#the world around him has fallen apart and crumbled to dust he was left behind with no place and no people to call home

[tsui-no-sora]

Nooo :(( why do people dislike Jiang Cheng he's literally just a little guy full of problems he and his siblings were born on a sewer underneath a bridge all on their own one lonely night full of storms he's like an injured cat you find on the side of the road he's never done anything wrong

[pochipop]

hello!! i hope you’re doing great today :))

i’ve never requested before so i hope im doing this right

could i request something v angsty with diluc?

thank u!! <3

＃ GENSHIN IMPACT !! ♡ — SUNSETS WITH(OUT) YOU (DILUC X READER).

#. synopsis! — sometimes, moving on feels impossible. guilt sits in diluc's gut like heavy stones. he'd do anything for one last chance .

#. characters! —diluc .

#. warnings! — heavy angst .

#. word count! — 1.8k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @yyolkchi (reblog/spam) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

The pain comes in waves.

Sometimes, it laps at Diluc's shores like a comforting kiss, —the kind you used to pepper thoughtfully down the line of his jaw after a day’s work. The kind he'd all but melt under, reducing himself to putty in your hands. Other times, it crashes and roars like the howling wolves of the forests, pulling him in and under, washing him out to sea until he's lost, confused, and losing his will to move forward.

Tonight, he's hurting.

He stumbles in through the door after a night at the tavern serving drinks to cheerful drunks and rowdy lightweights. Kaeya wasn’t there. He hasn’t been since he heard the news, though Diluc isn’t sure why. Or maybe he does know, somewhere deep inside, and yet feigning ignorance is easier than facing things head on. All Diluc really knows for certain is that Kaeya wasn’t there. . . But he’s starting to wish he’d show up again. He’s starting to wish he’d come waltzing in through the door, no need for pity or anything of the sort. Just that cocky smirk and arrogant aura, making snide comments on little things just because he can. Yeah. . . Diluc could use that normalcy.

His heart is heavy with the thought of you. It's been a while, but the wound is fresh. It bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until Diluc lets it consume him, lets it strip him down to a mess on the floor. It bleeds until he falls apart, knowing that come morning he'll have to piece himself back together with reckless abandon and hope for the best. It'll never last long, but he has to admit that sometimes it's nice to pretend that he's learned how to live with the loss. It might even be easier to pretend that it doesn't always poke at his heart, reminding him of the hole you left behind that he doesn't know how to fix or fill.

Tonight, he's drowning again.

Diluc looks around at his bedroom and exhales, shakily so, listening for the sound of his mask of security shattering away into nothingness at his feet. He can't bring himself to throw away the dead flowers on the nightstand, —the ones he got for you in celebration of nothing in particular. Once a beautiful bouquet of cecilias, the petals are long past the point of being shriveled. They've blackened and fallen away from their rotting stems, curling into pathetic shells of what they once were. If Diluc were to pick them up, they'd crumble into dust in the palm of his hands. The vase is void of water now after quite a bit of neglect, but he'll make up for that in the morning. He'll water those long-dead stems and gently sweep the corpses of those lifeless petals into a little pile. 

Not that it'll make him feel any better.

In fact, it might as well be making things worse. But he'll do it in spite of that, because you once held those now-dead flowers close to your chest with a beaming smile on your face. You were happy in that moment, and he can’t bear the thought of getting rid of them when you were the one who carefully filled that little vase with water, the one who placed it on the nightstand next to your bed. His bed. The bed you once shared with him each night, wrapped up in each other, thinking maybe if he loved you hard enough it would shield you from the world itself.

Some days, he wakes up and has to fight the urge to slam that vase to the ground, watching as it shatters against the floor. And then Diluc is sure that he’d cry, fall to his knees atop all the shards with no regard for the pain it’ll cause him once he’s wrung himself dry again.

He’s good at making himself miserable.

That’s why he hasn’t washed the sheets in months, —because he’s tricked himself into believing that your side of the bed still smells like you, even after all this time. Acknowledging that it’s faded is far more hurtful than the alternative of clutching onto the pillow you always used, closing his eyes, and pretending that you’re still there with him, snuggling into his chest and mumbling something about how he made you feel safe.

His heart throbs.

All you ever wanted was for him to keep you safe, and yet here he is having completely failed you. And the worst part of all is that he knows you’d be the first person to tell him that he did the best he could, —that he tried, and that it was enough, even though he knows it wasn’t. Diluc knows you wouldn’t blame him. . . So he’s blaming himself enough for the both of you and then some.

Not because it’s what you’d want, but because it’s what he thinks he deserves.

He sits by the window now in that same spot you used to watch the sun set, slinking its way out of the sky as your eyes reflected the dimming rays. Diluc can hear you now as he gazes from the same window you once did, —gushing over the beautiful blend of colors awash in the sky. . . You’d always invite him to share the moment with you. Now, he regrets having said no so many times. If he could go back in time and do it all again, he’d never turn down a single offer. He’d hold you close, wrap you up in his arms, kiss the sweet spot just below your ear to hear you hum ever so lightly in bliss.

He really wishes he could do it all again.

The thought of it often keeps him awake at night.

Diluc feels that same wave of dread wash over him that he’s felt at every sunset since that fateful day. He might have grown to hate them by now if it weren’t for your love of them, —if it weren’t for the lingering shreds of your presence that he swears he feels when he gazes off toward the horizon as the sun lowers itself out of the sky to make room for the moon’s humble glow.

Maybe it’s just another way he’s deluding himself, watering down the agony that reaches for his heart every chance it gets, but it’s better than the emptiness that awaits him as an alternative. It’s better than the nothingness that Diluc knows would swallow him whole if he were to accept things as they are. Bleak. Completely desolate. . . Colder than even the windiest strips of mountainside atop Dragonspine’s all but infinite summit. 

At least here he can trick himself into believing that your fingertips are trailing along the back of his hand the way they always did, like little nimble spider legs just dancing along his flesh. Though Diluc has long been a man who prefers his space, you were one of the few people he would thoughtlessly allow close, —closer than anyone else could ever dream of being. So close that it might have been suffocating.

For the millionth time, Diluc is forced to come to the sobering realization that this room no longer feels like his own. This manor, the one his father took such care of when he was alive and well, has been reduced to nothingness. It feels utterly forsaken.

There’s nothing left here, and yet this room of things, dead flowers, little trinkets, and all the memories he can’t seem to part with, is all he has left of you. If he doesn’t come here, where else is there to go? He doesn’t feel you this strongly anywhere else, —not along Mondstadt’s cobble streets, not in the tavern where you’d swing by every now and again to entice him upstairs and onto the balcony, stealing kisses just to leave him breathless under the stars. He doesn’t feel you next to Starfell Lake where you used to feed the ducks and call them by names, —one’s you’d given them. Diluc still isn’t sure how you managed to tell them apart, or even if you ever truly did at all.

He doesn’t feel you like this at the top of Starsnatch Cliff where he took you on a first date, one that was sloppily planned and poorly executed on his part, but you said nothing of it and held his hand below an inky black sky anyway.

Try as he might, he only feels you so stirringly here in the room you tended to when Diluc himself chose not to. When work would pile up for him, you’d take care of all the smaller things just to give him a soft place to land at the end of each day.

Needless to say, the room has divulged into calamity without you.

Diluc wishes he could pull himself together, keep up with the tasks you always took care of with ease. He wishes he could fill your place, but it’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t have the will nor the strength to do so. He’s drained himself of every last drop. There’s nothing left to find inside him. He’s running on empty, and try as he might, there’s seemingly nothing he can do to fix it.

And above all else, Diluc just wishes that everything were different.

He wishes that his dad was still here to talk him down, to give him advice, to point him in the right direction. He wishes Kaeya were here, even if he’s still angry with him. He’d give the world to have a shoulder to cry on, —to have his brother here for the first time in forever. It’s selfish, he knows, considering Diluc drove the wedge between them himself and has since adamantly denied every last one of Kaeya’s attempts to mend things. . . But right now, selfishness is one of the few things Diluc can manage to conjure up.

