#so bizarre it burned a tiny but v deep hole all the way through that was seemingly as hot as the sun

[sweetblood]

holy shit i was trying to defrost some peanut butter in the microwave and i nearly burned the fucking house down

[imagine-darksiders]

Big Red

A very, very, very quick and belated Valentine’s day special haha ;) 

War x Reader. 

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A day is eventually bound to come when the horseman, War, is no longer baffled by human traditions. 

Today however, isn’t looking as though it’ll be that day. 

It’s very difficult to miss the garish propaganda plastered floor to ceiling on every building throughout the market district of your home city. Little cut-out hearts adorn enormous glass windows of every storefront along main. Soft ballads drift out through open cafe doors and mingle together into an unintelligible blend of noise that only vexes War as he tromps down the street that would eventually bring him to your apartment. 

Winter is finally on its way out, making way for the first signs of spring. Although only February, the sun has decided to make a rare appearance and War is struck by the level of mild delirium that the burning star’s presence seems to have instilled in many of the humans trotting past him. Strangely, the air is relatively warm, giving many of the tiny beings valid justification to don their various dresses, shorts and thin, cotton shirts which really ought to be saved for the summer months. 

However, War hardly pays much attention to their clothing habits, too distracted by another, bizarre feverishness that seems to have gripped the entire human population. 

Everywhere he looks, as far as the eye can see is the colour red. 

The whole city is more saturated in it than a blood-soaked battlefield and when the horseman stepped from a serpent hole earlier that day and took a quick glance at the scenery, a sudden thrill had threatened to overtake him, anticipating that - at any given moment - he would catch a glimpse of the savage warriors who were responsible for all the bloodshed. 

His disappointment hit moments later, once he’d gotten a closer look and discovered the truth. Suspicious and more than a little baffled by all the doe-eyed glances shared amongst humans of every age, shape and gender, he keeps his head turned stiffly forwards and cuts a path through the crowds, heading as directly as he can towards your home. 

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War jerks to a halt on a path too narrow for his wide bulk, his way unexpectedly blocked by a pair of men, each with their arms around the other’s shoulders and their grinning mouths locked together in a deep kiss, completely oblivious to their surroundings. 

Eyes narrowed to blazing slits, War bristles, puffing out his armoured chest. 

This does not happen. 

No angel, demon nor even a maker has ever dared to stand in the Red Rider’s path - Not unless they were trying to rile him up. These two have even taken it a step further by so brazenly ignoring him. War is accustomed to seeing everything and everyone scurry out of his way, as though pushed aside by the sheer force of his impressive will. 

The other humans - the ones who aren’t busy trying to see how long the other can go without air - have so far given him a wide berth. After humanity was restored and the rebuilding of Earth commenced, it became quite commonplace to see several other species mingled in amongst the little ones. Wary though they were at first, that famous, human curiosity won out over trepidation and soon, they were inviting all manner of individuals into their circles. 

Makers fit into human society like a well-worn glove, ferociously protective of their mortal charges and forever leery of the horseman whenever he passes too close to their chosen group. 

Angels meanwhile, were a harder sell, predominantly due to the general disdain a lot of them harboured for humanity as a whole. But there were those among both factions who tossed their prejudices aside and daringly approached one another, ignoring the reprimands and skepticism of their peers to extend a hand of friendship. Once those initial pioneers proved that it could be done, more and more started to come forward and those willing angels who were able to see through the misinformation they’d been fed about humans over the eons suddenly found themselves with loyal and surprisingly judicious new friends. 

Typically, humans are used to seeing members of one species or another pass by them in their day to day lives, and unless it’s a particularly belligerent demon, they won’t typically go out of their way to avoid anybody. 

But a horseman? The horseman who was rumoured to have stood at the centre of it all when their world was ripped asunder? Well, suffice it to say humanity hasn’t quite gotten used to seeing a solitary Nephilim trudging along the streets. They would scatter left and right if they saw him coming. In fact, his side of the street is almost entirely devoid of people, all of whom have tried to discreetly meander across the road to a path running adjacent to his. They move out of his way. 

