreate? 

“Yes, my moon. We are found once more.”

Your voice is breathless and it’s only so much he can take. He captures your lips and kisses you, allowing for the 30-odd years of loneliness to be washed away. He feels your hands wrap around his neck as you deepen the kiss and it feels right. It feels like the world has shifted into place and can start moving again. 

All too soon the need for air becomes too much and he has to separate from your lips. He keeps close, foreheads pressed together as you share his air, breaths mingling together. He wants to keep chasing your taste, the mix of the food he smelled earlier and something so uniquely you that can never be forgotten. 

“What’s your name?” You whisper as you keep playing with his hair. He’s close to purring, the sensation of the movements so good and so right. It’s another familiarity, your touch in his hair and face, his ears and the back of his neck. He loves when you trace his features, when you caress him with so much affection in your fingertips. 

“Ronnie. What’s yours?”

As you give your name, he finds the melody of the letters fitting you well. He rolls it on his tongue and whispers it back to you, enjoying how it tastes and feels when his chest vibrates. It might be one of his favorites so far, but it will never replace his word for you, the one he uses to describe you to others, should they want to listen. To Ronnie you’ll always be his starlight, his way home.

Everything taglist @clydesducktape @wayward-rose @themuseic @miraclesabound @clydesfavoritegirl @a-true-janian-reply  @10blurredsmoke10  @caillea @mind-p0llution

ADCU taglist @finn-ray-nal-beads @iamasithprincess @historyandfandoms50 @morby @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mariesackler @sacklerscumrag @adamdrivercouldchokeme​ @daydreamsofren​ @fizzywoohoo​ @millenialcatlady​  @roanniom @maybe-your-left @direnightshade @joyfulfirefury @paper-n-ashes @cornmousequeen @safarigirlsp​

(please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list any time!)

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series Part 29

Alright, part 29 is done, and you can have some cheeky Rhix whump.

Warnings: Mentions/brief descriptions of murder, brief part on previous eye whump and descriptions of it, mentions of nsfw and a non-con assumption, but it does not happen.

Approx WC: 3500

Taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @thegreathowdini Seeing the castle of Everblood come into view, the enormous towers and mighty walls, the ragged eerie flags that hung lifelessly in the cold air, seeing the old battle scars where the castle had survived attack after attack didn't quite give Avizon the comfort he'd expected it to have despite longing to return- and it wasn't because he was out in the open. He didn't feel like he could be safe anymore. He feared an attack from unseen enemies at any moment. He willed the metal gates to open until he was through and then slam shut behind him. He doubted it would be enough anymore. Maybe Orrien was right; he'd become too dependent on walls and stone despite his claims he was the most powerful in the land.

He set to work on unloading the supplies and tending to Secret, brushing her coat, feeding her and getting her settled for the evening. He smiled at his birds once the work was done and let them do as they wished for a while until dinner. He'd hunted some rabbit along the way so their dinners were sorted. He didn't really feel like eating after killing that man. He'd deserved it for causing such pain, but Avizon still felt like a monster, he still felt out of control. He did wish he could give up his power, but he just didn't have the courage. He knew what he was with that power, but what would he be without it...

He sighed, thinking back to the time where he'd returned to this castle years ago after his wounds eventually healed, after he'd lost Ro and been found after weeks of torture. He'd kidnapped the king with ease, teleporting in, grabbing him from his bed, and teleporting out. It had been that simple. He'd forced him down on the stone altar despite his cowardly begging and pleading.

Oh, the riches and powers he had promised him, wealth beyond measure, the ability to pick any man in the land to replace Ro and Halve would make sure he was able to have him as he wished, fine steeds, castles and servants to command. As if Ro was some cheap toy! As if everything he'd suffered through was so quickly washed away. He'd stared him in the eyes and stabbed him clean through the heart, giving him the sacrifice he'd needed to be able to inherit the dark powers that had soon controlled him.

That had been the easy part, but the sacrifice he had to personally give in exchange had been his eye. That pain had been unlike anything he'd ever felt, the heavy rotting, burning sensation. He didn't like taking off his patch. He hated seeing his eye, how it was black as coal, weepy and so painful whenever light reached it. It did nothing to stop him feeling like a monster. Sometimes it still hurt, the heavy burning withering feeling returned and nothing could ease the pain…

He'd taken over the palace in a rage after that. He'd given the innocents the chance to leave, Orrien helped see to that. Avizon had been left with the scum, and their screams still echoed in his mind. He didn't fully regret what he'd done. Especially to the princess. Eriona had deserved it and so much more. Not just because of what she did to him, but to her two cloudwalkers. Fluffy and Flutter had suffered just as much as he had, perhaps worse at times.

He wanted to find them as soon as he could. Now he was finding himself again, he wanted to give them a chance at happiness. He should have remembered them, he should have cared more. He'd remembered to save Rhix before he drowned in darkness, but he hadn't been able to remember the birds. Back then he was a different man and didn't view them as well as he should have. He'd hated their suffering of course, but he hadn't considered them to be so human… but things were different now.

If they were out there. He would find them and give them the chance to be safe from harm.

Avizon sighed, thoughts wandering to Rhix. Rhix had been a good friend before he'd taken over the castle. Avizon had been the only one Rhix had dared tell about how the King, Kellis, treated him, how he suffered and was constantly being humiliated, treated like some common entertainer. His castle had been almost as bad as Avizon's. Avizon had saved him from that, giving him the chance to grow into a more confident young man. He'd saved him, and it hurt to think all the circle saw him as a truly evil. But Orrien's words gave him hope. Maybe Rhix hadn't completely given up on him…

-----

Avizon struggled within his own skin as he sat on the throne in the gallery. Sometimes twirling a small parchment around in his fingers, other times scrunching it up, waiting impatiently for his 'guests' to arrive. He'd sent a message days ago, a message to the neighboring kingdom where Rhix 'served'. In his hand he held their cowardly answer.

Surrender your sorcerer, Rhixius, to me, alive and well. If you do not bring him, your kingdom will be next to fall. It is my one and only demand.

It was no surprise when a message had been returned quickly. They'd given him up, without even thinking about the possibilities of what Avizon could do with dark magic and a sorcerer with containment talent. Fortunately for them he wasn't interested in that, though the darkness inside certainly was. For now Avizon could only wait for them to bring him. He'd managed to fight the dark part of him that wanted to tell the king he knew his secrets, how they treated Rhix, and send all his rage at him. But he feared that they would harm him for telling someone. Avizon wanted Rhix alive and well and there was no point in risking that.

He felt the presence of men in his domain. He could feel Rhix was with them, but his powers were… weak, incredibly so. As if he'd been sapped of all his energy. He crushed the paper in his hand. If they'd leeched him then so help him…

The men carefully made their way to the throne room. Avizon barely managed to tuck away his shock. He'd expected for Rhix to have resisted, to be bound, but this was different.

Rhixius had been a pitiful sight, his hands were bound in front of him with rough ropes and he was shirtless, covered with shining jewelry and silky baggy pants. His body was littered in bruises and scratches. Avizon wondered how much he'd struggled on the way here. They really thought he wanted Rhix as a partner. No doubt Rhix was terrified. He didn't suppress the growl that rose in his throat, seeing Rhix's pale skin, the old scars and signs of torment, new and old.

He'd been gagged and blindfolded, and was so unaware of what was going on around him. He swayed, but Avizon wasn't sure if that was because of the blindfold or not. Rhix whimpered when they forced him to a halt and shoved him down on his knees. He groaned and struggled not to fall forward. A hand in his hair ensured he couldn't.

"We brought your whore," one man sneered. Avizon brought fire to his hands and glared. "Repeat those words." The man gulped and let go of Rhix, backing away and bowing. "I… I.I thought that you- I didn't- I beg your forgiveness-"

Avizon had already hurdled a ball of fire at him, hitting him hard in the shoulder. The man screamed and rolled around the floor, trying to put out the flames. The flames tore through the clothes quickly and chewed at his skin until he managed to put the last if it out, panting, sobbing. Avizon didn't care.

Rhix tensed up, bracing for pain. Avizon saw how he ducked his head down, trying to seem as small as possible. Avizon didn't want to scare him too. He'd clearly been through enough. The others deserved to suffer. He clenched his fists.

"Do not speak of this man as though he were nothing," Avizon snarled. "One word from him seeking revenge and I will destroy every last brick of your kingdom!” "B.but we have your word you will not attack our kingdom or any other?" The leader spoke up carefully.

"It's true I have what I wanted. But I will not deny Rhixius the chance of revenge if his heart desires. You'd best pray he is far more forgiving than I. If I am left alone and Rhixius chooses peace, then you've nothing to fear. But if I ever hear-" Avizon summoned a wave of dark magic, the deepest he could feel at the time which engulfed the room in darkness.

From the shadows, hands reached out and grabbed all the men, restraining them. He brought fire to his hands and approached the leader slowly, bringing the fire closer and closer to his sweating face. "-that the king is using another man and hurts him as he did Rhix I will not hesitate." Avizon clenched his fists again to put the fire out, ignoring how his hands went numb for now.

"I… I will inform him of your conditions, my Lord." The men bowed, fear radiated off their bodies. Avizon stood and snatched the rope from him that was connected to a collar around Rhix's neck. He let the magic disappear in the blink of an eye and his body felt so heavy from it. His eye throbbed, but he let the pain fuel his anger for now.

"Out."

That had been enough for them to flee, as if they'd never even been there.

Avizon's attention turned to Rhixius. He struggled with his dark side, he could feel it churning inside him. He circled his trembling form. Part of him wanted to savour the sight, but the rest of him was appalled at the thought, yet unable to stop himself. He felt like a puppet. He grabbed Rhix by the chin and made him look up. Rhixius whimpered. Avizon groaned trying to beat his urges back. He let go and Rhix's head dropped forward limply.

He wanted him. He wanted a pet, a servant, something to be dependent on him and to have complete control over. Rhix would be perfect- He was able to break out of it when he saw Rhix sway badly. He slumped forward with a groan and Avizon's body acted without his mind. He caught him and pulled him close to his chest protectively. No. Rhix was a friend. He would not hurt him! He had to protect him, even from himself.

Avizon was stunned at just how cold he was. He reached for his blindfold. Rhix yelped and flinched away. "Shhh, be at ease." Avizon continued, sliding the white material up, revealing what really were beautiful iridescent eyes. Rhix blinked hard to adjust before he stared up in shock. Avizon ignored him and carefully eased the gag out of his mouth. He cupped his cheek to support his jaw.

"There… I always swore to you that I would save you from that place. I have done so."

"A.Avizon… why…" tears shone in his eyes. "Why did you turn to the shadows… y.you were free…" "Because I wasn't strong enough," his voice harsh like sandpaper. "I couldn't protect him."

"Ro? Avizon, that wasn't your fault…" Avizon shook his head. "I don't expect you to understand. I'm not important. Where is your power?.. Did they use a leech?" "N.No… I. I breathed in powder… they found a way of blocking it for hours at a time… I… I don't know how it's made."