And selfishly, he’d let the entirety of Teyvat burn to a crisp around him if it meant he could have your lips pressed against his again, even if only for a moment.

Diluc reaches out to open the window. The sunset is gone and the stars don’t glimmer as brightly as they once did. He feels nothing but bitterness well up inside as he listens to the song of the wind and trees. He’s sure you’d want to dance to the tender melody of the breeze stirring the branches up above. Maybe, he ponders, if I send a message off with the wind, it just might reach the right place. . .

With a heavy, aching heart, Diluc traces the window sill, fingertips easily sliding over the smooth material. A sob creeps up the back of his throat as he closes his eyes, feeling that same breeze caress his skin under the moonlight. It’s nowhere near as comforting as he wishes it was, but it’s all that remains. It’s all he’s got left.

Though the words nearly die on his tongue, Diluc forces himself to speak; sending that message off with the wind in hopes that you might hear it wherever you are now.

“I love you.”

[p-artsypants]

A Gift from Mr. Blanc

Marinette's worst nightmares were of Chat Blanc. But that's all they were: nightmares. Until one day where in the stone cold light of day, Chat Blanc walked into the classroom, with a gift in hand. "This will make you love me again, My Lady."

Ao3 | FF.net

Everyone is on this Chat Blanc train, so I bought a ticket and got a window seat. 

--

“Yes, Timestreamer, find me the best Akuma ever created!” Shadowmoth raised a manic fist as the images appeared before him. 

The woman who was once Nathalie Sancoeur stood next to him, now transformed into an Akuma with thick glasses, which almost looked like VR goggles. 

In a fit of artist’s block, Gabriel Agreste had vented that he had run out of ideas for Akuma. He had to keep going, and the villains couldn’t slack less Ladybug and Chat Noir get the upper hand. 

To which Nathalie had said, “well, you don’t need to reinvent the wheel.” 

She had meant it to be cheeky, but he took inspiration from it in a whole new way. Why invent a new villain when one from a different time is sure to work? Timetagger, an Akuma from the future, had seemed to almost win. Perhaps there were more like him out there. 

He only needed someone to see the timelines so he could pick his champion. 

So here they were, scanning through endless time streams, looking at massive successes, and massive failures. There really was no telling which one would do the job, but unless Timestreamer’s Akuma was taken or, heaven forbid, the Butterfly was taken, they could send villain after villain after villain. 

Yes, this was a good plan! 

“That one!” Shadowmoth pointed, the stark white catching his gaze. 

“That one?” Timestreamer asked, feeling unease looking into his soulless blue eyes. 

“That has to be Chat Noir’s akumatized form. He’s perfect.” 

Following orders, Timestreamer summoned the Akuma forward. 

From the static images appeared a grainy figure, slowly solidifying into a solid white boy. His expression was one of confusion and disorientation.

“Chat Blanc, I am Shadowmoth,” he began. 

Immediately, Chat Blanc snarled. “You! You monster!” And he leapt. 

Suffice to say, neither Timestreamer or Shadowmoth were prepared for a full on fight this early in the conversation. 

Shadowmoth did have training in fighting, and successfully blocked the incoming swipe at his throat with his arm. However, the claws cut right through his suit and into his flesh, making him cry out in pain. 

The next swipe hit true, and knocked the butterfly Miraculous from its place on his collar. 

Chat Blanc then plucked the Peacock from his lapel while Gabriel Agreste tried to put pressure on his grievous wounds. 

“Why?” Asked Gabriel, “don’t you know I made you? Don’t you know I can give you everything you want?” 

Chat Blanc didn’t respond, only snapped the goggles off of a shell shocked Timestreamer. He then touched the black butterfly with his claw, and it crumbled into dust. 

Nathalie ran to Gabriel and looked at his wounds. “You need to go to a hospital.” 

“No!” He protested, pushing her away. “Answer me, boy! You’re easily the most powerful Akuma ever made. Once you get the Miraculous of Ladybug and this timeline’s Chat Noir, we can make the ultimate wish! Whatever your heart’s desire, it’s yours!” He reached a hand out to the boy. 

Chat Blanc, who Gabriel knew as the exuberant and emotional Chat Noir, just looked at him with a sharp, emotionless stare. 

“You already took everything from me, Father. This is my one chance to get things back to where they are supposed to be.” 

“Adrien?” 

The gaze didn’t change, but he did raise an eyebrow. “In my timeline you knew. You knew, and you still hurt me. You hurt her. You turned me, and you forced me to kill. You left me alone in that world for months. Left me to mourn. Cursed me to this form—“ he snarled. “That can’t starve, that can’t sleep, that can’t thirst or drown—“ a tear fell down his cheek. “You left  me in a prison where I couldn’t die, and would continue to suffer because of your mistakes.” He gave a hint of a bitter smile. “Does that answer your question, old man?” 

Maybe it was just the blood loss, but Gabriel felt some remorse. “I’m sorry, son. Give me back the Butterfly, and I’ll set you free.” 

“Not a chance. Ladybug will fix me. And when I give her these, she’ll love me again. And I’ll have all the family I ever need.” With that, he summoned his baton to break through the window, and launched out into Paris. 

Gabriel laid still on the ground, holding his chest with one hand while Nathalie gripped his wrist with the other. 

“I…what am I going to do?” 

“Well, you know Adrien has the ring—“ 

“No doubt Chat Blanc will tell him everything before we can get to him. I don’t think that’s an option anymore.” 

“Then…what would you like to do?” 

He spent a long time just breathing and thinking. 

Choosing. 

“I guess, apologize. And then hope that I haven’t done enough damage to lose the only family I have left.” 

“Maybe, if he is Chat Noir, and you explain the truth to him…he’ll tell Ladybug. Maybe she’d help.” 

“I doubt she’d do anything to help me, after all I’ve done.” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I could just bleed out here. Save him the pain.” 

“I won’t let you do that, Sir. As upset Adrien will be, he still loves you.” 

“But for how long?” 

“I think you should live and find out.” 

—

Chat Blanc had never been so happy. He should be upset, angry, sobbing even, but he wasn’t. 

He was getting his second chance. Paris was full, alive, teeming with traffic and swearing and smoking and everything foul that wasn’t there in his wastelands. 

Hawkmoth was gone, and he was on his way to Marinette. With these, she had to love him, she just had to.

Francois DuPont never looked so pretty. The windows showed bored expressions of dozens of students. 

Students that were alive and not submerged under water. 

He dropped down in the courtyard, letting muscle memory take him up the stairs to his old classroom. The door was closed, but not locked. 

Did he knock? Or did he just walk in? It had been so long…did he introduce himself? Did he apologize for interrupting? 

He decided to forgo knocking, and pushed the door open on his own. 

All eyes turned to look at him, but his attention was only on her. 

Though he did get a glimpse of his own horrified face. 

“Chat Noir?” The teacher asked. 

“No.” He shook his head. “Not anymore.” He never stopped looking right at Marinette.

“I must be dreaming,” the girl in question said aloud. “I must have fallen asleep, and now I’m having a nightmare.” Tears were filling her eyes as her voice crumbled. “Please tell me you’re a nightmare, Chat.” 

“No, My Lady. I’m real.” Did she know him from somewhere? Or was she just assuming he was an akumatized Chat Noir? “But this shouldn’t be a nightmare, Marinette.” His steps were slow and soft, trying not to spook her. “I’m your dream come true. Because it’s over now, and we can be together.” 

She stood abruptly, smacking her knees on the desk and almost tumbling. “What are you talking about?” 

He placed the Miraculous on the desk. “It’s over now. I won. Hawkmoth is no more, and there’s nothing that can hurt us. This will make you love me again!” 

“Holy shit…” Said Alya. 