War - Rider of the Red horse and strongest horseman of the apocalypse - never goes around. Ever. 

Pride bellows indignantly in his ear but it doesn’t seem as if the kissing humans are going to notice him any time soon. So, with a grumpy huff, War furrows his snowy eyebrows and takes a rigid step to one side, grumbling something about ‘hopeless paramours’ as he continues to trundle purposefully on his way.

At every turn, there’s another pair of humans. They run into each others’ arms, or they’re presenting someone with a small square of card or sitting in the sunlight at opposite ends of little red, chequered tables situated outside various cafes and restaurants, sending each other strange, sentimental gazes. 

He manages to make it down three more blocks without much of a change in scenery before his curiosity gets the better of him. ‘

This is getting ridiculous

.’ 

Abruptly, the horseman stops in his tracks and eyes the vicinity, searching for a human who looks as if they’ll know what he needs to find out. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find a likely candidate. 

A young man sits alone at a picnic table beneath the awning of a homey little bakery that sells all manner of pies, cakes and decorated sweets. His dark hair has been meticulously combed up at the front into a neat quiff and a pair of black, thick-rimmed spectacles slip down his button nose, causing him to have to continuously adjust them by nudging them back into place with a finger. Around his neck, there’s a bright purple bowtie that clashes terribly with his unzipped, navy hoodie and in his hands, he’s clutching onto a single, red rose so tightly, it’s as if he’s afraid someone will come along and try to take it from him. 

With a decisive grunt, War makes a beeline straight for him. 

The human is too busy glancing up and down the street and then anxiously turning an ear to his watch to notice the armoured behemoth trailing to a halt in front of him until a strong voice pipes up, “You there, human.”

The young man’s backside leaves the wooden seat, his knees banging on the underside of his table as he lets out a startled yelp and snaps his head up, warm, green eyes bulging open wide when they land on the red-cloaked nephilim. Fascinating how fast all traces of colour can drain out of a human’s face.

War opens his mouth to speak, but he’s rudely interrupted when the human anxiously licks his lips and squeaks out, “St-Stacey!?” 

Taken aback, the horseman blinks. ‘Stacey? Who in the nine Hells?...’ Slowly, his upper lip curls into an affronted snarl, inciting the human to throw up both hands and cower further into his seat. “Not -not Stacey! Right, got it! Stupid question!” A nervous chuckle bursts off his tongue. “Sorry. For a second there, I thought I was being cat-fished.” 

If War had any idea what a catfish was, he still wouldn’t have a hope in Hell’s chance of understanding just what the strange little man was talking about. So, he doesn’t bother asking. 

Instead, he moves his pale eyes down to the rose clenched between the human’s trembling fingers and demands, “What is that?” 

“What? This?” Blanching, the man gulps and pulls the flower protectively towards his chest. “I-it’s just a rose! Why?” 

“What is it for?” 

“What’s it f-” Trailing off, he hesitates, sliding his glasses back onto his nose and casts a searching glance up and down the horseman, his throat bobbing nervously. “Umm. It’s for a girl I’m supposed to be meeting.” Perhaps realising that he isn’t in as much mortal peril as he’d first thought, the human perks up slightly and adds, “We...we met online last year. This is the first time we’ll see each other in person a-and I thought, what better day to meet than Valentine’s day, right?” 

The horseman cocks his head to one side, red cloak rippling in the noonday sun. “Valentine’s day?” 

Blinking several times the man’s mouth suddenly drops open to form an ‘o’ and he lifts a hand to thunk it against the side of his skull. “Oh, gosh! That’s right! You’re one of those horsemen guys, aren’t you?” 

‘One of those horsemen guys?’ War’s face darkens, lips tugging down at the corners distastefully. ‘How the mighty have fallen.’ 