Avizon took a deep breath. He felt better, being closer to him, closer to light magic. It was easier to think clearly, but it made his eye hurt more. Avizon hissed and covered it with a hand.

"Let's get you a bath, a meal, and bed," he managed.

Avizon started to free his hands but Rhix whimpered "Is that why I'm here? What the other man said, what they've all been saying…"

"No." His voice was firm. Solid. "I swore I would free you and I found a way of doing so. It's true that I… I want you to stay, as a friend, so I can protect you but… I already know you wouldn't want that. I'm dangerous now, and the best way to keep you safe would be if you weren't here. Once your powers have returned, I can only beg of you to go to the spire. They should be able to do what I cannot."

Rhix's expression was hard to read. Relief, worry, shock. Avizon gave up trying to understand it. He sighed. "Can you walk?" Rhixius nodded hesitantly. "I think so?"

Avizon managed to put his own pain aside and carefully helped him up, teleporting him upstairs. Using his powers, keeping the darkness flowing, made it easier to control the urges. He sat Rhix down on the side of a bed for now. Rhix only frowned and reached up slowly for Avizon's face. "What happened to your eye?"

Avizon turned his face away. "It… was sacrificed, let's say. It's not a pretty sight. Hopefully time will ease the pain." "May I see? Perhaps I can help?" "I doubt it…"

He let Rhix reach up with trembling fingers and ease the eyepatch away. He winced at the sight. It was dark magic for sure. The eye was pitch black, weepy, and looked almost like stone or charred wood. The surrounding skin was practically purple as the darkness had made its way into the surrounding capillaries. It was a terrible mess, and Avizon despised it.

"Avizon…" but words would not come to him. "Please let go of this magic before it's too late. Let go of it a.and I'll stay. I swear it. You'll have enough power to stay safe with me. You don't need it."

Avizon shook his head and moved Rhix's hands away, feeling another wave of darkness. "I can't. I am sorry…" "But it could kill-"

Avizon's mind slipped. He grabbed Rhix by the throat before he could stop himself. Rhix tried to bring magic to his hands on instinct, but nothing happened. Fear glowed in his eyes. 

"The magic stays," Avizon hissed. "Unless you care for a share of it too? We could rule together, be unstoppable, and reshape the world in our image."

Rhix brought his elbow down hard to force Avizon to let go. He coughed hard and shook his head. "I. I don't want that. Take a look at yourself! You can't control it! It's not meant to be controlled. Avizon, please do not go down this path, I'll do anything. Let me help you, let me at least stop it from destroying my friend!" Tears pooled in his eyes.

Avizon groaned and fell back against the wall, clutching his head. He looked up at him and whimpered. "I am so sorry. I.I'll go before I really hurt you… I'm sorry, Rhix. I never wanted this." Avizon rushed away, keeping his hands close to his body. What had he done?!

---

Avizon wished he'd taken Rhix up on that offer. Maybe he'd have been happy with a friend by his side, but there was no point thinking about it. He'd made his decision and had been miserable and alone.

Avizon finished up at the stables and found Dyan's dreamcatcher still hanging up in the cart where he'd first stored it. He'd have to put it up for him before night fell. He sighed, took it down, and went to the birds' room.

He found Dyan laying glumly in bed. He sighed softly. "What's wrong, Dyan?" "Nothing really. Just… I miss Blue. This place is so big that it makes me feel more lonely…" "I understand that feeling all too well. You can stay in the tower today with me if you like?"

Dyan nodded and rubbed his eyes. He watched Avizon put the dreamcatcher up in the window. "There, that ought to help you," Avizon smiled.

"Thank you, master, for doing so much for me a.and buying me nice things. I'm the luckiest cloudwalker in the world to be by your side." That caught Avizon off guard a little. He smiled softly and ruffled his hair. "Thank you, Dyan. Now let's get going. I need to study the venom I collected from Tashka."

Dyan sat sleepily beside Avizon, resting against his knee, drifting off to sleep with his head against him. Avizon smiled and left him to rest, for now focusing on his work. He needed to know what had happened, to know just what Borgurk was planning. Tashka had certainly been right. The magic he could feel in the venom certainly belonged to Borgurk. That scum had lingered in the shadows unsupervised for far too long, ever since Avizon had fought him. In truth, Avizon wished and had even thought him dead. It scared him to know he could come back. He had loved ones he could lose again…

He was still working when Dyan woke up from his rather long nap. He startled awake with a loud cheep before flopping back down against his master's leg. "It's alright, little bird. Bad dream?" "I'm not sure.. I think I was being chased."

"Are you well enough for me to ask for a little of your venom, for comparison?"

Dyan gulped but nodded and got up on his knees. He opened his mouth and waited. Avizon was patient as he massaged behind his ear, sometimes a little rougher than what was relaxing, but it worked. Venom dripped and Avizon collected it. Avizon had what he needed. He patted Dyan's hair and invited him to lie down again.

Dyan peeked over the top of the table to see what his master was doing. He was surprised by all the bottles and tools and devices.

"I don't like this at all…" Avizon mumbled. "Borgurk's up to something terrible… Dyan, I don't want you or Ihuka leaving the magic circle that surrounds this castle, you understand? Something dark and dangerous is afoot."

"Yes, master."

Avizon wished he knew what but until Borgurk played his hand he feared he wouldn't know. Of course he realised Borgurk was interfering with cloudwalker magic, probably to make himself stronger but… Then what? Did he have a target in mind? A goal? That's where he was less sure. He needed to prepare, take measures to protect everyone…

"Master?" Dyan said softly, breaking Avizon out of his thoughts. "Are… are you alright? Can I help?..." Avizon looked down and smiled at him. He stroked his hair lovingly. "You already are helping. Good bird. Are you feeling better?"

Dyan nodded and decided to hug Avizon's leg.

"I wonder where Ihuka wandered off to… its almost dinner time. This can wait a little while, I need time to think. Come, let's go find him." Dyan let go and waited for his master to stand before he rose up off the floor. "Maybe he's at his favourite window?"

"You go search there and then your room. I'll wander until I can sense him."

And so he wandered, Dyan returned without Ihuka and Avizon frowned in mild confusion. He knew Ihuka was still in the grounds. He wasn't worried, just curious.

He didn't expect to find him sitting at the top of one of the towers, looking out at the immense view, hugging his knees with the stuffed toy Avizon had bought him.

Avizon approached noisily so as to not startle him. Ihuka turned quickly, likely not sure if he was in trouble or not. "Good bird," Avizon said softly, hoping to ease that anxiety as soon as he could. Ihuka visibly relaxed and went back to looking at the view.

"It's dinner time… Ihuka? Anyone in there?" Ihuka seemed lost in thought, in emotion. He stared out into the world and… longed? Grieved perhaps?

Ihuka flinched when Avizon carefully touched his shoulder. "You miss your brother?" "Sorry, master," Ihuka said quickly. Avizon hushed him softly. "We'll find him. Let's get you fed now, alright? Dinner time."

Avizon ruffled his hair gently and then made his way down for a meal. Ihuka hugged Dyan when he saw him sitting at the table. Avizon was glad they had each other since they couldn't find much comfort with him. He really did wish he could do more, but as Orrien said, they needed time.

He hoped giving them some time back home away from everything would help all three of them. He knew fate was in motion, conflict was nearing and they needed the time to rest. If it didn't work, he didn't know what else he could do. 

[i-like-plan-m]

I love all your writing. You have a gorgeous way with words and a very well-thought-out approach to AUs. That being said, my favourite of your works has to be the "WWX is raised by another Sect." If you wanted to write something about WWX being raised by Baoshen Sanren, I would be all over it. ♡

Plus a similar prompt from @sabeanybabe! 

I know you explore the bloodline of Sanren a lot, but I would like to see more fics where everyone gets super freaked about wwx bc of this. Maybe in this world he grows up on the immortal mountain, and leaves briefly (I like fics where he can go back to the mountain bc hes family, esp. bc he might not have the Jiangs). I'd love to see the reactions of when comes to the classes w/o invitation bc his grandma, the immortal, sent him. wwx disrupts CR in a different and new way

Posted to Ao3: wander the edges of light

“Stand up straight,” Lan Qiren hissed at a fidgeting disciple. Lan Wangji did not turn around, busy watching the path with Lan Xichen at his side and half the sect gathered somewhat restlessly behind them. 

Not even the famous Lan composure could withstand a meeting with the legendary Baoshan Sanren, it seemed.

His could, he thought with some disdain. And xiongzhang was as poised as ever. But curiosity was contagious, and their disciples were on edge from the sudden dissipation of their wards and the ensuing announcement that Baoshan Sanren would be visiting to assist them with repairs. 

Without warning, Lan Yi had fallen into a frozen sleep in the Cold Pond Cave that few knew existed. Her strength had been the only thing keeping a certain dangerous item hidden, and their defensive wards had faltered without her for some unknown reason. 

The Cloud Recesses was left vulnerable with war looming on the horizon-- without their wards, they were open to attack, and they had few options that would let them repair the wards and still be prepared to fight. 

Instead of risking the sect further, Lan Qiren had sent a messenger to the foot of Baoshan Sanren’s mountain. A stroke of luck had one of her disciples notice the courier and agree to carry it to their master. The response was swift and brief: Baoshan Sanren would come to the Cloud Recesses for her former friend, and to protect their sect until Lan Yi was well again.

If she woke again. Lan Wangji had his doubts; he’d seen his ancestor’s place of rest, a stasis of some sort that kept her suspended in unconsciousness. 

A sudden warm wind ruffled the trees and sent a shower of leaves raining down on the path, concealing the bend just outside of the gates where the sect disciples waited. They spun in a loose whirlwind made up of a myriad of reds and oranges and yellows that marked the change of season.

The breeze died down, releasing the leaves with a sigh so they spread into a carpet of color along the wide dirt trail. And in their place a soft golden light glowed as though the sun itself had risen in the curve of the path, ascending solely to deliver the woman who stepped out of the light. 

Two tall, slender shadows flanked her, gliding serenely out of the light as though it were perfectly normal for nature to bend itself to their master. Lan Wangji focused on Baoshan Sanren but studied her companions-- disciples, perhaps?-- out of the corner of his eye. 

The man on the left wore white robes and a lovely, glittering sword on his back. He was very handsome, Lan Wangji thought uncomfortably, and turned his attention instead to the other disciple, who wore all black with little flares of red at his waist, his hair. 

A dizi was shoved haphazardly in his belt and his sword gripped loosely in one hand. Lan Wangji let his gaze travel from the disciple’s waist to his shoulder and finally his face, and felt his stomach drop to his feet. 

This disciple-- this boy-- was as beautiful as the other, only this one was grinning widely at him as their respective master and sect leader exchanged greetings. 