Marinette just stared at them, and then at Chat. “How—?” 

“He brought me here. Somehow, an Akuma I guess. He plucked me out of my time, and brought me here. This is my chance to start again, you know.” He grabbed her wrist. “Now our love won’t ruin the world! We can be happy again, My Lady! We can be happy and nothing will tear us apart!” 

Adrien, who had up until very recently, by reveal of a certain nickname, thought that Marinette was only just Marinette, grabbed Chat Blanc and yanked him back, forcing him to let go of Marinette. 

“Don’t touch her!” He snapped. 

“And you—“ Chat Blanc grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. “A little liar with too much self preservation! Why didn’t you act sooner?! Why couldn’t you save her?!” 

Adrien clawed at the hand on his throat. “I don’t—know what the hell—you’re talking about!” 

“Don’t play stupid, Adrien! It’s not going to work on me, and you know that!” 

His voice was just a whisper now, as he attempted to meet Chat Blanc’s gaze. “Whatever, man. But you think outing her is smart? You think that’ll make her like you?” 

Chat Blanc crushed harder, suffocating him. “It doesn’t matter with Hawkmoth out of the way! And once I kill you, there will be no competition! She’ll love me for sure!” 

Marinette had stashed the Miraculous in her purse once Chat Blanc had turned his back. She was going to attempt to talk him down, but at his threat on Adrien’s life, she realized he was beyond talking. 

“Tikki, Spots on!” 

Chat Blanc whirled back around, only to get a fist to the face. 

Adrien fell on the floor, gasping. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, helping him up.

He rubbed his neck sheepishly as he nodded. He knew she was Marinette, but the mask still turned his legs to jelly. 

“Why do you protect him, Ladybug? Don’t you know you can just be happy with me?” 

Marinette pushed Adrien behind her. “I might be able to be happy with my Chat Noir, but never with you. I love Adrien, and I’ll fight to protect him, even if he doesn’t love me back.” Though it was a brave declaration, she still blushed. 

“Ugh, don’t you get it? I am him!” 

“What?” 

“I’m Adrien! Adrien is Chat Noir! We’re supposed to be together! And we were! We were happy, Marinette! And then—and then you told me you didn’t love me anymore. You almost got akumatized over that…but I saved you.” He snarled. “But he kept us apart. My father knew who I was, and he turned me into this…” 

“Wait,” Adrien rasped. “Father turned you into…an akuma?” 

“Because he’s Hawkmoth, Adrien. He always has been. Mother is alive, in a coma, in the basement. And he never let you see her, because he doesn’t trust you.” 

“Shut up!” Ladybug shouted. 

“Even after he knew who I was, he still hit me. He beat me, Adrien, because he doesn’t love us!” 

Adrien held a hand over his face, willing his sobs to stay silent. 

“We’re just a pawn for him. But…I can make it better. Let me destroy you, and everything will stop hurting. I’ll take care of Marinette, I promise!” 

“That’s enough!” Ladybug lashed out and snagged his bell, ripped it from his throat, and smashed it on the floor. 

Then she caught the butterfly as it emerged, purified it, and let it go. But she didn’t call for a cure, not yet. 

Chat Noir, sans bell, glanced around the room in confusion. “Ladybug? What’s going on? Why are we here? Where’s Hawkmoth?” 

She met him with tear streaked cheeks. “You’re in the wrong timeline, Chat Noir.” 

His eyes flicked to Adrien, who was clearly shell shocked. “That would make…some sense.” 

“You were akumatized, and our Hawkmoth brought you here…probably to recruit you.” 

“Did I hurt anyone?” 

“You beat him. You beat Hawkmoth.” 

“And you tried to take my place,” Adrien hissed, showing his bruised throat. 

Chat Noir gripped his hair fiercely. “Oh crap! Oh crap crap crap! I’m so sorry! He’ll be all better once you do the cure, right Bug?” 

“Yeah. Physically, at least…but you did say some things that will hurt for a long time.” 

“I didn’t mean any of it! I was an Akuma, they lie and say all sorts of things—“ 

“You told me about Father. And mother.” 

“Oh…” he sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s too fresh in my mind to be a lie. I saw mom. He wanted to use the Miraculous to bring her back, but he was so unwilling to listen to me, to even think about working with us—that’s how it happened. He got me.” 

“I’m so sorry, Kitty.” Ladybug lamented. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 

He shook his head. “It’s over now. If I defeated him, then you don’t have to be subjected to it,” he told Adrien. “I don’t mind taking one for the team.” 

“Did you kill him?” Adrien asked. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Even if he did, casting cure would fix it.” Said Ladybug. “There might be hope for a happy ending.” 

Chat Noir took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “My Lady, will you send me back? I have to see her again. My Marinette. I have to see her and make up with her.” 

Ladybug patted his cheek fondly. “Knowing me, she probably still loves you. But something happened to make her put distance between you.” 

“You’ll be happy together, right?” He asked, pouting. 

Adrien slipped an arm around her waist and held her. “I think we’ll manage.” 

Ladybug hugged Chat briefly. “Thank you. For all your trauma and suffering, you helped us.” 

“You also revealed both of our identities to the class, but that’s the kind of mistake I would make as an Akuma…” Adrien winced. 

Chat Noir looked at all the shocked and concerned faces around him. “Wow, look at all these comforting, understanding, and loyal friends you have. Where’s Lila?” 

“Out sick today,” provided Sabrina. 

“Perfect! Don’t ever ever tell her what happened here. She’s a liar and would tell our identities in a heartbeat for a chance for fame.” 

“Not a problem, Kitty Cat,” said Alya, with a wink. “Some of us are pretty good secret keepers.” 

“You knew!?” Adrien cried, with betrayal in his voice. 

Alya winced. “Ah, yeah…”

“Adrien.” Ladybug took his face and held it with trembling hands. “My kitty, my partner, my best friend, what I’m about to tell you is going to suck and you’re going to hate it, and that’s why I haven’t told you.”

“I’ve already had a lot of bad news dropped on me today, lay it on me.” 

She glanced at the rest of the class and then Chat Noir. “Let me send him home, and then we’ll talk in privacy.” 

He nodded, not really fond of how much the class had already learned about him today. 

Ladybug threw her yo-yo up in the air. “Miraculous Ladybug!” 

In a wave of fluttering red, Chat Noir was gone, and so were the bruises on Adrien’s neck. 

“Spots off.” 

Now, the class started whispering. Up until that moment, shock held them in silence. After all, it's not everyday you find out your classmates are superheroes. 

“Miss Bustier, are you okay if we leave for a while?”

The teacher stammered a second, unfreezing from her complete and total shock. “I think it would be a crime to make you stay here today.”

Marinette smiled gratefully, before taking Adrien’s hand and leading him out into the hall. He was silent, rightfully so, and Marinette could only be happy there was no chance of him getting akumatized. 

Finally, they took a seat on a bench, and waited for the other to speak. 

“I…didn’t think this was how our identities would be revealed,” he breathed. 

“I always wanted to tell you.” Marinette insisted, “even though I said otherwise. Tikki and Master Fu were so adamant that I not tell a soul.” 

“So why does Alya know?”

She rested a hand on his. “I’ll get to that. But first…Chat Blanc.” 

Adrien sat attentive and quiet, holding his accusations for later. 

“It started about three months ago, when I gave you that Beret.” 

“Beret? The one from the Brazilian fan club?”

“Yeah…except it wasn’t. It was from me. Originally, I left it in your room, with my name on it. My real name. A little while after I left, Bunnix came to me, and explained that she needed my help. She took me into her burrow, and led me to the future…the future where you were akumatized.” 

“As Chat Blanc.”

“Yes.”

“That same akuma, that same Chat Noir?”

“I assume so. The moon was destroyed, the city flooded. You were all alone, everyone was gone.” 

“Where…where was that Ladybug?” 