The human continues to babble, his cheeks now splashed with a tinge of pink. “Ha! Sorry, I guess you wouldn’t have heard about V day, in that case.” 

Just like that, War’s head quirks back upright with renewed interest. “Ah,” he drawls, “You are celebrating the day one of your world wars ended then?” 

That would certainly explain the red. Not so much the hearts and lust-filled glances though...

He lifts a brow when he realises that the human is staring up at him, mouth agape as if he’d just sprouted horns. Shrugging one, massive shoulder, the horseman sniffs. “Polemology is one of the few areas of human history I have a vetted interest in.” 

“O-oh!” The man nods, awe flickering across his face, “Cool, cool. But, uh, I’m talking about the other V day. Valentine’s? It’s a day where we celebrate the people we care about most.” Wrinkling his nose, he glances off across the street to a line of shops, all showing off an assortment of brightly coloured posters promoting the holiday.  “Of course, it’s all pretty commercialised now,” he points out, turning back to the horseman, “Bit of a money-making ploy for card companies to rake in some extra cash.. But the sentiment’s still there. Show someone you care about them.” 

“And...to do this...humans present each other with...something red?” War ventures falteringly whilst he scrutinises the rose again. 

“Erm...Well, yeah? Come to think of it, I guess most of the gifts are supposed to be red. It is the holiday’s theme colour, after all. If you’ve got someone in mind, the bigger and redder the present, the better!” 

Suddenly all too aware of his own hood and cloak, War begins to shift uncomfortably. Leave it to humans to effectively declaw his favourite colour.

No matter. 

Even if he were garbed in sunshine yellow or baby blue, he’s confident that he could still strike terror into the hearts of any and all who laid eyes on him. 

Humming pensively, he narrows his eyes and swivels his hood around to peer down the road in the direction of your home, dimly wondering if anyone has given you a gift yet, and then asking himself why that idea irked him so much.

Pushing aside the unwarranted spike of irrational envy, War draws himself up and offers the bespectacled human a small nod of gratitude - the closest a stranger would ever get to a ‘thank you’ from the austere horseman. 

And with that, War promptly turns on his heel and continues the journey down a crowded street, leaving behind one very confused human to bark out a clumsy farewell before slumping down in his seat and releasing a quaking exhale. “What in the world!?” 

--- --- ---

At the back of your apartment block is a modest, communal plot of land, little more than a square patch of dirt with a rusty football goalpost sitting next to the back fence. 

Standing in the middle of the garden, War tilts his head back to squint up at the red brick building, his narrow eyes fixed intently on the second storey balcony in particular. 

Flower pots are dotted along a metal grate surrounding the pair of large, french doors that open out onto a small deck, allowing enough space for that plastic lawn chair you’d put out to read on during the summer. 

War’s nostrils twitch as he inhales, picking up on the familiar scent of oil paints and white spirit that drifts out through the open doors and floats down into his nose. 

You’re home then. And painting. 

In a split second, the combination of those two things instills such a swell of contentment in the horseman, his permanent scowl softens ever so slightly and he expels a mellow breath. 

With the exception of Ruin, you are perhaps the single, solitary being in Creation that War would openly count as a friend. And that human with the glasses and funny bow tie had said that on Valentine’s day - today - it is customary to give something big and red to the person you care about. 

Try as he might to keep it hidden, anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain could see that War cares about you. The only problem is, he doesn’t have anything red to give you. A predicament he’d puzzled over all the way to your apartment. 

A red car? No, you don’t really condone vehicular theft. 

A red telephone box? But there had been a human using it at the time. 

A post box!.....Oh, but where on earth would you put it? 

It was only once he reached the corner of your block that an idea started to niggle at the back of his mind, worming its way forwards with an insistence that made it impossible to ignore. 

Quite frankly, the idea itself was ridiculous. 

But, then again, you’re fairly ridiculous. So this might just turn out to be the best, worst idea that could have occurred to him. 