“--two of my disciples,” Baoshan Sanren was saying, and Lan Wangji tore his eyes away from the boy and tuned back into the conversation before he missed something important. “Xiao Xingchen and Wei Wuxian.” 

Wei Wuxian bounced in place on his toes, seemingly unable to hold still. He peered curiously around and Lan Zhan had to resist the urge to tell him not to touch when he leaned in to inspect the temporary wards they’d erected. 

“Shifu,” Wei Wuxian said after a moment. Baoshan Sanren paused her interrogation about Lan Yi’s unexpected collapse and turned to him, eyebrows raised in question. He gestured to their perfectly functional wards and made a face. His master only nodded once in response, like they’d exchanged a dozen words instead of one. 

Lan Wangji wanted to wipe the look off his face. His brother eyed him from the corner of his eye, probably the only one who noticed him bristling in reaction. It was enough to remind Lan Wangji to settle, to keep his composure even when this stupid, pretty boy whipped a small knife from his boot and started carving on their sect’s stone gate like a disrespectful heathen. 

His uncle remained silent, though he also scowled minutely at the faint scratching noises. 

“Wei Wuxian is especially talented with wards,” Xiao Xingchen said smoothly, stepping forward to draw their attention away from his sect brother. “He is adding to yours so that when we add our own power, it will ensure the Cloud Recesses is wholly protected until we can revive your ancestor.” 

“Lan Yi must have tied herself to the external wards somehow,” Baoshan Sanren said, peering over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder as he worked. She sighed. “She never did know when to quit.”

Lan Qiren frowned. “Why would she do such a thing? It took all of her power to contain the…” he paused, and turned to shoo his disciples up the hill. He waited until the last one was out of sight to continue. “The Iron.”

“My guess? It was either an accident, or something made her try to expand her protection past the cave. Speaking of which…” 

“We will take you,” Lan Xichen said with a smile, holding out his arm as if to help her up the steep hill. 

“Such a polite young man,” Baoshan Sanren said, patting him on the arm. ”A-Xian, pay attention, you could learn a thing or two from these Twin Jades.” 

“Hey!” 

Baoshan Sanren ignored him. “Zewu-Jun, is it? You are far too young and handsome to be stuck with an old woman.” She sent a sideways look at Xiao Xingchen, a wicked grin of amusement passing across her face almost too fast to track. “But perhaps my disciple would appreciate a tour?”

Xiao Xingchen, Lan Wangji noticed, flushed pink to the roots of his hair and said nothing until a bemused Lan Xichen turned to him instead. He hurriedly schooled his expression and gave a regal nod of agreement, allowing Lan Xichen to lead him into the Cloud Recesses. 

Wei Wuxian snickered under his breath, right up until his master added, “Lan Wangji, would you mind assisting my remaining disciple? He is somewhat of a trouble magnet.” 

“Shifu!” Wei Wuxian said indignantly. 

Lan Wangji very much minded, but he doubted there was a cultivator alive who could say no to Baoshan Sanren. “Of course, daozhang.” He saluted, careful not to let his resentment show. He didn’t want to be stuck with a troublemaking guest disciple with sparkling gray eyes and a teasing grin, but perhaps it was better that someone kept an eye on him. 

“Good boy.” Lan Wangji blinked, surprised at the warmth her praise brought. “Now, Lan Qiren, why don’t you take me to my old friend? It’s time we had another talk about her reckless behavior.” 

Lan Wangji frowned after them. 

“Don’t take her seriously,” Wei Wuxian said without looking up, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he worked diligently on the wards. “She and Lan Yi were like… together all those years back. Or almost together; none of us can get a straight answer out of her, no matter how much we hound her about it.” 

Now Lan Wangji frowned down at him. “You should not annoy your Master.” 

“Why not?” Wei Wuxian chirped. “It’s fun.” 

“Fun,” Lan Wangji repeated, appalled. 

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “Sometimes she just threatens to toss us off the top of the mountain, but occasionally we can badger her into sharing a story or two.” 

Lan Wangji had no idea what to say to that. He settled for vaguely disapproving silence to cover up his complete bafflement. Baoshan Sanren was nothing like he’d expected, her disciples even less so. 

“There,” Wei Wuxian said, satisfied, and stood gracefully. Lan Wangji felt the sudden hum of increased spiritual energy from whatever changes he’d made. 

“Did you add your own power to the wards?” 

“Hm? Oh, no. Not yet. Shifu wants to determine whether we should focus our own power on defending the cave; otherwise we might be too spread thin, in case something were to happen.” Wei Wuxian twirled around to face him, head cocked with curious eyes. “Do you think something will happen?”

Lan Wangji paused. He knew, obviously, that Baoshan Sanren and her disciples were secluded on their mountain. They were removed from mortal, earthly affairs, so of course they didn’t know of Wen Ruohan’s bloodstained rise to power. 

And yet it still took him by surprise that they weren’t aware of the monster in the west, the armies he was amassing or the awful tension of waiting for the storm to break. But they had nothing to fear. Nothing to lose. Wen Ruohan couldn’t touch them, couldn’t break them the way he could the other great sects. 

“Yes,” Lan Wangji admitted. He’d been included in enough discussions with his brother and uncle to know that war was only a matter of time. 

“I guess it’s a good thing we came, then!” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully. “Hey, do you have any of that Emperor’s Smile here? We passed it on the way up the mountain; I’m thirsty after all that work!” 

Lan Wangji frowned deeply at him and pointed to the wall of Lan Sect rules. Wei Wuxian’s eyes went wide at the sight of it. “Alcohol is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses.” 

“Aiya, what’s not forbidden in the Cloud Recesses?” He asked, hands on his hips as he leaned back to find the top of the wall, so playfully theatrical about it he nearly toppled over backwards. 

“Silence,” Lan Wangji said stiffly. “Thinking before you speak.” He gave Wei Wuxian a pointed look, and despaired when it only made him throw back his head and laugh. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll behave.” Lan Wangji doubted that very much. “Let’s go find the others before all these rules make me break out in hives.” Wei Wuxian shuddered dramatically and eyed the wall of rules like they were contagious. 

Lan Wangji could think of several that would improve Wei Wuxian’s personality. Most of them were the ones about silence and not touching things that did not belong to you. Such as other people.

He turned on his heel and started up the path with Wei Wuxian on his heels. Lan Wangji’s gaze caught on Do not lust after others, and he looked away quickly, pretending he couldn't feel the burning heat in his ears.

[themoonandotherslikeit]

Holding On and Letting Go - Chapter Four

The sequel to The Hand That Reaches for God

Emerson was always told that time heals all wounds, but whoever said that must’ve not lived in the world that she lived in. They must’ve lived in the time before, when the world its self wasn’t this bleeding, throbbing wound, and that time did nothing but drag out the never ending pain.

The Maklen sisters and the Winchester brothers were inseparable, their whole lives, and when the world turned red they did the one thing they knew how to do– be together. But now, the same world that pulled them together, seemed destined to rip them apart again and shatter something that was so fragile in the first place.

Chapter Four

“You lost her and it wasn’t because she was hard to hold, or love, or touch but because she was made of your absence, of all the things you ignored and all the beautiful poetry you read but failed to understand.” - R.M. Drake

-106 Days After-

“I can’t believe you married me,” Sam said, his voice low and rough against Ophelia’s neck as he held her closely. She looked beautiful, like a dream.

“You can’t?”

“Of course not. You’re way out of my league.”

She snorted, suppressing a laugh. She squeezed him in her arms, feeling tiny against his large frame. She’d always thought they fit perfectly together, like they were made to be one. She thought about the future they would have. A baby boy that looked just like Sam and two little girls. He would protect them, and they would all love each other endlessly, just like she and Emerson did. Just like Sam and Dean did. They would live next door to Emerson and Dean, because they were in love even if they were too scared to admit it. They would all always be together. It was how it was always supposed to be. “Do you think things will be better someday?”

“Better than this? How can it be?”

She rolled her eyes. She was supposed to be the romantic of the two. He was stealing her role, but she knew it was because he was happy - smitten even. They were in love. “I mean the world , Samuel.”

“Ah.”

She pulled back from him, a blonde wave falling into her eyes. She tried to blow it away, but it just fluttered a bit and fell back into her eyelashes. He brushed it away. “You’re cute,” he told her.

“You are,” she murmured.

Ophelia had waited for her wedding day her entire life. Back at the house she grew up in, she had countless notebooks with wedding dress clippings, articles, pressed flowers, and Mrs. Ophelia Winchester written in a dozen different scripts and colors. She knew that she would grow up to be Sam’s wife someday. She had thought of everything, prepared for it all. She knew exactly what she would wear, how she would smell, what she would say, and how she would feel. She even taught herself how she would walk across that aisle without her mom. She was even able to adjust to a world that was crumbling under her feet, and make a beautiful, intimate ceremony that was so full of love she worried they couldn't contain it.

The end? That was the one thing that she never prepared for. She never imagined that it would be over long before it ever really began.

-3 Years After-

Dean left Emerson alone in the room. “Take all the time you need.”

He was far too good to her. He always had been, and she hated that she couldn’t let him love her. It just didn’t seem fair that she had this amazing man who was here and Pheli? If either of the sisters were to survive this shit show it always would’ve been Ophelia. She was the hope, and without her… what was Emerson without her? She didn’t have the answer, and maybe it was time that she found out.

She pulled off her wet clothes and toweled off, moving the curtain out of the way to look out at the empty parking lot. Everything was powdered with snow, dusted, untouched and undisturbed. It was almost peaceful if she didn’t know any better. Pheli loved the winter and especially the snow. She was all sparkles, snowflakes, and snowball fights.

Emerson pressed her forehead to the window, her breath fogging up the glass. She wrote home in the steam. She always thought that home was a place, but more than ever, she knew now that home is a person. Home was her sister. Home was the way that Sam looked at Ophelia and the soft cotton of Dean’s worn out Led Zeppelin t-shirt, it was the smell of her mom’s cookies. It was something she would never get to have again. Emerson knew that in order to belong she had to have roots, otherwise the wind would carry her away. But, roots can’t be planted in people.

Her eyes stung, threatening to spill over again, but there was nothing left for her to cry. Her chest ached with an emptiness that echoed with every heartbeat. She wondered if that was how it felt to die, if when she lost her sister she lost another part of her soul. She rubbed her chest with the heel of her hand, above her heart. She’d heard it crack inside of her louder than anything else. At first she thought it was the ground collapsing under her feet, but she was wrong. It was just all of the love leaving her body like an avalanche. All of the shattered pieces are unable to be repaired.

She pulled her fingers away from the window and towel dried her hair before digging her spare set of clothes from her bag. She slipped into her fleece leggings and buttoned up one of Dean’s flannels. She hugged the fabric to her face and took a deep breath of his scent. She didn’t deserve him. Her eyes welled up, and she tried to swallow it. What the fuck was she going to do? She didn’t have the answer. Not even close. She slipped into her boots and snuck out of the motel quietly. She needed to think, and she thought better when she could see the sky. She always had.