She hesitated to say it, but admitted, “I found her underwater…cataclysmed.” 

“No…I wouldn’t have—“ 

“I know, Adrien. Chat Blanc was upset about it too. He cried. He wanted my Miraculous to make the wish and fix it.” 

“Sounds like an Akuma alright,” he said bitterly. 

“At the time, all I knew was that you knew my identity, and you said that our love destroyed the world. So…I assumed that you became akumatized by finding out who I was…and that the beret had something to do with it. So I erased my name.” 

“Oh…but Chat Blanc said he was akumatized because of my parents.” 

“I didn’t know that back then. I wish I had. As it stood, I was certain an identity reveal would end up with an Akuma.” 

“I understand your reasoning…but what about Alya?” 

She sighed, the guilt toiling around inside her. “That wasn’t…it was a spur of the moment thing. I was back into a corner and people were getting really worried about me. Worried and nosey…and so I told Alya. Rena Rouge.” 

“Ah. I see.” 

“I should have told you. I should have told you so you could have told someone. It’s not fair to think I was the only one that needed a confident.” 

“If I had to pick someone that wasn’t you, it would have been Nino. So I get it. Really, I do.” 

Tears welled up in her eyes regardless. He was hurting so badly, but what could she even do to help? 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize.” 

“Yes! Yes I do! Adrien, you’re my partner. Yes, keeping secrets can keep us safe for a while, but eventually we’ll run out of trust and then we’ll be in danger again. I don’t want to lose you!” 

He gave her a little smile. “I might be upset, but you aren’t going to lose me. I promise.” 

She squeezed his hand. “No more secrets. We train as guardians together. I’ll tell you all the auxiliary heroes, and all the formulas and—“ she stopped, blushing. 

“What?” 

“Ugh…I have to tell you something, since I said no more secrets.” 

“Is it bad?” 

“…no?” 

He turned his hand to squeeze her back. “Okay. Well then, let’s hear it.” 

She looked away, too nervous to look at his face. “Gah! This is just as hard as it’s always been!” 

“I’m not going to judge you.” 

“I know! I know!” 

Pretend this is just Chat. She goaded herself. 

“I…I’m in…love with you?” She squeaked out. There. The deed was done. She shyly turned to look at him. 

Wide, sparkling eyes full of tears, but a big smile on his face. “You mean it? You said as much to Chat Blanc, but I didn’t know for sure…”  

“Ugh, right. That.” She nodded. “You were the boy I kept turning…well, you down for. I’m sorry…” 

“I’m not!” He chirped. “Marinette, if anyone was going to have a crush on me as Adrien, I’m so glad it’s you. You really know me! You’re special to me, and I always considered you as a friend.” 

She sighed, hearing the magic words. “As I’ve heard.” 

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

She blushed again. “It’s just…whenever we had a moment, or I tried to do something special for you, you always remind me that you feel…nothing for me.” 

“Wait, what? That’s what you got out of that?” 

“That you want me as a friend and just a friend?” 

He actually laughed at her and pulled her into a hug. “Marinette, I thought you were nervous around me because you were uncomfortable. I said that stuff to let you know I treasured our friendship. I love you so so much, My Lady. I was deeply in love with Ladybug, and completely in denial with Marinette.” 

“Can confirm!” Shouted Plagg from inside his jacket. 

“So having you be the same? I’m…I’m so happy!” He hugged her tightly. “Today has thrown a lot of bad things at me, and I’m so worried about what comes next. But with you, I’m sure I’ll be okay.” He pulled away slightly. “You…will stay with me for whatever happens, right? I know Hawkmoth being my dad is kind of a deal breaker…” 

Marinette wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up into him, kissing him right on the mouth. 

He stiffened briefly, before melting against her and pulling her tighter into the hug. 

The kiss was perfect, not in execution or performance, but because of the love they felt. Adrien nipped at her lip, and Marinette hummed as she twined her fingers into his hair. 

They pulled away begrudgingly. 

“You and me against the world, right Kitty?” 

“You know exactly what to say to make my heart swoon, my lady love.” 

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” 

“Kiss me and I’ll get over it.” 

“I’m serious, Kitty.” She touched his cheek. “I knew it was going to hurt, and I foolishly and cowardly put it off, hoping it would go away.” 

“Marinette, from what you said…it wasn’t just painful for me. It scared you, didn’t it? You said…when Chat Blanc appeared, that you thought you were having a nightmare. Do you dream of him?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, Adrien.” 

He considered his next move, and decided to scoop her up into his lap. “So, here’s my idea. If you have another nightmare about him, you call me, and I’ll be there in a jiffy.” 

“And do what?” 

“Hold you. Kiss you. Reassure you. Cuddle with you until you fall asleep. Whatever you need.” 

She snuggled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, bugaboo.” 

Silence lapsed between for a while, as they just sat together, enjoying the warmth of their bodies, and the open air between them. 

Marinette sighed. “We should probably go confront your father.” 

“Yeah. We should…” 

“Could…I offer you a reward if we go through with it?” 

“What could possibly motivate me?” 

“Once we’re done, and everything is put away…we can find a random, secluded rooftop and…make out for a while.” 

Adrien stood, with Marinette still in his arms. “You know how to motivate a man.” 

“I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just think about later.” 

“One peck for the road?” 

“One.” 

Adrien held her tightly before dipping her and pressing a sinful, toe-curling kiss to her lips. When he finished a few minutes later, she breathlessly huffed, “that was not a peck.” 

“No, but I need the strength.” 

“Somehow, it’s a lot harder to stay mad at you. You can put me down now.” 

“Nah. Plagg, Claws out!” 

“Tikki, Spots on!” 

The closer they got to the mansion, the faster Chat’s mood tanked. All the surface level happy feelings had bubbled away, and now he was filled with dread and apprehension. 

“I…I don’t want to send my dad to jail,” he said, as they landed inside the walls. 

“I know Kitty. I can do the talking.” 

“You’re so good at it, Princess.” 

She knocked twice, but didn’t wait for an answer before entering. 

It didn’t matter. Gabriel and Nathalie were sitting in the lobby, waiting, as it appeared. 

“Hello son,” said Gabriel, with not a trace of malice in his voice. 

Chat halted, paling considerably. “You know?” 

“Chat Blanc revealed as much. What did he tell you?” 

“He said that…mom was still alive. You wanted the Miraculous to wake her up.” 

“That’s right. But…” he sighed. “Can I humble myself and ask for your help, Ladybug? Can you look at her? Can you see if there’s any hope?” 

“I would love to.”

[adorethedistance]

9 P.M. - Alive!Luke Patterson x Reader Modern Day!AU

JATP masterlist

Warnings: swearing, mentions of suicide, painful breakup, and angst.

Words: 1991

Summary: Luke breaking up with you made your world stop turning, and when it finally starts moving again after four long months, Luke is back in typical agitator fashion.

A/N: Not requested, and I wrote this in about two hours so bear that in mind. I’ve been toying with an angst idea for a little bit now, and because all of my requests rn are fluff, I decided why not give Luke a little love since it’s been a minute since my last Luke fic. This isn’t proofread so proceed with caution.

“What are you doing here, Luke?” Dana’s voice cuts clear over the mindless chatter in the busy diner. She tucks a stack of menus under her arm to brush a loose strand of sandy blonde hair out of her face.

“I’m here to talk to Y/n. She isn’t returning my calls and she only has her phone on silent when she’s working.”

A solid four months ago, Luke Patterson had broken Y/n Y/l/n’s heart into a couple billion pieces in this very diner. After Luke requested to meet up as soon as possible, Y/n told him she’d be clocking out for the night around 9 PM, and true to his previous request Luke had arrived at 9 on the dot. He considered taking her to his car for more privacy but in fear of forgetting his long, crafted speech, he opted for a secluded booth in the very back corner of her diner.