War’s eyes dart to the doors of the apartment beside your own in time to catch a small, round face disappear behind a thin curtain. The neighbour’s children are endlessly fascinated by the strange, titanic man who’s always visiting you. 

One corner of the horseman’s mouth quirks upwards. If nothing else, then at the very least his next move will satiate their curiosity for a time. 

Big and red... If Death were here, he’d probably admonish his youngest brother for being so obvious. 

War squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on channelling his inner rage towards the pulsing ventricles and atriums of his thundering heart. A spark ignites directly at his core and then, with all the force of an explosion, his body bursts into flames and he begins to grow. 

Every bone in his robust body expands, snapping at the joints and re-fusing to accommodate the extra bends in his legs. Ancient magics strip his armour away and his hood falls, leaving room for a pair of horns to erupt out from the back of his skull, curving up and around like the prongs of a bull, perfect for goring. 

With a loud crack and snap, two vestigial wings sprout between his shoulder blades. Featherless and without any kind of membrane, they stretch up into the sky and give a few powerful beats, testing the air. Finally, once he’s reached his new, full height, his tail bone lengthens, extending from the base of his spine and tapering off into a long, whip-like appendage. 

The ground beneath his clawed feet is scorched black from the fire that had blasted across it as he approached the apex of his transformation.  When the flames licking over his body fizzle out and leave behind rock-hard skin the colour and texture of cooling magma, War opens his eyes. 

No longer do they shine with an otherworldly blue. 

Now, they glow gold as a dying sun and burn just as hotly. 

To his left, War’s ear flicks towards the gasps of shock and awe coming from the children peeking around the curtains to look at him but as soon as his large head swivels in their direction, they let out frightened bleats and retreat to the safety of their home. Pointed, craggy teeth click together a few times in amusement as the beast takes a heavy step up to your balcony, his new height bringing him a couple of feet higher than the metal railing, meaning he has to stoop down to look inside the apartment. 

The moment he lays eyes on you, the monstrous horseman croons softly, a guttural warble that starts in his throat and slips out from between his fangs. 

You have your back to him, standing in your pyjamas in front of a large easel and canvas, slapping paint onto it with nary a thought for precision. Your laptop sits beside you on a dirty, wooden table and a quick glance confirms that you have a pair of earphones plugged into it, hence why you hadn’t darted over to the window at the sound of his transformation. Creator knows it isn’t a quiet one. 

Pricking his ears up, War chuffs out a greeting. 

However, you don’t turn around, instead continuing to sing softly along to the music in your head and bobbing your hips to and fro whilst you work. 

The behemoth’s brow ridge dips into a frown and he tries again with a sharp grunt. This time, you pause, cocking your head to the side and he immediately perks up only to snarl vehemently as you lift your shoulders in a shrug and go straight back to painting. 

Right. 

A clangorous rumble passes through War’s chest as he leans his head over the metal railing and tries to decide whether it would be best to reach in and grab you, or to roar as loud as he can and send the whole neighbourhood into a panic. You’d probably disapprove more of the last one....

Setting his jaw, the horseman makes up his mind. 

You don’t see the enormous, clawed hand that squeezes its way through your french doors and knocks over several plant pots, nor do you notice that most of your natural light is suddenly gone, assuming that a cloud is simply passing across the sun. It isn’t until you feel something warm and hard catch on the back of your pyjama top that you let out a shrill scream of surprise and drop your paintbrush to the carpet. Without any further warning, your bare feet leave the ground and the collar of your shirt digs harshly against your throat as you inexplicably find yourself being dragged back towards the balcony, earphones pulled taught as they fight to remain in your ears and the laptop simultaneously. Finally, with a painful pop, they tear free and you can suddenly hear the loud, ragged breath of something enormous behind you. 