So Emerson scaled the building, stepping on the dumpster, and she settled on the roof in the snow. Her face turned up to the sky. Her days of denial were counting down. She wouldn’t be able to avoid it much longer. She would have to say it out loud, and she would have to say it to Dean. She didn’t know where to start. There was a lake past the trees, and if it were summer maybe they would stop for the day and enjoy the water. She stared out toward the water and sucked in her breath. The sky beyond the trees was painted fuchsia, green, deep purple. “Holy shit.” The northern lights flickered ahead of her, dancing and blurring on the horizon.

Fingers towards the sky, she reached as if she expected to be able to touch the lights. They reminded her of the glowing butterflies at the lakehouse. It felt like a sign, like hope. It felt like Ophelia.

“Em?”

Her eyes flickered behind her to find Sam, with his long lanky limbs awkwardly crawling onto the roof. He scooted next to her, draping a blanket from the motel around her shoulders. It didn’t even occur to her that she was cold, but as if he brought the chill with him she shivered. “I want to be alone.”

“Yeah I know. Me too. Thought we could be alone together.” He rested his arms on his knees and didn’t glance her way.

“Seems counterproductive to me.”

He shrugged. His hair was long, sweeping his shoulders, Emerson resisted the urge to reach out and run her fingers through it. Pheli would’ve loved it long. He would’ve had a Viking braid by now if she were with them. The thought made her stomach ache.

“Happy birthday,” he commented quietly as he watched the dancing lights. It was unclear if he was talking to Emerson or the lights.

“Not so happy.”

“She wouldn’t like that, you know. That you’re retreating into yourself. It’s why I’m not doing it. She is the light.”

“That's why there’s so much darkness,” she agreed.

“If Pheli can’t be here to shine we need to shine for her, Em.”

Emerson made a face of discontent and turned completely to him. “I don’t know how to do that, Sam. I don’t know how to have hope without her.”

He scooted close to her and wrapped a supportive arm around her. “You know when I married her she became part of my family, but I wasn’t just saying I do to her. I was promising to love you, too. You’re my sister in law, Emerson. That means something to me.”

“There isn’t law anymore, Sam,” she said, her shoulders tense under the weight of his arm.

He snorted with a laugh. “You know what I mean.” He sucked in a shaking breath and let it out slowly. “I miss her. It takes every bit of power I have not to fold into myself and never get back up. I’ve loved her for what feels like my whole life.” He turned to look at her, his hazel eyes were wet and reflecting the purple flecks of the northern lights. “I hate that I’m not with her, and I will never forgive myself for not being able to protect her. I just wish you would blame me more than you blame Dean. It’s not his fault. I know he loves you, and I couldn’t protect Ophelia…” A tear rolled down his cheek, and he shook his head. “So just let me do the one thing I know she would ask me to do. Let me take care of you.”

Emerson pulled her knees up to her chest. “I don’t think I know how to do that, Sam.”

“Try. For her.”

She let out a sob and rested her head on his shoulder. “I miss her so much sometimes it feels like I’m dying, but it just never ends.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to do this to Dean.”

“He loves you.”

“I know he does. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to let myself have everything when she’s…”

“Em, maybe you didn’t know this, but Ophelia talked about your happiness just as much as she talked about her own. She always talked about how one day we would live next to you and Dean.” Sam laughed quietly and squeezed her in his arms. “Let yourself be happy. Well, as happy as you can be.”

Another hot tear rolled down her cheek, and she glanced up at him. “I can try.”

“Okay.” He nodded and placed a platonic, loving kiss on her forehead and hugged her tightly. “And Em?”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to tell him?”

Her eyebrows came together. “Tell him what?”

He chuckled against her hair, his breath tickling her scalp. “You know what. I was with your sister for a long time. You girls are like clockwork and well… I may have noticed a change in the last few months. My brother is so focused on the now that I don’t think he’s seeing the bigger picture.”

Emerson sucked in her breath and tried to swallow a sob. “I… I couldn’t admit it. I refused, because how can I? In a world like this? Without my mom… without Phel…”

“Ignoring it will not make it go away,” he said gently, rubbing her arm.

“I know,” she murmured. “It just… wasn’t supposed to be me.”

Sam tilted her chin up to look at him. “You should tell him. If it were me I’d want to know.”

She nodded, pained. He was right. She knew he was, and she was mad at him for it. The world wasn’t fair, but it was still turning and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “Okay.”

They stayed there for a while, enjoying the quiet, the cold, and the dancing lights on the horizon. It was a special kind of bliss that they normally didn’t get to enjoy. There was a lot of unknown due to the world they lived in, but that didn’t matter. There was nothing she could do about it, so she should focus on the known. She knew for a fact that the Winchesters would always be there. That was something she could hold on to and something she shouldn’t take for granted.

They climbed down from the roof and Sam went to her room, and she went to Deans. It was dark in the room, and he was laying on his side facing the closed window. When the door opened he didn’t move, but the lack of soft snores in the room told her he was awake. She crept to him, shaking off her boots, flannel, socks, and leggings leaving only her underwear and climbed into bed behind him. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cold skin to his warm back.

He hissed at the chill. “Thought you were mad at me.”

“Not at you. Never at you.”

He snorted in response.

“Well, not anymore at least,” she admitted sheepishly.

“It’s okay to be mad. I can take it.”

She pressed her face to his back and kissed it gently, blinking tears before closing her eyes completely. She squeezed him tightly. “This isn’t your fault. I just… I’m in so much pain. I’m scared all the time. Even more so now.”

Dean shifted under her arms, turning to look at her, but she squeezed him tightly. “No, please don’t. I just… I need to tell you something, and I can’t see your face when I do.”

“What is it?” He asked softly, gently, sweetly.

She let out a pained laugh. “I can’t say I don’t know how it happened, because I do .”

“Emerson, take a breath. What’s going on?”

“I think… Fuck. I think I’m pregnant. It sounds insane. Asinine. This is the fucking end of the world and I…”

He had wiggled out of her grip, and he turned to face her. His nose brushed hers. “If this is a joke, Maklen, it’s not a good one.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this.”

He ran his thumb along her cheekbone. “I’m so fucking gone on you. You know that right?”

“I do,” the words slipped from her lips, barely a breath.

“How long have you known?”

“I missed my second period. I hoped it was stress… I haven’t confirmed it.”

“I’m sorry you’ve shouldered it alone. I hate that you didn’t let me in.” Dean wrapped his arms protectively around her.

“I wasn’t ready to say it out loud.”

“But now?”

“It’s not going to go away because I’m ignoring it.”

“Just like it’s dad,” he said wryly before sucking in his breath. “Holy fuck.” His eyes flickered down to her midsection.

“How do you feel?”

“I… how do you feel?”

“Scared,” she admitted. “I didn’t even think I wanted kids, let alone in this world.”

“But?”

“But I’m also… I don’t know. It feels wrong to say I feel happy.”

He smiled in the darkness and kissed her gently. “It’s not wrong. It’s right.”

Dean moved his hand from her hip to her stomach, his fingers bushing over her skin gently. The motion sent chills down her spine, and her skin prickled with goosebumps. “I know this wasn’t how we wanted to do this, but Em having a child with you… that’s been a dream of mine for a long time.”

“It has?”

He brushed a hair out of her eyes and nodded. “I’d be an idiot not to want a life with you.”

“But what about Lisa? You were going to have a life with her. I saw you and Ben together. That loss was devastating for you.”

“He was a cute baby, and I loved Lis, but it wasn’t my family. Not like you are. But I guess I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Are you having this baby? Is this something you’re ready to do?”

Emerson sucked in her breath. It had crossed her mind. Of course it had, but as she considered it there with his hand touching her abdomen so protectively that she almost felt a warmth under his palm, she knew that it wasn’t an option. She already loved the damn thing. “Yes,” she said breathlessly, her eyes welling up with tears. “I have no idea how we will make it work, but I can’t lose anyone else. I already see her. When I dream she is with us… it’s like she already exists.”

“She?” He pulled her closer. “You think it’s a girl?”

Emerson shrugged with a pained laugh. “It’s just what I see in my dreams. I have no proof of that.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Then we are doing this. Fuck it. We always did things out of order so why not again? We are capable.”

“You’re insane,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m insane. Look at the world. How can we bring a child into it?”

“This kid will be so loved, and fuck, maybe Sammy is right. Maybe there is a safe haven in California where we can raise her safely. Worth a shot, right?”

“Maybe.”

Dean rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him, wrapping the blanket around them both. She felt safe there, cocooned with him for a moment. “I love you Emerson Maklen. I know you’re scared, fuck so am I. I’m terrified of what kind of dad I will be. You saw John and what he was like. Even if the world wasn’t crumbling I’d be afraid, because this is a big thing. This is an important thing. But I promise you I won’t fuck it up. I’ll protect you and the little bean with everything I’ve got. What can I do to help? Name it and I’ll do it.”

Before she could think, process, and talk herself out of it, the words flew out of her lips. “I want my sister.”

“Em…”

“She’s out there somewhere, Dean. I don’t think I can do this without her. I know it’s a long shot, but I need to try. I need to know we haven’t given up. Because if she was dead I would know it. I would feel it. She’s out there, Dean. I know it.”

-106 Days After-

Ophelia's hand fit delicately in Sam’s, his other hand pressing against her lower back. They were deliriously happy. “Spin me!” She demanded brightly, a smile bursting from her lips.

“Yes ma'am.” So he did. He released her back and twirled her in circles before spinning her away from his body.

She was laughing, giggles erupting from pink lips, a lock of hair falling in her face. It felt like the world had slowed down, he could barely hear the shot ringing through the trees with a crisp bang! He dropped her hand as the bullet ripped through the muscle of his shoulder. Sam fell, his vision blurring. He could hear his heartbeat whooshing in his ears as he hit the ground hard.

“Sam!” Pheli called, her voice sounding far away. She ran to him, cradled him in her arms. “Oh my god!”

He opened his mouth to warn her, but he wasn’t fast enough. Everything was still slowed down. His vision was peppered on the edges, threatening to send him into darkness. He couldn’t warn her of the dark shadowy figure behind her.

His head hit the soft forest ground as she released him from her grip. The figure behind her twisted their fingers in her hair and yanked her back hard. She opened her mouth to scream but a hand covered her lips, muffling her.

Sam struggled, trying to sit up. Trying anything to get to her, but he wasn’t fast enough. The figure took a step towards him and kicked dirt in his face, blinding him temporarily. But before the dirt obscured his vision he saw something.

The hood on the figure fell just enough for the light to catch his features. A sinister smile rested on full lips, his eyes hollow and haunted.

Gordon.

—–

A/N: I know it’s been a long time since I have made any progress on this story. I’ve been in a huge writing slump and this week I found some inspiration. I love my little OFC babies, and I needed a dose of apocalypse in the wake of my real life stress. If anyone out there is still reading I hope you enjoy it, and are excited about this chapter. If not, well I enjoyed writing it and in the end I suppose that’s the point.