He still remembers the evening, clear as day. They sat down across from one another on the red vinyl seats with nervous tension exponentially rising between them. He remembers the way she ruffled her loose hair after having it pulled back for an 8-hour shift. He remembers the way she rested her right ankle on her left knee to massage away the calf pain from 8 hours of waiting tables. And he remembers the way her warm smile disappeared after he uttered the words “I think we should break up.”

Y/n was so shocked she couldn’t respond. Everything seemed to be going well between them. They had said their first ‘I love you’s and she had even opened up to the possibility of giving him her virginity. And here he was, a mere week later, claiming that he had fallen out of love with her over the span of a month.

Tears clouded her vision. She was quick to wipe them away before they fell, something Luke noticed that she only did when she was crying out of anger. With her normal sadness or even stress she just lets her emotions run their course. But the anger swelling inside of her at that moment, she so desperately wanted to hide. As a result, she brushed them away. She bit her tongue. She saved face, not wanting to let Luke know just how much he had hurt her.

Luke expected a full-on interrogation. He knew Y/n’s mind was one of insatiable curiosity and she had to have at least a million questions. However, if she did, she didn’t show it. The only question she asked, “Is this really what you want?” Her voice was steady, but Luke knew how badly she wanted to tear him apart, to ravage him right then and there. But after losing such a huge part of herself, Luke, she held onto her dignity so tight it nearly crumbled into dust and blew out of her clenched fingers. Without asking for any more information, she slipped out of the booth and hurried to her car as fast as her walk could take her.

At the time, Luke felt guilty for making her cry. Now he feels guilty for ever having let her believe she wasn’t good enough for him. The only problem is she wouldn’t give him the chance. And her best friend, Dana, didn’t seem like she would give him one either.

“Well, she’s not here. Have you ever considered she’s not returning your calls when she’s off of work, too?”

“Dana, I need to talk to her-”

“What could you possibly have left to say, Luke? Whatever you said to her that night broke her, it absolutely destroyed her. She hasn’t been the same since.” Luke had no trouble believing that was true, which is why it hurt so bad to hear, granted it didn’t hurt as bad as how Y/n felt that night.

“What? No- I-I really need to talk to her.”

“You really don’t.”

“I have to get her back, Dana!” A tornado of shock and anger consumes Dana to the point where all she can do is let out a bitter laugh. The look in Luke’s eyes indicates how hurt he is by her laughter, and Dana’s desire for vengeance has never been so strong. So, she continues to tell the truth. The ferocious, unabridged, hurtful truth,

“You don’t deserve a second chance. You don’t even deserve an attempt at a second chance. Knowing her, Y/n would never tell you this, but I will: you fucked up so bad, you made her almost make the biggest mistake of her life.”

“What?” Luke almost hesitates to ask, knowing he won’t like the answer.

“That night, she came to my place and cried so hard for three hours before she could even get a coherent word out. She stayed with me for three days and, had my shift not ended early that Tuesday, she wouldn’t be alive today.” The dumbstruck look on Luke’s face is only more motivation for Dana to twist the knife, “She almost didn’t survive losing you, Luke. And god forbid she gives you a second chance because she won’t survive losing you again.”

The diner is just crowded enough that no one is paying the two of them any mind as they faceoff by the hostess stand. Dana spent four long months consoling her best friend back to life, and she was not about to let Luke destroy all the hard work Y/n had put into healing.

“I can make this right.”

“How could you possibly make this right?”

“I know more now than I did before. I’ve changed!”

“So has she.” Dana’s biting words render Luke speechless. Once she realizes her work here is done, she continues setting up tables as they’re disinfected.

__________________________

Luke’s conversation with Dana in the diner left him shellshocked, but it also lit a fire under his ass that he needed to move forward. Rather than discouraging him, Dana’s words gave him a greater incentive to win her back: proof that he was willing to do what he said he would. At least, that’s what Luke told himself. Rather than stepping into the future with greater clarity, Luke went into the world with confidence so large and blinding, his actions may sabotage his true intentions.

That’s how he found himself so determined to win Y/n back. And that’s how he found himself face to face with the front door of her home. It’s 9 PM, just early enough to where she’d be home for the day, just early enough to where she wouldn’t be asleep, and hauntingly just the exact time he had broken her heart all those months ago. Before giving his conviction a chance to back out, he was raising a steady hand to ring the doorbell of her residence.

Y/n opened the door without much thought, expecting a food delivery; she was drastically off-put by Luke’s presence at her doorstep this late.

“Oh.” Was the only response manageable for the tired waitress.

“Hi. Can we talk?”

There it was. The phrase that was a paradoxical toss-up regarding her emotional state. Half of her has been waiting for this day for so long, dreaming of the boyfriend she once knew to come genuinely heartbroken and remorseful to win her back. The other half was terrified of this impending day as she realized she wasn’t nearly as emotionally strong enough to handle the situation as she thought. 

‘Oh’ was the only response manageable for the tired waitress.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please just give me five minutes and if you never want to hear from me for the rest of your life, I’ll never bother you again,” he rushes out, knowing his time is finite. For what short period of time he thought it over, Luke always imagined pouring his heart out on her front doorstep. That’s why her silent sidestep and opening of the door caught him so off guard. He hadn’t anticipated her to actually give him a decent chance. Why would she? He broke up with her in the very diner she works in full time and crushed her heart so completely, the only things left behind had to be contempt and resentment.

Luke crossed the threshold of her small, cramped LA home with his heart on his sleeve. Reluctantly closing the door behind him, Y/n walks to her living room and sits on the couch amidst a mess of popcorn, her favorite chocolates, used tissues, and a bottle of Advil. The night Luke broke up with Y/n was four months ago and she’s still spending her Friday nights alone crying on her couch with a rom-com on the tv. A sharp pang of guilt cuts through Luke’s chest like a machete and his previous confidence completely dissipates into sadness. Though, he can’t tell if it’s actually remorse or just general pity.

“What did you want to talk about?” Y/n asks as if she doesn’t know what conversation they’re about to have. Luke takes a deep breath to prepare himself as best as he can before explaining what’s been on his mind.

“I am so sorry, Y/n.” His hopes for any sort of reaction are crushed once her blank stare doesn’t waver. In spite of everything that’s happened thus far, this is the moment Luke realizes this would be a lot more difficult than he anticipated. “That night, you asked if taking a break from… us was what I really wanted.”

“I remember.”

“I said yes and you left right after that. I know you’ve blocked my socials, but you haven’t blocked my calls, you just don’t answer. I’m sure you’ve got to be interested in why, you’re a very curious person.”

Luke wasn’t wrong there, Y/n had been wondering why. She had been wondering why since the words left his mouth that night, but she repressed that curiosity. She repressed it because she knew that whatever the answer was, it didn’t make any difference. Luke wasn’t hers to have anymore and that was what really mattered.

“I did it because I thought I was falling out of love with you.”

“You thought?”

“I wasn’t actually falling out of love with you.”

“You weren’t?”

“No.”

“Then why’d you break it off?”

“I thought I was falling out of love with you but really my attraction was just changing. Instead of just spontaneous and passionate and exciting, I began to see our relationship as comforting and secure as well as those other things. I thought my comfortability was falling out of love, but really, I was falling in love. I was no longer just super infatuated with you, I was in love with you. Genuine love.”

“Luke…” Y/n trails off. She has no real idea of what it is she’s thinking so she opts to let Luke continue until she can figure it out.

“I love you, Y/n. And I broke things off because, before you, I didn’t understand love. Hell, with you I didn’t understand it was love, but now I do! I love you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“So, what does this all mean?” Luke draws in a nervous breath, identical to the one he used to soothe his nerves as he stepped into the all-too-familiar house.

“I know I don’t deserve it because of what I put you through… but all I’m asking is for a chance to prove that I really do love you.” The looking shimmering across Y/n’s eyes tells Luke how her thoughts are running wild. She’s experiencing a new train of thought at a mile a minute and it terrifies both of them.