Opening your mouth to release another shriek, you desperately begin to kick and writhe, though try as you might, you can’t squirm free. The assailant’s hold of you is immovable as it pulls you through the french doors. At the last second, you fling out your hands and barely manage to grab onto the edge of the doorframe, fingers clenching down on the wood with the desperation of a ship’s captain clinging to his wheel during a tumultuous storm. 

Whatever it is that has a hold of you takes extreme objection at your unwillingness to cooperate. The immense presence at your back complains noisily and a flash of hot, sticky breath washes over you, prompting you to finally find your tongue and the presence of mind to form a coherent shout, “NO!” before being promptly tugged backwards in a motion too swift for you to counter. 

Your fingertips scrape uselessly over the wooden frame until at last, they slip free, and you suddenly find yourself outside, gawking past your flailing feet to the grass several meters below. 

For one, terrible moment, you become convinced that you’re about to be dropped. Although by no means a fatal distance, it would certainly hurt, and you’d probably wind up with a broken leg which would really put a dampener on your already mundane Valentine’s day. 

In the midst of being strangled by your own pyjama top and dangling helplessly like a newborn kitten from some unknown monster’s clutches, you opt to try for diplomacy, seeing as writhing and floundering seems to be getting you nowhere fast. “W-WOAH! Hang on a second!” you cry out, trying to crane your neck back but only finding an enormous, red wall of rock-hard flesh obstructing your view, “I-I don’t know who you are! But - but please! Don’t. Drop. Me!” 

Astonishingly, your captor actually complies. 

A throaty rumble reverberates directly behind your ears and sends a shudder rolling over your skin as the monster slowly begins lowering you to the ground. 

With a dull thud, your bare feet hit the warm earth and the anxious pinch of your brow immediately smoothes itself out. However, the relief is short lived as another gust of scalding breath tickles the hairs on the back of your neck. 

Cringing under the weight of trepidation, you stiffly crank your head around and the rest of your body slowly follows suit, until you suddenly find yourself nose to nose with the rockbound face of a gigantic, red beast. 

It’s hardly any wonder that a yelp jumps out of your mouth and you stagger back a few steps simply to take in the enormity of such a monstrous head looming mere inches away. “What the-!”  

Suddenly, you pause and draw back a little, hemmed in on either side by the two, curved horns that jut from its skull. Squinting up at the giant, one corner of your lip starts to quirk. “War?”

By way of a wordless reply, the beast's nostrils flare but his unrelenting gaze never leaves yours.

All at once, full recognition brightens your expression.��“War!” you exclaim happily, dashing forwards again and all but launching yourself at him, crushing your sternum against his hard, flat nose and stretching to engulf as much of his face in your arms as possible. It's been too long since you've seen him in his Chaos Form, and at first glance, you'd almost mistaken him for a Trauma. He has the same bulky head, the same rust-coloured hide and stands only a few feet taller than the Destroyer's heavy hitters.

Now that the initial shock of being lifted from your apartment is starting to wear off, excitement dribbles through, first as a trickle, then as a surging wave. War hasn't been to Earth for several weeks, too busy in other realms, wreaking havoc on the fractured remnants of the Destroyer's army. To say that you missed him is an understatement.

“It's so good to see you again!” you laugh, extracting yourself from between his horns and retreating far enough so that you can look him in the eye, “But what are you doing here!?”

Flicking his tail, the horseman huffs, as though it should really be obvious. 

Rolling his gleaming eyes, he swallows his pride and leans forwards again, thumping down onto his forelegs and giving the top of your hair a gentle bunt with the tip of his nose. Then, he simply leaves it there, his nostrils fluttering open and closed as he breathes, content simply to re-familiarise himself with the scent of your shampoo.

“You came to see me then?” you guess, at the same time reaching a hand up to affectionately cup it around the underside of his jaw.

A soft chuff whooshes through your hair.

“I'll take that as a yes,” you beam, “I'm flattered. And here I thought I'd be spending another Valentine’s day alone.”