Coming soon: Chapter five

Catch up on Part One Here

Tag List:

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@deans-baby-momma

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@tftumblin

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[jimlingss]

Worshipers of the Stars

Part of the Worshipers Series

➜ Words: 9.4k

➜ Genres: 90% Angst, 10% Fluff, God!AU

➜ Summary: The universe was created with four gods to rule and watch over it. But when you take the crown and become the god of all gods, what the future holds is something you never wanted to know.

The universe was once created by a woman who was awoken by her lonesome — a miracle in itself. It was an explosion that happened suddenly when all the things were slotted in the right places at the right time, a one in a billion chance encounter. But it happened and she was the first of her kind to open her eyes.   She had awareness and recognition of the empty oblivion in front of her, so in an attempt to lessen her loneliness, she created a home — a sanctuary that could watch over all other places, a Heaven. And in that Heaven, she created the gods to keep her company and care for the things she made once she passes.   First, she made Seokjin, God of the Sun.   “That’s me!” the god exclaims with cherub cheeks and bright eyes, stirring in the woman’s arms as she reads from her large storybook.   “That’s right,” she confirms with a matronly smile that exudes warmth in itself. “The one who helps nourish the living realm, who helps count the days that pass so that no one takes it for granted, that spreads the light for all to see. Also the one who is mischievous and likes to make trouble when no one’s watching.”   “I don’t make that much trouble,” the child whines with a pout, making the woman laugh heartily.   “Shush, Jin! Let her keep reading the story!”   “Fine.”   The woman continues on as her children gather closer together. “Then, the woman created Miyin, the Goddess of Dreams, to ensure her children would be able to rest well when they could, so they would not have to be restless and could have a place of peace in the chaos of the universe.”    The girl in question giggles when her name is mentioned, blushing from the attention bestowed upon her. The Creator softly smiles and affectionately brushes the long strands of her dark hair away from her face before she continues reading. “With her and to help light the night when The God of Sun is asleep and unable to protect those below, the God of the Moon, Yoongi was born. He who sheds light in the darkness, to help lead those astray back to their homes…”   She turns to the boy sitting across from her, a quiet expression but thoughtful underneath those cat-like eyes, and her smile only grows.   “What next? What next?!” Miyin rushes, unable to handle the suspense despite having heard this same story for years now.   “Be patient,” you murmur.   “Then, the most important god was created.” Her voice drops into a whisper, “Y/N, Goddess of Light and Life. The source of the God of Sun and Moon’s power. The force that makes the Goddess of Dreams’ dreams come alive. The mirror of the creator, the Ruler of all Rulers, the God of all. She would someday create more gods and help the world become a prettier, better place.”   This was your favourite part of the story. You loved to see the painted pictures on your page and know that you get to protect everyone else. It was an important job, one that you’re excited for, but Jin would say that it was your favourite part because it talked about you….   And that’s only a little true.   “Together, the four of them would be trusted to rule. They would live forever to look after the universe that was created by the woman who was no longer so lonely…”   “Live forever?” Seokjin pipes up, probably because he knows the story is ending and is trying to buy more time so he doesn’t have to sleep. Jin lolls his head back to your shoulder, looking up at the woman with the fond gaze. “Won’t that get boring?”   “Well, you’ll be reborn every once in a while, so you can start fresh and learn the meaning of what time is. Being able to die makes you learn what death is. And being reborn means you won’t take things for granted. Everyone must die someday, even I have to. Gods are no exception.”   “Then...when will we die?” you ask, blinking up at her.   “Not for a very long time,” she assures in a murmur, caressing your hair. Then she exhales and sits up straighter. “Alright, time for bed everyone! Everyone has to sleep too! No time like the present!”    “Awww,” Miyin whimpers and pouts. “Do I have to?! I’m not even tired!”   “Someday, you will wish you get to sleep as much as you do now.” The Creator peels back the covers of the bed as the sky becomes darkened, sun long fallen from the horizon — something Jin does each day before story time.   “What about Yoongi?” Miyin continues to sulk despite getting in right in the middle of you and Seokjin, three lumps inside the wool blanket and against the pillows. “He just woke up! That’s not fair!”   “He has to sleep too. Just at a different time,” she says gently and Miyin relents.   The Creator kisses the top of all your heads, wishing you a good night and she walks hand-in-hand with Yoongi, leaving the room and shutting the door.   Despite Miyin’s protests, she’s snoring within the next minute. While Seokjin tries to resist the urge of slumber with you, afraid that Miyin will mess with his dreams again and make him lift a bright pink sun, he, too, soon succumbs to the urge.   You, on the other hand, are still wide awake.   Your eyes pin out the glass windows and terrace doors, watching the silver moon slowly lift up and how its milky luminescence billows into the room. It lights up the entire world in the darkness.   If there was something that you liked more than your part in the storybook, it was the moon.   Quietly, you crawl out of the covers, away from Seokjin and Miyin who don’t even stir. Once your feet touch the soft carpet of the bedroom, you’re already creeping outside, shutting the door silently.   As you swiftly run along, your shadow follows you along the corridor walls. You know where he is, where he sits as he keeps the moon on the horizon. He could always leave, do other things like Jin does once the sun is already risen, but Yoongi once told you that there was nothing to do in the middle of the night, so that’s why he just sits in one spot, staring and waiting....   You sneak around the pillars of the palace, feet cold on the terrace floors, but you peek around the corner to see Yoongi bathed in the soft light. He’s glowing, skin luminous and shining. It’s moments like these you’re amazed at how pretty he is. Or what’s the word that the Creator once used? That word she used to describe the four of you…..beautiful.    You’re unable to stare at Yoongi for long. Not when a little moth lands on your nose.   It’s tiny, brown wings flapping and fluttering, tickling against your skin as if it were trying to kiss you. And you giggle, watching it float around your head and unable to be caught no matter how many times you jump and try to catch the creature in your hands—   “You’re supposed to be in bed.”   There’s a low timbre that vibrates in your ear and a grin spreads into your face.    Oops. You’ve been caught.   “Are you going to tell on me?” You approach with your arms behind your back, knowing full well that Yoongi would never. Seokjin and Miyin would be happy to get you in trouble, but never Yoongi. “I just wanted to keep you company. You’re lonely, right?”   “No, I’m not,” he murmurs and looks away.   You plop down beside him on the cold tile floor, shoulders and knees brushing, and you look out at the moon together.   It made you sad that you don’t get to play with Yoongi much. The only times you get to see him are two hours after dawn and two hours after dusk — right before he goes to bed and right after he’s woken up and it’s your turn to sleep.    You wish you got to spend more time with Yoongi or was awake when he was. Sometimes you wonder if he’s sad that everyone else is asleep. You’d be sad if you were him, if you didn’t have Jin or Miyin with you. Yoongi might be quieter than they are, but you like him more.    You like him the best.   “It’s pretty,” you whisper as you stare at the light with the pretty patterns, putting your head on his shoulder and feeling a bit sleepy.   The corner of Yoongi’s mouth pulls into a smile. “It’s because of you.”   “That’s not true. I need you to lift it. That’s the only way I can make it shine. Without you, there would be no moon, Yoongi.”   It’s the moon that you could look at — it doesn’t burn your eyes like the sun does. The moon is simpler, quieter than the blazing sunlight — but you think it deserves just as much recognition, if not more. And it’s a little different every time you look at it. You love the moon.   You love Yoongi.   “You do?” he asks after you tell him all the things you love about the moon, leaving out the last little part about loving him.    You told Miyin, Jin and the Creator you love them all the time. You’ve even told Yoongi before. But somehow, telling Yoongi when it’s just you and him here feels a bit different.   “Yeah! The sun’s always the same and it hurts to look at.” You quickly add, “Don’t tell Jin that.”   Yoongi giggles and turns to look at you resting on his shoulder. “I can change it, if you’d like.” Your eyes widen, head lifting and the Child of the Moon blinks several times towards the horizon.    Suddenly, the giant sphere in front of you shifts and morphs. The luminescence is almost blinding and the moonlight wash alters, becoming golden rather than milky and pale.   You gasp, sitting straight, wide awake again. “It looks like the sun now!”   A giant, gummy grin spreads into Yoongi’s face and he laughs at the way your jaw has dropped in amazement. In front of the two of you, the moon shines even brighter. It sparkles in the night.   //   The life you’ve lived so far is short — especially if the Creator tells you that you’re going to be reborn forever. And apparently forever is a really long time. But right now, you’re really happy to know what you’re supposed to do in this chaotic universe.    You’ve learnt that there are so many things, so many people you want to protect and it makes you’re glad that you have the power to. That one day you’re going to watch over everyone else. When that time comes, you’re going to make sure no one hurts Jin or Miyin or Yoongi.   You’ll do your best.   “And that’s all that’s important,” the Creator tells you as the two of you walk alongside each other down the hall. Her robes sweep the floor and you wonder if one day you will be as pretty and liked. “Someday you will rule all of Heaven and the universe and guide the other gods into a beautiful world.”   “You will also create many more gods and goddesses,” she hums. “Perhaps a Goddess of the Sky.”   Your brows furrow and your lips become lopsided. “What’s a sky?”   “Why, a place where Seokjin can truly shine and help the people that will be below.” The woman smiles as her mind begins to conjure up new ideas, and you wonder if someday you will be able to be as creative as she is. “Perhaps a God for the Seasons, so the Earth may prosper, change, and alter to keep them from being bored. We should also give them more water too, so they have a way to quench their thirst. And maybe a God of the Underworld, so once people pass, they have a place of peace to stay at.”   She sighs wistfully. “There are many gods yet to be created. Too little time for me.”   You look up at her, feeling scared at the thought of her gone. “What happens when I don’t know what to do or who to make?”   “You will know,” she tells you with such assurance. It comforts your worries and eases your fear. “When the time comes, you will know. And Seokjin, Miyin and Yoongi will always be at your side to help.”   “Always?”   “Always.” She smiles and stops, crouching down to delicately push a strand of hair behind your ear. “Someday, Miyin will accompany your side. Your right hand will be Seokjin, and Yoongi will be your husband. It is my plan and I plan to never leave you by your lonesome as I had been.”   At your young age, you don’t truly understand what each word means, but you can comprehend the feeling of warmth she conveys. A smile spreads into your face and you nod.   Right then and there, there is a sharp call of your name.   You whirl your head over to see the three of them at the end of the hall, Seokjin waving you over with Miyin calling you again to come play with them. Yoongi stands by them, wearing the brightest of grins and it makes the inside of your chest tickle.   You glance over your shoulder and the Creator gestures the permission you need to run off.    She watches with a smile as the four of you sprint, giggles filling the spaces of Heaven. Her optimism and certainty of a beautiful world relieves the burden of her own worries. She feels at peace, knowing that you will take care of her creations.