“You hurt me, Luke. And I want to hate you so much for everything that you put me through, but I don’t, and I hate myself for that. But, I’m sorry. I can’t give you a second chance.”

***

Taglist: @caitsymichelle13​ @kaitlyn2907​ @itz-jas​ @crybabyddl​ @kcd15​ @kinda-really-lost​ @calamitykaty​ @morganayennefertyrell @n0wornever​ @dream-a-little-bigger-x​ @mrstodorooki @vicesvsvirturesfanfic @curlybrownhairedboys​ @amazinggracy​ @kaitieskidmore1​ @asdfghjkl-fanfics​ @ghostlygreenbean​ @juliefromaustralia @merceret​ @jemimah-b99​ @ifilwtmfc​ @thesweetestsinner​ @imsydneywalker​ @lovesanimals​ @thebloodthirstyvampress​ @bumbleberry-pie​ @losers-club6​ @tefilovesreading​ @dmcfarland1​@joynerxmercer @kexrtiz​ @talk-on-the-street​ @phantompogues​ @konciousdreamer​ @sunsetcurvej​ @warmnesss0ul​

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 15 - The Storm’s Prelude.

Words: 15,264. 

You can read the rest of the story on AO3 here :) 

Summary: Three heart stones are required to wake the Guardian. Your group manages to find the first two without a lot of difficulty, save for a moment of bleak realisation that rattles your perception of yourself and brings out a side to Death you haven’t yet seen. The Horseman realises a few things about Karn’s perception of you. And then, you find the final stone....

---

The passage of time, if overlooked, can often prove to be a ubiquitous inhibition. Walls can crumble and fall in your path, great swathes of the earth can be torn apart by shifting, tectonic plates. Rivers and streams carve through even the toughest rock, eroding it away over millions of years to form the steep walls of a gorge that impedes your progress when you stumble upon it – a gorge much like the one you find yourself at the edge of now.

You, Death and Karn stand silently on the precipice of the escarpment, peering across it to the far side of a great, long hall. The western wall has completely collapsed in on itself after having suffered through centuries of faulting and erosion, and the stone blocks that once stood so strong have fallen into the wide gorge sitting between you and progress. 

Death's eyes are fixed ahead, occasionally flitting back and forth in search of a way to cross, all the while aware that he's being watched expectantly by a human and a maker. He knows precisely what the pair of you are waiting for, and the longer he fails to come up with an alternative route, the more irritable he becomes, because it means that he'll have to once again reduce himself to a horseman-shaped projectile. 

Still, he does appreciate that you've both stayed quiet whilst he stews. It takes him a few more moments of bitter contemplation before he finally concedes and accepts that if he wants to get across, he'll need the youngling's help. “....Fine,” he growls.

Teeth grit, the Horseman turns his frightful glare onto Karn, who at least has enough sense to keep his lips firmly sealed as he moves to the edge of the escarpment and wordlessly lowers his hand.

“You know,” Death grumbles, clambering into the maker's waiting palm, “I'm beginning to suspect that you two enjoy this far more than I do.”

Karn doesn't reply, merely peels his lips back and flashes you a grin. 

“Hey, I'm just glad it's you and not me,” you say, holding up your hands appeasingly, “I don't have your knack for sticking a landing.”

If he wasn't so certain you'd accuse him of hypocrisy, he'd call you a coward. After all, he'd made it abundantly clear that he doesn't even want you to be thrown by the maker.

Biting his tongue, Death merely expels a weary sigh. “Let's just get this over with, Pup.”

Bracing himself against Karn's thumb, he twists his head around to catch your gaze and holds it firmly, waiting until he's sure you're paying attention. “Stay close to the maker,” he tells you, then as an afterthought, he adds darkly, “And if either of you go wandering off, you'd better pray that the Corruption finds you before I do.”

Then, with that thinly-veiled threat still ringing in your ears, Karn tips his arm back and launches the Horseman into the air like a boulder fired from a trebuchet. 

Admittedly, your heart skips several beats at the sight of Death sailing gracefully over a plummetless gorge, but just as before, Karn demonstrates that he has impeccable aim and judgement, for the Nephilim lands on the far side with practiced ease and little more than a low grunt of exertion.

Only then do you release the breath you'd been holding.

Standing up, the Horseman dusts himself off and throws a quick, backwards glance across the gorge, eyeing his two protégés for a moment longer before he turns on his heel and strides onwards, disappearing through a set of dilapidated, wooden doors.

With Death gone again for the time being and little else to do but wait, you venture back towards the edge of the escarpment and peer down over it, at once noticing the pull of gravity as it tries to tempt you into that dark, fathomless chasm. A stone that had been resting on the very lip is nudged loose by your boot and you anxiously watch it tumble down the side of the cliff, feeling decidedly nauseous that you can hear it bouncing off rocks and debris long after it has disappeared into the darkness below. 

“Heck of a long drop,” Karn chuckles nervously, shuffling a little closer to you.

“Yeah. It is...” Seemingly lost in a world of your own, you're quiet for a minute longer, and the youngling opens his mouth to make another observation, only to find himself cut off when you suddenly ask, “Hey, Karn? Do makers ever feel l'appel du vide?” 

“La.. apple doo... Eh?” 

“It's the call of the void,” you explain with a faraway smile, “A lot of humans get it, I just wondered if the feeling was universal.”

His ears prick forward with interest and he admits, “Never heard of it, what's it do?” 

“Well, mostly it's this phenomenon where you get the urge to jump from high places-”

You nearly choke on your own spit when gloved fingers suddenly curl around you and you're hurriedly ushered back to what Karn deems is a safe distance – right behind his boot. “Don't say stuff like that!” he all but howls, agitation turning his breaths shallow. 

Amused, you raise a brow at the ruffled maker and say, “...If you'd have let me finish, I was going to say it's the urge to jump from high places, but knowing that you never actually would.” 

All at once, Karn blinks hard, and some of the colour rushes back into his cheeks. “O-Oh, right. I knew that,” he tries to save face, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“You didn't really think I was going to jump in, did you?”

“No, no! O'course not!” 

'Liar,' a voice whispers at the corner of his mind. Fumbling for an excuse, he glances around rapidly before his gaze falls on some loose pebbles gathered on the cliff's precipice and he gestures to it, eager for a distraction. “But the, err... The.. the ground's weathered away right near the edge. Don't want you fallin' in by accident, ey?” 

Poking your head out from around his leg, you cast a wary eye over the drop off and hum, “No, I suppose not.” Then, in a more jocular tone, you flash him a grin and add, “I don't think I'll be able to save you from Thane a second time if anything happens to me.” 

Karn's face instantly pulls into a grimace. “Ach, don't remind me of that. Thought he'd never stop yellin'.” 

The youngling hesitates for a few beats and you watch curiously whilst he rolls his tongue around in his mouth, a thoughtful expression drawing his brows together and puckering his forehead. After another few seconds, he angles himself so that he's turned away from you slightly, his stare pointed towards one of the holes in the ceiling. “Actually, I've been meanin' to thank you for that.”

“Thank me?” you echo, “For what?”

Rain trickles down from above in sporadic patches all across the chamber, allowed in through the gaps where the ceiling has eroded away. Karn just watches it fall for a while before his shoulders raise into a shrug and he lets them drop heavily again, sucking in a breath that seems to glue his throat shut. Still, he manages to admit, “For stickin' up for me - against the Horseman, and against Thane.” Pausing to scratch at his chin, he stammers, “I – uh... I've never really.. had a – a friend who'd do that for me before...”

He still won't look at you, but you can't hold that against him. So, rather than try to catch his gaze, you instead follow it up to the ceiling whilst one of your hands lifts surreptitiously and gives the side of his leg a few, companionable pats. “Well, you've got one now,” you tell him, “Just... please don't go riling anyone else up for a while, yeah?” 