At your mention of the earthen holiday, the behemoth thumps his tail once against the ground and his nose leaves your hair as he pulls away, straightening to his full, intimidating height before snorting pointedly.

Naturally curious, you cant your head to the side. “Uh...Okay? Listen, not that I'm not ecstatic to see you, big guy-”

Proudly, he puffs out his armoured chest and you can't help but pause to give your head an exasperated shake. In all the time spent traipsing across the ruined earth, no matter what he faced or who he fought, War had never once given you the impression that he was a showoff.

“- But what's with the Chaos Form?”

Like air escaping a giant, red balloon, War deflates. Loudly.

His jaws fall open around a plaintive grumble as he shoots you a look that practically screams, 'You really can’t guess?'

However, having failed to extract the anticipated reaction from you, the horseman does a subtle little roll of his gleaming eyes and his entire throat quivers with the force of a guttural sigh.

Then, without any more pomp or poise, he tucks his claws up underneath his chest, eyes drooping shut once more.

Even though you've witnessed him transform a dozen times, you're never quite prepared for the brief intensity of the heat that explodes from his body and slams into you like a wall of fire, nor for the searing flash that burns itself into your retinas and leaves you momentarily dazzled.

It takes a few blinks before you can comfortably peel your eyes open again to find War – in his original glory – towering over you with that blissfully familiar frown puckering his forehead.

A fond smile nudges at the sides of your mouth. It was hard to believe that this paragon of stoicism was just nosing through your hair a minute ago. “Hi, War.”

His response is a simple twitch of his lips, the tiniest of nods and a low grunt. To the untrained eye, it's a cold, aloof and curt greeting.

But having travelled alongside the horseman for just the right amount of time, you've learned enough to know by now that War, while not conventionally expressive in the way humans are – eons of battle hardened more than his resolve – even he isn't without his subtle tells.

A nearly imperceptible flex of his gauntlet here, a shift in his weight from one foot to the next there. He has something he wants to say but finding himself trapped in your attentive, unflinchingly trusting gaze seems to have lodged whatever it is in his throat.

Perhaps you're granting him a small mercy then by lightly prompting, “As much as I love standing here quietly, staring into each other's eyes, I am curious to know why my favourite horseman just snatched me out of my home in broad daylight, in his Chaos form, no less.”

A beat of further silence passes, during which he draws himself up, squaring his already broad shoulders and tipping his chin towards the sky, long, silver hair catching a stray gust of wind. 

In making himself physically larger, he's inadvertently given away the nature of his response. It's a defence mechanism.

The bigger he seems, the less likely it is that he'll be confronted.

Now, in your humble opinion, War has absolutely no reason to make himself appear larger. Frankly, with the exception of his sister, Fury, War is about the most redoubtable thing on two legs. And he knows this. So the only reason he could possibly have for distending himself like that must be because he's inexplicably uncertain, possibly gearing up to step out of his comfort zone and show you a modicum of vulnerability akin to exposing a wound to salt water.  

You realise – with equal parts intrigue and concern – that he's about to tell you something he doesn't necessarily want to admit. “War?” you prod, gingerly.

Recognising that this interaction can go no further unless he responds to you, the horseman pulls his mouth into a thin line and mumbles something, though his words are drowned out by a car horn sounding a few streets over.

Pressing your lips together to stifle a sheepish grin, you ask, “Sorry, what was that?”

Against all laws of physics, War's scowl somehow manages to furrow even deeper. In the end though, he takes in an impressive lungful of air, holds it in for around five, full seconds and then, in that monotonous, distinct rumble you're so accustomed to hearing, he declares, “Today is Valentine’s day.”

If he didn't think it would only add to your amusement, he would have slapped a palm against his forehead. He used to be eloquent, or at least, he'd assumed he was before he met you.

The horseman's jaw clamps shut with enough pressure to turn coal into a diamond at the mirth shining in your eyes.