When the world was built, four gods were made with it. They were contrived to watch over the lands and protect one another, and for the first two decades of their first lifetime, the universe was truly wonderful. It was simple, happiness spreading across the world with the innocence of the gods untainted. They had yet to learn about greed and pride, wrath and envy.   Yet it was not a golden age — not when many gods were yet to be born, when Heaven was still empty and merely a foundation of what it was to become. But it was paradise. A dreamland.   Only, dreams never lasted long.

There had been a shift, a change.   One you knew you didn’t feel alone. The sunlight dimmed and then the moon was lifting, covering it completely — something you would one day learn to know as a solar eclipse. But it was the first time in history that the horizon was blackened during day, where you felt the light within you tremble and the universe bled with darkness. The fabric of the world was being swept from underneath you, consciousness vibrating around your mind.    Time was finally running out.   “What’s going on?!” Miyin’s footsteps quicken down the hall, her robes hanging loose from her frame and fluttering behind her. There was a thin ring of light from outside, an outline of where the sun wasn’t covered by the moon, but it barely provided any light.    “It’s happening,” you tell her, forming an orb of light within your hands and flicking them towards the candles on the walls. They flare and gleam, dimmer than you’ve ever seen. “Get Yoongi and Seokjin.”   “I’m already here.”    The husky voice you’ve been waiting for sounds behind you and you find the young god already striding over with a firm gaze. His orbs are glazed over in the colour of obsidian, fluffy strands contrasting against his sharp features, cat-like eyes staring back at yours. His black robes swish behind him along with your servant girl at his heels, fear taking hold of her expression.   “I didn’t lift the moon,” he says.   You nod. “I know.”   The two of you immediately turn down the hall towards the largest room while Miyin sprints in the other direction to call Seokjin. You dismiss the young servant girl and she takes a bow, staying behind when this was a matter pertaining to the gods alone.   Once you push the doors open, you find the Creator lying in her bed. The covers are pushed to her waist as she lays with her head on her pillow, eyes barely open.    Immediately, you rush to her side and grab hold of her hand. “You are unwell.”   “I have been unwell for a while, child,” she wheezes with heavy breath, clasping your hand back in a weak grasp. Yet, the corner of her mouth still lifts. Her hair had gotten gray, colour lost in her features, wrinkles lined around her face. In your naiveté, you had not paid attention to these things, not when it was so gradual. “My ti..me is end...ing….”   “There must be something we can do.”   The doors slam open and the room fills with immediate warmth. But Seokjin’s hair isn’t as vibrantly gold as what you’re used to seeing. It doesn’t glisten and his pink lips are losing its hue.   “There has to be something you can do,” Seokjin declares in distress as Miyin quickly follows behind him and shuts the doors. “You are the Goddess of Light and Life—”   “I know what I am,” you snap back at him. “You need not remind me.”    “Is there something you can do?” A calm voice cuts through the panic and you find Yoongi seated next to the Creator, placing a hand on her shoulder to perhaps comfort her.   “I can feel her life force leaving her. I might be able to gather it and contain it with her being again, but I don’t know how much time that’ll give.”   “It’s still better than nothing,” Miyin cries out, but then suddenly the Creator shakes her head and the four of you quiet down to listen to her croaking murmurs.   “N...o...don’t do that and don’t argue.”   Miyin sobs, her tears streaking down her face. “But—”   “Death is inevitable. I provide nothing for you now and if I lived another day, I would provide nothing then. My time….is over.” She looks over to each of you gathered around her, the gods she had manifested carefully and a soft smile graces her features. “You are all grown and ….will...survive….this world will...prosper...I feel comforted over that.”    Her chest heaves and she gasps shallowly. “Y/N’s...coronation will happen tomorrow—”   “No,” you spit, unable to bear the thought of ruling over Heaven immediately after her death without mourning beforehand. “I can’t do something like that.”   “You will,” she whispers in reassurance. “You will do as I say. Heaven...cannot be without a ruler….and Yoongi…”   “Yes?” He comes closer as her gaze flickers over to him.   “You will marry...Y/N...Seokjin will become the...right hand...and Miyin by her side….it is my plan,” she says, the dying wish put on her lips — one she had spoken about many times. But you know this is the last.    The Goddess of Dreams beside you begins to sob harder, Seokjin looking away and unable to bear the moment. Yoongi remains in his place and your hand on her tightens, feeling her life fading.    The Creator smiles for the final time. “I...harbour no...regrets…”   You can see it — her soul is white. It shimmers, brighter than what you’ve ever witnessed before. More so than the sun itself or what you’ve ever manifested in your hands. It fills the room, blinding your eyes and you know you’re the only one who can see it.    It floats as choked sobs break through your throat, her hand slipping out of yours. Around you, Seokjin’s warmth ceases, Yoongi’s skin doesn’t shine and Miyin’s wailing becomes deafening.   Then her soul fades above her body. You don’t try to grab it — don’t try anything that was against her last will. You watch as it dissolves, vanishing after a moment like it was never there.    Suddenly, a force brushes against your cheeks, kissing through your hair and robes, like a breeze manifested from nowhere. It swells throughout the universe.   Seokjin’s warmth returns, his hair golden once more and lips pink. Yoongi’s skin shines again and the moon on the horizon falls, allowing the sunlight to spread across the lands once more. Your own strength restores itself, but what you’re still left with is devastation and grief.   Miyin sobs within her hands. Yoongi slumps and Seokjin cries with you.   It will never be the same again — and that knowledge lay heavy on your shoulders.   //   The sun has fallen early today, an hour or so, and you cannot blame Seokjin. But that meant Yoongi had to lift the moon over the horizon earlier.    You stare out your glass window to find the moon smaller than usual, dimmer than what you’ve always known to be a bright glow. Perhaps some nights, the moon might not be needed outside — it will have to be something you discuss with Yoongi after your coronation tomorrow.   “Your Highness, be at ease. The Creator always said she was happy,” your servant says as she gently brushes through your hair at the vanity. She is pretty, long hair and soft smile, even with her eyes and nose reddened from crying. She has been at your side for years now, to aid you in small matters, but she has always proven helpful and her sincerity is touching.   Despite being innocent and young, her tender nurturing reminds you of the Creator.   “Yes, she did.” You manage a smile, finding appreciation in her attempts to console you. “Don’t worry. I won’t grieve for long. There are many things that need to be done and I out of all the gods must remain strong. I must protect them now.”   You stand on your feet and she follows you, helping you untuck the covers of your bed. “Are you worried about your coronation tomorrow?” she asks in a murmur.   You hesitate, not sure if honesty is warranted.    But you decide not to confide in her. You must remain steadfast and firm. You are to become the god of all gods, rulers of all rulers. There should not be a weakness within you. The foundation of the world lies in your hands and you must be strong if you are to allow this universe to prosper.   “Nonsense. This is my purpose. My responsibility. Why would I fear something that I was created for.”   She nods and bows her head once you’ve gotten settled. “You are wise and courageous, Your Highness. Forgive me for suggesting otherwise. Is there anything else you would like from me?”   You are about to dismiss her, but then your eyes stray out the windows. There is a pull within you, a childlike urge to go see Yoongi and keep him company. But you are exhausted, grieving, and unlike your words, you do not have the strength to find him.   Yet, you cannot bear the thought of Yoongi being alone on the cold terrace.    “Please, go see the God of the Moon. Make sure….he is well. Keep him company.”   “I understand.” She dips her head again, a promise to obey your word.   Then you are left in silence, succumbing to a moment of peace through slumber with the terror of what it means to wear the crown of Heaven. And in your sleep, you are ignorant to how the moon begins to glimmer moments later and becomes that much brighter.   //   The preparations are finished. It was faster than you had thought was possible and now the moment has arrived. The servants and advisors are gathered in the throne room, waiting patiently for your arrival. But you linger at the entrance, unable to garner the courage that is needed to step forward.   “You look stunning.”   You turn around, grabbing fistfuls of your golden and white layered robes that ruffle out with sparkles that catch the sunlight high on the horizon. Your hair is fixed into place by tens of pins at the back of your hair, but still spilled over into curls. “I look better than usual, don’t I?”   “You don’t look bad on the usual day.” Yoongi smiles softly, sleepiness hinted in his features.   He’s dressed in black robes that fades into a milky shade at the hem that reminds you of the moon’s luminescence itself. His black hair is ruffled, shagging over his forehead. As dignified as the two of you look, it’s still a bittersweet moment knowing that this attire is only worn on such an occasion.    You grin, lifting your arms with much effort. The sleeves drag with every movement. “It’s heavy.”   “The ceremony won’t last long,” he promises and his voice quiets, expression becoming more solemn. “Are you nervous?”   “Why would I be?” Your chin lifts and your back straightens. “I’m the Great Goddess of Light and Life. This is my sole purpose and all I’ve ever wanted.”   But instead of the respect that you expect to gain, Yoongi is visibly amused. He’s silent and you quirk a brow until he finally murmurs— “You know you don’t have to lie to me.”   Part of you wants to object to his claim. A Goddess like you doesn’t need to make up lies to feign bravery, but he knows you too well for you to scrape by with yet another fib. The pair of you have been together your entire lives after all.   So you concede, allowing him into your mind. “None of us have had time to grieve yet. I…..don’t know what to do, Yoongi.”    “I don’t know how to guide and protect everyone and rule this place. The Creator had a plan for us, but I don’t know how to follow through with it.” You turn around, unable to bear looking at his expression if it will be one of disappointment. Of all gods, you were the one who was supposed to know what to do next. You are what everyone looks to. But you are utterly lost.   “You will.” A tender hand squeezes comfortingly at your shoulder and you twirl around to meet Yoongi’s earnest gaze searching yours. “We’ll be there with you, Y/N. Seokjin, Miyin and I. You aren’t alone.”   “I know.” If there was one thing you were glad for, it was the fact that you aren’t by yourself and Yoongi being here at this moment was proof of that. “Thank you.”   You take his arm and the God of the Moon guides you to the throne room. The two of you walk together and when the servants catch sight of you, they dip their heads and open the doors.   The room is decorated for celebration, golden ribbons wrapping the marble pillars and the carpet beneath your feet rolled out. The servants are gathered together, reverent in their posture while the advisor of the late Creator, an old dwarf, is in the middle.    Seokjin smiles, standing on the right side of the throne in his own golden robes and his hands folded together. Miyin is to the left, the corner of her reddened lips gently quirked at the sight of you and her brother. Rather than the rowdiness that filled the palace when the four of you were still children, the ceremony is silent, many faces watching and staring at you.   You keep your head held high, eyes pinned forward, breath steady in your chest. This is what you’ve practiced for, what your sole purpose is. It is your right and your responsibility. You will serve and protect until the end of eternity itself. This universe will prosper till its dawn.   Yoongi lets you go once you’ve made it to the end of the path and he moves beside his sister while you kneel. All the other servants follow suit, bowing as you are.   It will be the only time a god ever kneels.   “Goddess of Light and Life, mirror of the Creator who stitched this universe together and created the Sun and the Moon. Y/N, the very source of our birth and warmth, you have come today to accept the throne, to become the god among all gods, the queen among all queens, ruler of all rulers. You will protect everything beneath and above Heaven, and watch over the sinners and blessed. Do you swear to take this oath?”   “I swear.”   The old dwarf continues reading from the scroll. “Will you solemnly promise to never abandon your people and to the utmost of your power maintain the strength and foundation of Heaven?”   “I solemnly promise to do so.”   “Then with this power, you will be blessed with the gifts of clairvoyance and precognition,” he reads. It is the last present the Creator has given to you, one you had not expected. “You will take these endowments to become the carrier of all knowledge, to know past, present, and future. You will know all, what has become and what will become. Do you vow to take this and use the knowledge for your best judgment in the protection of all living creations?”   “I vow to do so.”   “Then stand and accept your place in this chaotic universe.”   You rise to your feet, glancing at Yoongi who smiles warmly.   A breath leaves your lungs and you approach the throne, swiftly turning and brushing out your robes. You take a seat and grasp the armrests — the chair is colder than you expected, but you don’t dwell.    You’re close. One second more and the ceremony will be over.   The aged dwarf approaches with the crown, dainty and golden. It is simple, but brightly shimmers like the sunlight yet somehow softly glows like the moonlight too. He smiles and you take it from his hands to place on your own head.   And the moment it lays there, when the metal finds its place on top of your crown, the crowd erupt into cheers and song, rejoicing for their benevolent leader.   But you do not hear them.   Your eyes become blinded. Your breath hitches.    The gifts of clairvoyance and precognition strikes you, rendering you breathless.   Fire. You can see fire, hear the shrieks of mortals crying out for their families and loved ones. It is deafening — the screams of men beseeching mercy, only to be slaughtered, the sobbing of children who have their mothers assaulted in front of them. It is overwhelming. The intense smell of iron, the scent of blood. The burnt land that you stand in, the homes reduced to ash, the gray clouds covering the sun and sky and bring upon the darkness you cannot dispel away.   “No, please, let me go!” — “Stop!” — “Mommy! Where are you?!”   You see a boy’s head decapitated, another relishing in the death. A baby that cries until it’s silenced when a spear punctures through them. Lovers ripped apart and mutilated.   The wonderful world you have sworn to protect — the green grass and flowers, rivers and rolling hills, the laughter and giggles. It doesn’t exist. You have failed. And there is nothing that can change it.   The world is on fire.   You see more flashes — within one millisecond, you have known past, present, and future. You see a paradise of smiles and warmth. But you also see an empty Heaven, a desolate place that has become darkened with gods who have abandoned their people. You see the people at peace and prosperity, but also see ruin and cruelty, those who are vicious without remorse.   And you see an explosion. A man’s irises glazed over in the colour of obsidian, his skin bathed in the milky moonlight and making him glow. Specks of shimmer all around him as he wears an expression of guilt and pity that aches your heart.   You cry aloud.   Seokjin, Yoongi and Miyin at once turn at the sound and they witness you fall off your throne.   //   There’s a roaring crash.    The servant girl pulls herself away from the God of the Moon once she hears the commotion, her eyes swimming with surprise and worry. The god is also alarmed and the two of them don’t hesitate to rush down the hall, pushing your doors open.   “Y-Your Majesty!” Your servant cries out, running towards you, but you shove her away and she winces when the back of her head slams against the wall. Yoongi grabs hold of her, making sure she is uninjured, and you pay no mind to the pair of them.   Objects on your vanity are shoved to the floor with the sweep of your arms, the chair thrown over on the ground, your bedroom is wrecked as you pull on the curtains.   “Don’t touch me!” you scream wildly at the top of your lungs. “Get out! I don’t want to see you!”   “Get out!” you repeat when they remain there, blood-curdling at the back of your throat.   You never once look at Yoongi in the eyes.   Fire. Destruction. Crashing and burning.   “What’s going on?!” A stern voice calls out at the ruckus. Miyin stands at the doorway motionlessly, eyes laying on how you’re losing your mind and she watches in horror.   An explosion. Splotches in the night horizon that glitter and gleam. A love never returned.   The Goddess of Dreams approaches within three strides, swiftly moving past her brother. Her expression is rigid and authoritative, but her embrace is gentle when she takes you in her arms.    You protest, whimpering and sputtering, but Miyin never lets you go and with one squeeze, a mesmerizing incantation leaving her lips, you are falling asleep in her arms, rescued from your own madness.   It goes quiet and she turns around, distress evident in her features. “Call Seokjin.”   //   They are murmuring silently as you are fast asleep in your bed, but you are not ignorant to their conversation when you know past, present, and future. Your current unconsciousness is merely a fleeting sanctuary, a place of temporary peace in the land of dreams that Miyin has stitched together.   “I saw it.” Miyin muffles her sobbing behind her hand. “I saw her dreams and they were — awful. Atrocious. I….”   “And these are visions of the future?” Seokjin asks, concern taking hold of him.   “I don’t know.” The Goddess of Dreams shrugs hopelessly. “They might be.”   “Then what did you see?” the God of Sun persists, both curious and anxious.   She shakes her head. “Fire. Screaming. A—And people dying….I can’t….”   Yoongi puts his hand on her shoulder, squeezing. “You don’t have to say anymore.” He looks towards Seokjin. “We have more pressing issues than whatever may happen in the future.”   “We need to know if this...destruction can be prevented or if it’s inevitable.”   “How can you still concern yourself with that?!” Miyin’s voice is shrill, distressed. “When Y/N is going mad, the future is what your worries are about?”   “Without Y/N, Heaven will fall before the destruction even comes,” he says, glancing at you in deep slumber. “It’s still forming. New gods are being created. We can’t put Y/N to sleep at every moment.”   “Then what do we do?” She asks the two gods, at a complete loss. It’s clear that you are being tormented and she doesn’t know how to help. But suddenly a thought comes across her mind and she turns to her brother.   “Talk to her, Yoongi,” Miyin pleads, knowing full well that you have always been closest to him. “She’s always listened to you.”   “She hasn’t spoken a word to me since her coronation,” he reveals in a murmur, making the other two even more troubled at the change.    It goes silent.    The gods are helpless.   //   Their efforts are futile — akin to a tree that provides shade during a violent thunderstorm or a single blanket given during a vicious blizzard. The comfortings given do little for you, not when they are ignorant and you are cursed with this knowledge. Words do not solve wars, they only prevent them. And you cannot prevent what is to come.   But there are still things you must say before time becomes too late — before you completely succumb to hysteria, so you gather yourself with your last remnants of sanity.   And the door opens before Miyin can knock on it.    You knew she was coming. You were waiting for her.   “Good morning, Your Majesty.” The Goddess smiles at the sight of you up and about, but you can tell it is forced. The friend she has made long ago is different from the god she sees in front of her. “I wanted to ask if—”   “You don’t need to tread carefully with me, Miyin.”    Her parted lips close and you shut the door after she enters. “Your room is still a mess,” she quips with a smile, perhaps to lighten the tension lingering in the atmosphere that is suffocating. “Do you need me to call the servant later?”   “No. I do not want to see her.” You take your seat, motioning for her to do the same. “You don’t need to preface yourself, Miyin. You came to speak to me, so do so without your hesitation.”   The Goddess of Dreams swallows hard and takes your hand. “I cannot say I understand what you are going through, but I have seen it. I have seen your dreams and I have seen the horrors the universe will be put through. But there is nothing that you, Seokjin, Yoongi and I can’t overcome”   “There are many things,” you murmur. “You just don’t know them yet.”   “Then tell us about it and we….we will shoulder your burdens.”   “If I told you, that would only bring forth more devastation. Trying to prevent the inevitable only causes the repercussions to be stronger.”   “Surely there is nothing out of the power of the Goddess of Light and Life, of the God of Sun, of the God of Moon, of the Goddess of Dreams. We are meant to rule over all—”   You withdraw your hand away from her, diverting your vision elsewhere. “I let you in here not for you to console me, Miyin, but for me to warn you.”   “Warn me?” She is taken aback, eyes widened.   “We are sisters, not my blood but by bond, so I owe you at least this much. The Creator had spoken about forging a God where those humans can lay to rest.” Your words are a prophecy, one she takes for granted. “He will come to exist someday soon. Human souls cannot wander the land forever, they must have a place to rest, but it will cost your happiness.”   “Let him be born.” A tiny smile graces her features, gaze sympathetic and not at all terrified. But you already knew this would be her reaction. She’s oblivious to what will come. If she knew, she would not be so courageous. “I will survive.”   “He will damn you into eternal darkness.”   “Then let him,” Miyin says. “If this was the Creator’s plans, then I will follow.”   “None of this was her plan,” you bitterly mutter. “She didn’t know the future, not like I do. If she did….she would’ve never made any of this. She would’ve made it all vanish with her death.”   “Y/N….”   “Even if I tried to avoid it, it will happen. I am helpless. As are you.” You look into her eyes. “This is my warning to you.”   “I am not afraid,” Miyin tells you sternly. “Even if you tell me an unborn god will bring darkness upon me, I will not live in fear. No god should ever live in fear.”   You remain silent. It makes her distressed, knowing her words have little effect. But you know that righteousness and pride will only serve the purpose of the inevitable destruction.   //   The God of Sun is childish, playful, and argumentative. He sulks and whines, doesn’t like to share and is haughty over petty matters. Seokjin retains his youth and a lighthearted demeanor that others are unsure if they can take sincerely. The golden-haired man in his extravagant robes enjoys making mischief, finds amusement in using his wit to underhand others, but it is never out of malice as it is for his entertainment.   Out of the four of you, it seemed like Seokjin has grown up the least.   Yet, you know now that underneath his immature and childlike disposition is marble yet to be sculpted. Jin is perceptive and the underestimation of others only serves to his advantage. His greed to maintain the glory of Heaven will someday be the strength to uphold it. He is intelligent, especially because he does not flaunt it and would prefer to use narcissism to hide intentions.   Seokjin is many things, but he is not foolish.   You come to him before he seeks you out.   “Yoongi will be upset if you make the sun fall sooner than it is supposed to.”   “Y/N.” He whirls around, coy smile playing at his features. Of all entities, Jin was the only one who did not treat you any differently. It reminds you of a time long ago when you did not wear the crown, when you did not know what you do now.    A time of ignorance you impossibly wish you could return to.   “But of course, you know that. You won’t be the one waking him up after all. You’ll call a servant.”   “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed resting?” he asks, halting the movement of his hands that was bringing the sun down.   “I thought I would save you the walk of having to come to me. Miyin has insisted that you spoke to me, correct?”   Seokjin grins boyishly. “You really are the all knowing god now, aren’t you?”   The nonchalance is a front. You know Seokjin worries silently, that his doubts lie between his sentences. He is merely persuading you to be at ease rather than confronting you directly about his numerous questions. He consoles you through indifference, as if nothing has changed.   “To know isn’t to understand, Seokjin. I wouldn’t wish this upon you or anyone. You should never want to be an all knowing god.”   His lips fall into a straight line and he approaches with his arms behind him, the sun piercing through his backside. The light shines but it is hardly warm. “What will happen to Heaven, Y/N?”   “It will recover as all things do, but not without facing calamity and making sacrifices.”   “And what will happen to you?” he asks in a softer tone, brows furrowing.   “It doesn’t matter.”   “Tell me what happens, Y/N.” The God of Sun’s voice is firm and demanding. “Miyin told us that there was fire and destruction. It’s a war, isn’t it? Between the mortals? Where are the gods then? Tell me everything that you know.”   “If I tell you, Heaven will never find prosperity. There will never be a golden age. Not only will the mortals cease to exist, but the gods will no longer have their place in this universe.” You shake your head. “I cannot tell you what you truly want to know.”   “How can that be? We are the Great Gods of this world. Nothing….nothing could destroy us.”   You gaze at him, your eyes connected. You’re aware that he knows — that beneath the nonsensical dignity, it is possible. It’s possible that Heaven will be saved.   “You would make a better ruler than I would,” you murmur, much to his astonishment. “Someday, you will become very wise and mature.”   “I do not wish to be the ruler,” Seokjin says immediately and his face scrunches, finding the thought of responsibilities burdensome and distasteful.    For the first time in a while, the corner of your mouth quirks. You reach out to him, sleeves falling back until your palms cradle his cheeks. Your touch is tender and you guide him forward until your foreheads are pressed together.   Your eyes flutter shut. “With my name known, allow your soul to take this blessing of mine.” It is a symbolic gesture, one made with endearment that you both know well after the Creator has given you many blessings during her lifetime.   After you draw away from him, Jin gazes at you. “What did you bless me with?”   “The stars.”   His plump lips become lopsided, brows knitting together into a frown. “What are the stars?”   “They are suns, like you, but farther away. Glimmering specks that fill the night to keep the moon company. They cannot be reached or touched, but they can still watch over you, always.”   “They sound beautiful,” he murmurs, entranced. “Will they be your first creation?”   “Yes.” You look towards the sky. “They will be.”   //   The moon hangs in the sky, shedding light in the darkness to help lead those astray back to their homes. The silver colour lights up the entire world that is blanketed in darkness.   You know you’re foolish for still cherishing this sight, for savouring this temporary serenity. But still, you wrap your arms around you and step out onto the cold terrace to bathe in the soft light.   A moth with tiny, brown wings descends towards you. It flaps and flutters, tickling against your skin before floating around, right out of reach. You watch for a moment and then you feel his presence behind you.   If you turned around, you would see him glow in his milky moonlight. He would be ethereal with his soft and sleepy features, ruffled black hair. His eyes would stare back into yours and you would come to realize again just how beautiful Yoongi is.   But you are too scared to face him.   “Don’t come.”   Yoongi stops. He comes to a stand still.   You don’t turn around, merely allowing a sigh to leave your lips. “Will I ever be able to look at the moon without you coming to me? Or better yet….perhaps it would be better if some nights there were no moon at all.”   “Why have you been pushing me away?” His husky timbre cuts through the air, a question that you have too many answers to, but ones you never wanted to say.   Still, you know what the future holds. You know you’ll have to say it, to provide him the explanation that will end up burdening him forevermore.    So you shut your eyes and brace yourself, gathering the courage to turn around to face the god who has long owned your heart.   “You don’t love me.”   Yoongi is taken aback, eyes pierced into yours. His mouth parts, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. You already know. “You will never love me. You’ve given your affection to my servant girl and you are a fool for it, Yoongi. She will not be reborn. She will only live with you for a blink in the lifetimes we have left, but you have chosen her.”   The God of the Moon does not utter a word. He is unable to deny these accusations.    “But even with her gone, you will never love me while for the rest of eternity, I will.”   You can see past, present, future — a responsibility you must bear. But of all the devastation you have witnessed, of all the pain you have felt, what still hurts most is knowing that your feelings for Yoongi will never be returned.   The moment you were crowned and the gifts were given to you, you saw your eternity in an instant. The knowledge came barrelling at you without remorse, striking your very being. You have seen your fate and his.   From this lifetime to the next — now and in twenty millenniums, even if Yoongi marries you and becomes your husband, he will see you as a companion. He will see you as a friend. And you will always want him as a lover.   You will never have all of Yoongi no matter how much you wish. No matter how powerful you become. No matter what title you hold. You are eternally lonely. A mirror of the lonely Creator, but unable to fill the void that collapses your soul.   You will have Yoongi’s presence, but never his mind and soul.   “I still care about you.” His tone is low, calm and collected. “You are important to me, Y/N. You always will be.”   “But it will never be enough!”   The god doesn’t know what to say. He simply wears an expression of guilt and pity that aches your heart, one you have seen in visions, one you have grown to detest. And tears begin to shed down your cheeks. The droplets are golden lights, shimmering like beads of liquid gold or fireflies falling. They are not as bright as the moon but more numerous and they drip onto the terrace, lighting up the night.    The words hiss out of you, ugly and revolting. “I will never be enough for you.”   “Y/N….” Yoongi calls out and approaches.   “It would be better if no one knew the future,” your voice booms across the land, wrapping around the God of the Moon, your betrothed, and your unrequited love. “It would be better if no one knew like I knew.”   Your skin gleams brightly, glittering like the sunlight and glowing like the moon. The wind suddenly brushes through Yoongi’s hair and the sheer force pulls him back from getting to you. “Y/N!”   You gaze at him with softened eyes, relishing in this sight. Your voice ricochets throughout the universe. “Stay on the moon, Yoongi. Be in solitude. Feel the loneliness that I would have felt for an eternity that never ends.”   The man’s irises are glazed over in the colour of obsidian, his skin bathed in the milky moonlight and making him glow. You stare at him and then to the darkened horizon, knowing the days that are yet to come, the years of misery and where the world will turn to ruin, the helplessness that will drive you insane.   And you succumb to weakness.   The lights seem to spill from inside of you. It pierces through your skin. It tears it apart. It overflows at the seams.    “Y/N!” Yoongi screams in terror and a smile lifts on your features.   You are not Y/N, the Goddess of Light and Life, ruler of all rulers, god of all gods.   You are Y/N, the Goddess of Stars and Loneliness.   “Please,” the god begs, head shaking, hands trembling — he is the God of Moon you will always adore and keep close to your heart. “Don’t go.”   “Let me go,” you murmur gently and begin disintegrating into specks of lights that shimmer all around him. Yoongi falls onto his knees, grasping at the small particles to no avail.   Seokjin and Miyin run out from inside, awoken by the shaking of the ground, by the stirring they feel inside of them. But they can’t look at you.    The night is seared with light as if the sun itself had risen.   “Take the crown, Seokjin.” You smile at him and look towards the sky, taking the gifts of clairvoyance and precognition with you to spare those from the future. Your power of life begins to bleed into the world as well, morphing into a natural force. “I do not wish to be reborn.”   “Y/N!”   The God of Sun shields his eyes away. The Goddess of Dreams is sobbing, trying to reach you. And Yoongi stays in his spot motionlessly, on his knees, ignoring the pain of your radiant aura.    His eyes connect to yours and you smile at him before imploding into a million lights. Yoongi watches as the lights float upwards, becoming splotches in the night horizon that glitter and gleam.