“Ha! You're one to talk! Maybe I’ll tell ol’ Eideard about you standin’ so close to cliff edges, eh?” he retorts with a smirk, at last dragging his gaze down to look at you, finding that you're already peering back, the corners of your eyes forming pretty crinkles that seem to hold a boundless supply of sincerity.

“You would not,” you challenge.

Without really knowing he's doing it, Karn's face slowly tries to mimic your expression in the hopes that it might convey to you the immensity of the gratitude he wishes he could say out loud.

All too soon though, movement on the other side of the hall draws your attention and you break eye contact with the maker to squint across the gorge, your face brightening at the sight of Death as he emerges from the far doorway. “Hey!” you wave, raising your hand high into the air before the stretch sends a twinge of pain down to your side and you wince, trying to casually lower your arm again.

From his relatively safe distance, the Horseman allows some of the tension to seep from his shoulders when he notices that you and the youngling are still standing where he left you, and in one piece, to boot.

“Didj'ya find a way around!?” Karn hollers.

“No luck, in that regard!” Death replies, “We'll have to turn back and try a different path! The heart stones must be elsewhere!”

His response elicits aggravated groans from the pair of younglings and he finds himself letting out a chuckle that comes dangerously close to the realm of fondness. Snapping his jaw shut, he's quick to catch it and stuff it back down before he clears his throat, continuing, “Just stay where you are – I'm coming back across!”

He sees you share another confused glance with Karn, then you turn back towards him and shout, “Um – How're you going to get back over here?! It took a maker just to get you to that side!” 

Death doesn't seem nearly as perturbed as you think he should be. “Let's just say... this wasn't an entirely wasted journey!” Beneath his mask is a self-assured smirk and it remains plastered on as he takes several, calculating steps backwards, away from the precipice he stands upon. 

“Wait!-” he hears you call, “ - You're not going to?! -” 

Before you can even finish your sentence, the Horseman is on the move, darting forwards into a reckless sprint and garnering a yelp of alarm from the other side of the gorge. 

“Death! What are you doing!?” you can't help but shriek, throwing your hands up to bury them in your hair, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

The Horseman leaps clear from the edge, sailing out over the gaping maw that lays in wait below him. 

Then, he begins to drop. 

Blinded by panic, you dash around Karn following some, misguided thought that you could stop Death's fall. Even the maker jerks his arm up, stretching it towards the descending Nephilim, although he at least has the presence of mind to throw his other hand out in front of you to keep you away from the edge.

Whilst you watch, your stomach drops alongside the Horseman, plunging into your shoes and you wonder if this is the kind of panic that Karn had felt when you mentioned the Call of the void.

All of a sudden, to your astonishment, a brilliant flash of purple light erupts from Death's outstretched hand. 

You'd almost think you were seeing things if you weren't already standing in a different plane of existence next to a giant. 

What looks to be a large, ethereal hand explodes out of a gauntlet strapped to Death's wrist and stretches up towards the roof, riding on threads of coiling, purple smoke. Translucent fingers wrap around one of the ceiling beams and the room fills with the sound of creaking wood as Death launches himself across the vast gap, thrusting his body forwards at the apex of his swing and you gasp when the purple hand abruptly lets go of the beam. 

The Horseman's momentum carries him the rest of the way and you stare agape as he lands lightly on the plateau in front of you, straightening up without a care in the world. 

For several, quiet moments, both you and Karn blink owlishly at him, whilst he merely peers back until at last, his brows dip into a frown and he snaps, “What?” 

With the spell of shock broken, you shake your head rapidly from side to side and adopt a scowl of your own. “What do you mean, 'what!?'” you bark, gesturing to his arm, “Why didn't you tell us you could do that? Karn and I nearly had a heart attack!”

At that, the maker clears his throat, picks his jaw off the ground and breezily attests, “Ah, I knew he had somethin' up his sleeve the whole time.” 

“Quite literally, in this case,” Death muses and holds up his arm, showing off the new accessory adorning his wrist – a gauntlet carved into the shape of a screaming, silver skull.

Unnerved by the blank-eyed face staring back at you, you drag your eyes away and turn them to Death, softly admitting, “I thought you were going to get seriously hurt.” 

“Yes, well...” He pauses to shove aside an ensuing burst of warmth and folds his arms tightly, partially obscuring his gauntlet from view, “I hardly think you're in any position to be casting judgement after some of the stunts you've pulled.” 

Your mouth opens despite having nothing of any real substance to say in your own defence, and the flat look he's giving you is enough to extinguish the fire in your belly. Biting your lip, you glance away from his pointed stare and mutter, “Touché.”

With a smirk, the Horseman claps you on the shoulder, steering you around and giving you a guiding nudge back in the direction you'd come in from. “Now then, if you've finished sulking, I'd like to get a move on,” he says firmly, “We need to hurry if we want to get these heart stones before nightfall.” He strides ahead of you to once again lead the way, leaving you sandwiched between himself and the maker at your rear. 

“I reckon we'll manage,” the latter pipes up, “Should be easier now that you've gone and found yerself a new toy.” Struck by a sudden thought, the maker trails off, frowning down at his boots for a few steps before he murmurs, “S'pose that puts me out of a job, eh?”

Craning your head over a shoulder, you shoot him a quizzical look and ask, “What d'you mean?” 

“Well-” He gestures to Death “- He's got that fancy new trick now. He can get about on his own just fine. Won't be needin' me anymore, will you.” 

“Of course we'll still need you, Karn,” you assure him, smiling when you see his ears perk up at your words, “You're the group muscle, after all.”

Death can practically hear Karn's chest swell up with pride and he stifles a scoff at the notion that a youngling could be stronger than the eldest of the Four.

“Huh. Reckon you might be right there,” the maker agrees, hooking his thumbs into the straps of his pack, his ego adequately stroked, “We adventurin’ types tend to carry muscle more than most, y’know.” 

The Horseman's low, grumbled comment is lost underneath your ensuing chatter. 

“That must make me the brains of this outfit....” 

Fortunately, neither you nor the maker seem to hear him and he lets out a sigh, shaking his head as he continues to lead you through the Foundry, back in the direction of the Guardian.

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

Your journey through the enormous structure's depths soon brings you to another, dead-end chamber. This one however, unlike the first, at least contains one of your sought after quarries.

Stretched out before you lies a long, marrow catwalk that stands mere meters above a roaring moat of lava, and at the far end, suspended high above the ground by a vast, metal clamp, is the first heart stone.

Unfortunately, much to the Horseman's chagrin, it doesn't look to be quite as accessible as he'd assumed it would be... 

Upon stepping through the doors of the chamber, the heat encompasses you like a heavy blanket and you let out an audible gasp, instantly raising your hand to fan yourself. “Ugh, god, it's like hell's sauna in here!” you complain, earning a chuckle from the maker behind you. 

After taking just a few steps into the room, you stop in your tracks and begin to fight with the hem of your jumper and Karn's amusement swiftly turns to a grunt as he's forced to come to a dead-halt as well, lest he trip over you. Curious, he tips his head to the side and blinks down at you, watching you tug the fluffy garment up and over your head... 

….And then, he promptly swallows his tongue when your tank top is pulled up as well, giving him an uninterrupted view of your midriff. For a few, glorious seconds, the sounds of the chamber, nay, the whole world seem to dip to a graceful hum.

Perhaps it's because this is a part of you he's never been privy to before. Perhaps it's because the flash of skin he catches sight of feels so... intimate, as though this is something he shouldn't be allowed to see, and now that he has, his heart has set to pounding like a war drum on the brink of a fearsome battle.

Then all too soon, your head pops out of your jumper and you breath a sigh of relief, and Karn is given no time to regain his composure.

If he thought your midriff was entrancing, he's wholly unprepared to see the rest of you.

In the rich, golden and orange light cast by the churning lava, your skin glows like it's on fire, every pore seemingly beset by thousands of tiny jewels that sparkle when you move and the sweat beading on your collar bones appears more like a cloak of shimmering stars to the young, awestruck maker. 