“O-oh?” Your voice trembles and you quickly wipe a hand across your mouth, as if to physically remove the grin for the mere sake of sustaining his pride. “You know about...Valentine's day?”

Affronted, he snaps sharply, “I do,” only to regret it moments later when you flinch and the smile that had been plastered on your face wavers. After subjecting himself to a scathing reprimand, War forces a gentle lilt into his otherwise gruff tone, adding, “I...learned of it from a human on my way here.”

“Ah.” Your eyebrows start to make their way further towards your hairline, the teasing smile back in place at once. “So, you didn't come to see me just because it's Valentine's day?”

For a while, the horseman mulls over his next words. 'A tactician of any battlefield,' Death had once said, 'Of conversation, on the other hand? Hardly.' Absently swinging his gaze down to your bare feet, he notes with a grimace that he'll have to carry you around to the front of your building. There's no end of smashed bottles laying about on the pavement, just waiting for some, unsuspecting human to step on it. Finally, after the silence has stretched for too long, he sighs, “Not initially, no. I was only coming to see how you've been faring. We haven't seen each other since-”

“- Since Christmas,” you interject wistfully, “Yeah, it's been a few weeks. Long time for a human, you know.”

'Too long,' he catches himself thinking. “The human I met,” he carries on, prompting a curious tilt of your head, “He told me of the integral customs this day entails, of the hearts, gifts and flowers and the importance of the colour red when declaring your lo-... fondness for one another.” Giving a haughty grumble, War casts his eyes off to the side and stares at a particularly interesting patch of grass.

“Uh, huh....A-and the whole-” Hesitating, you gesture at him vaguely, raising a hand high above your head and flapping it about indicatively. “How does that fit in?”

“Ah. My Chaos Form.” Without missing a beat, War's arms fold neatly over his wide chest and he sweeps his soft, blue eyes back over to meet yours. “It was the biggest, reddest thing I could think of at such short notice.”

Just like that, your jaw falls open so sharply, it almost hits the ground. He doesn't speak, merely braces himself against the prickling sensation that you might turn around and rebuff his gesture, that he'd misinterpreted the holiday and you wouldn't appreciate his admittedly lacklustre idea of a gift. As the horseman's doubts creep up on him and start to burrow underneath his skin, your expression of unbridled shock gives way to tenderness. “Oh, War...You know you didn't have to do that.” Suddenly, you take a step forwards, closing the distance between yourself and the horseman and blinking slowly up at his hooded face, a coy smile brightening your features as you whisper, “But I'm glad you did.”

Before he can escape, you push yourself onto your toes and brace one hand against his chest for balance, lifting the other hand to place the very tips of your fingers behind the horseman's jaw. Even with the lightest touch, you can feel how rigid it is, so unlike the softness of your delicate skin.

“What are you doing?” he exclaims, rooted to the spot, wide eyed whilst you stretch your neck out and tip your head to one side, drawing closer until your face is next to his inside the blood-red hood. Then, to War's bewilderment, you oh-so-carefully press your puckered lips to the rough, pale skin of his cheek.

It's a tender act, one that sets War's heart thundering. You can feel it against your ribcage as you begin to pull away, only to find yourself halted by a firm hand on the small of your back. “War? What are you doing?” You echo his previous words back at him, swallowing thickly as he brings his smaller, gauntleted hand up and gently captures your chin between his thumb and hooked forefinger.

His bright gaze is fixated on you, oblivious to the city around him and to the prying eyes of your neighbour's children who watch on from overhead with mild disgust pulling at their mouths. A warm, odourless breath escapes from between his half-parted lips and skims over your lips and chin. Humming low in his throat, the horseman tips your chin back a little and leans down until his nose bumps into the tip of yours, causing you to blink in surprise.

You can feel the faintest tremor in his lower lip as he brushes it deliberately into your own and says, eyes slipping shut just seconds before he completely closes the gap and gently secures his scarred lips over yours, “Honouring a tradition.”