[Present Day]   He looks up at the sky — it’s a clear night where he can see the infinite void of darkness and wonder. But while the inky canopy is an endless abyss, it is decorated with tiny freckles of sparkles. The longer he stares, the more that appears.    They are twinkling pinpricks of light in the sky, some golden and others silver. They cannot be reached or touched, but always watch over the rest of the universe.    The stars accompany the moon, so that it isn’t so lonely.   The man with dark hair and obsidian eyes leans against the terrace railings of his empty palace. His pupils connect the constellations together, drawing lines between them to see the shapes.   But then a little moth serves as his distraction. It’s a tiny thing with brown wings flapping and fluttering. It floats in front of him and he watches before extending his arms to capture the creature in his hand. But then the God of the Moon uncurls his fingers, letting it go.   “What do the stars say today?”   A familiar voice sounds behind him, one he has known for eleven lifetimes now. A smooth timbre that has made many decisions and spoken to many great beings.    Seokjin joins his side, looking out at the sky with a small smile. His question is still unanswered, but it is not uncommon for the God of Sun to ask him about this. After all, in the entire universe, Yoongi has become the best at reading the stars.   “The constellations are shifting. There will be challenges ahead.”   Yoongi continues, “The stars are always melancholic. History doesn’t repeat but it rhymes. There will always be pain and suffering.”   “But there is also hope.” Seokjin stares at his old friend’s profile, lips graced with a small smile. “And the sun always rises after the night.”   There have been many changes since the birth of the four original gods. More gods have come about and the mortals have multiplied even more so. The world is still chaotic — the fire and destruction you had spoken about, like a prophecy, had been fulfilled. The calamity was indeed brought upon Heaven but it had survived.    He’s not sure how long peace will be kept, but Yoongi has learnt that it is within the moment that matters most.   The two of them have gotten old, or at least it feels that way. But Yoongi is glad he is able to be reborn and refresh himself, allowing sorrow and wrath to fade away in cycles. And while you have become a distant memory for him after nearly a millennium, Yoongi doesn’t think he’ll ever forget about you.   Not the way you used to hold his hand when you kept him company on nights he brought the moon out. Not the way you always took to his side. Not the warmth that you gave to him.    Yoongi lets the guilt sit upon his shoulders.   The bittersweet memories of you keep him grounded.   “Do you think she’s watching us?”   “Yeah.” Seokjin sighs wistfully. “I do.”   The corners of his mouth quirk. “She must think we’re still idiots, huh?”   The warm god chuckles, hands behind his back. “Probably. I don’t think she’s ever stopped watching over us, Yoongi.”   The two gods smile, bantering back and forth noisily. It’s the loudest Yoongi’s palace ever gets considering the God of Sun is always rowdy and boisterous. He often ruins the calm atmosphere that the God of the Moon creates, but the occasional company isn’t undesired. It reminds Yoongi of the olden days, during simpler times. Except they have become more mature and wise, just like you have said.   Seokjin yawns, stretching his arms over his head. He bids farewell and turns to return to his extravagant palace. But Yoongi stops him before he can vanish back to Heaven.    “Do you think...she knows?”   Yoongi asks while staring out at the stars, wondering if you know about his regret. His remorse, about how he still cares, about how he remembers you the most out of the three of them that are left.   The God of Sun smiles. “I do.”   Yoongi is left at his lonesome, gazing at the constellations.    The moth floats and flutters in front of him. After a moment, it lies on his cheek as if it were giving a soft kiss and then it flies away into the bright night.