All the magic in the realm couldn't have held his attention the way you do when you twist your head back to smile up at him and he catches the delicate bob of your throat, his ears twitching forwards in anticipation to hear the sound of your voice. 

“Hey, would you mind hanging onto this? It's way too hot to wear it, even if I tie it around my waist.” 

Seconds tick by and all you receive as a response from the maker is a long, dazed blink. 

“Karn? You... don't have to if you don't want to...” 

“PUP!” 

The two of you jump at Death's abrupt, authoritative bark and you whip your head over a shoulder to find him glaring up at the maker with a look that's cold enough to send icy fingers dancing up your spine, despite the heat surrounding you. 

“I believe she asked you a question,” the Horseman drawls, his casual tone a million miles away from matching the rigidity of his stance. 

Raising a brow at the unexpected hostility rolling off him in waves, you turn back to Karn and see that he's giving his head a hard shake, blinking back into focus. Fumbling over his words, he reaches out and takes your proffered jumper between two, colossal fingers, gingerly lifting it out of your grasp. “A-aye, sorry.” 

At his stumbled apology, you put on a heartfelt smile and say, “Thanks, Karn.”

The youngling only manages to gulp, “Yup,” in response. 

You try to catch his gaze again, but the effort is futile and your confusion only grows when his lips tug into a troubled frown that he punctuates with a sigh, flipping open a pouch on his belt and carefully tucking your jumper inside as though it were made of glass. Giving a mental shrug, you turn back towards the heart stone and you can't help but notice that Death keeps his glare trained on Karn until you pass him, and only then does he tear his eyes away from the youngling to watch you instead. 

“So,” you declare loudly, eager to ease the unplaceable atmosphere that has descended over the room, “How in the world are we going to get that stone down from there?” 

At your side, Death regards the heart stone with equal perplexity. From the corner of his eye, he notices that Karn has sidled up next to you as well, the youngling's face now a rather satisfying beet-red and his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. It's almost laughable that the look of quandary plastered on his face has nothing to do with the heart stone's inaccessibility. Death only hopes he doesn't hurt himself by thinking too hard on it.

The Horseman is no fool, and unlike you, he can see all too clearly that the young maker is struggling to get to grips with his fondness for you. Actually, after having witnessed the conspicuous glances that Karn has been shooting you every five minutes ever since he first laid eyes on you outside the Cauldron, Death is inclined to believe that this may have surpassed the realms of fondness. 

No... unsettlingly, the territory being trodden upon here has begun to border the realm of something far stronger, something the Horseman can no longer ignore. 

Karn is immutably, unflinchingly besotted with you...

The very idea causes Death's lips to curl in distaste. After all, the foolish notion has only come about because you've been overwhelmingly kind to the youngling, and now, what he thinks he's feeling is nothing more than an intense need for companionship, garnered after such a long time spent being lonely.

However... Now is not the time for Death to let himself be distracted by such matters, he reminds himself sternly, not that he should ever have been distracted by them in the first place. What does a Horseman care of the tender friendship being cultivated right before his very eyes?

Brushing the thoughts aside, he focuses on the heart stone dangling high overhead and narrows his eyes, musing, “I could knock it loose, if I could get up there.”

“What about using your new gauntlet?” you ask, but the Horseman only shakes his head. 

“It's reach is impressive, but I don't think it'll carry me that far....” Trailing off, he swivels his eyes around to contemplate the maker, humming deep in his throat as his mind begins to form an idea. Seconds later, he barks, “Pup, don't move.”   “Eh, what-?” The youngling goes rigid when Death begins stalking deliberately towards him, his concern mounting with each step that brings him closer. Still, he remains obediently still, only just suppressing a shiver as the Nephilim suddenly scurries up his back and onto the bewildered youngling's shoulder where he straightens up and smirks at the look on your face.

“You know, if you wanted a boost, Horseman, you only needed to ask,” the maker huffs, though he finds his complaint largely ignored by Death, who simply lifts an arm over his head. 

From his gauntlet, spectral, purple limb bursts forth and flies up towards the ceiling. Ethereal fingers snag around one of the clamp arms that hold the heart stone in place and then, Death kicks off from the maker's shoulder and zooms into the air, dragged up by his unconventional grappling hook. Just before he crashes face-first into the stone, he throws out his real hand and catches the flat top of it in a vice-like grip. 

Fascinated by his feats of acrobatics, you watch raptly as he braces his boots against its side and dangles there, one hand keeping him suspended far above your head whilst the other pulls his scythe off his back, and he flips the weapon upside down to use its blunt edge like a hammer, slamming it violently down on top of the heart stone. Each strike produces a resonant chime that rings in your ears. 

At first, you don't think Death's strength alone will be enough to dislodge something so well-secured to the ceiling, but after a few more hits, the whole thing suddenly comes loose and falls at an alarming rate to the ground far below. With a deafening 'WHUMP', it lands, and not a second later, Death follows, though his impact is carried out with far more grace and poise, thankfully.

“I've got it,” Karn declares, stepping around you and sauntering up to the heart stone. He crouches down beside it and wraps both hands around each side, his teeth grit together tightly as he lifts the gigantic load up, throwing it up and onto his sturdy shoulder, one hand keeping it steady whilst the other is free to use his hammer, should he come to need it.

Death rolls his eyes at the maker's obvious peacocking, but you at least seem entertained, clapping your hands appreciatively when Karn checks to see if you witnessed his impressive display of strength. 

“All right, enough showboating, the pair of you,” Death grumbles, placing his scythe back on his hip and striding past you along the catwalk, “We need to get this stone back to the Guardian.” Pausing mid-step, he casts the youngling a sly, appraising glance, “Or... we could head straight for the second stone... if Karn thinks he can carry two of them at once?”

The youngling seems to visibly wither under Death's cool observation, but he still sputters, “O'course I could!” all too aware that your gaze is also trained on him. 

To his relief however, he's let off the hook after you rather kindly suggest, “One stone at a time, Death. Karn needs a hand free to fight constructs, right?”

Putting on a dramatic sigh, the Horseman replies, “Ah, but of course. Sensible as ever, aren’t we.” Sarcasm drips poignantly from his lips and he half expects you to offer a retort, so it's somewhat disappointing when you don't, at least to his knowledge. With his back to you, he misses the obnoxious face you pull, though he does have to wonder why Karn suddenly begins to snicker.

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

You can't ignore the strange feeling that the Guardian has been awaiting your return as you all stroll across the courtyard and between its legs before coming to a stop in front of it once again. 

No lights bloom in the construct's carved-out eyes sockets, but in contrast, the heart stone begins to pulse with a dazzling, blue light, as if it knows its purpose is just moments from being served and its host is finally, finally within reach after centuries spent apart. 

There's also a sense of anticipation in the air whilst you wait for Karn to raise the stone from his shoulders. 

“So... what happens now?” you ask, wondering how you're ever going to scale the Guardian to fit the first heart stone in place. 

All you get in response is a secretive smirk from Karn and a whisper of, “Watch.” He doesn't tarry any longer though. 

Lifting the stone into two hands and heaving it over his head, the maker offers it up to the Guardian, and while at first you regard his antics bemusedly, your jaw promptly drops open when the stone is simply lifted out of his hands by an unseen force.

It floats gracefully through the air and eventually slows near the construct’s left shoulder where it snaps into a carved hollow and seals itself in place with a flash of dazzling light. 

“Magnets?” you blurt out, so busy trying to rationalise what you're seeing that you momentarily forget the magical occurrences you've already witnessed. “Sadly, no,” Death sighs, “Only magic, Plain and simple.”

It's a strange reality you've found yourself in where magic is considered run-of-the-mill.

At the look of of perplexity on your face, the Horseman snorts and jerks his head towards one of the remaining doors you haven’t tried to enter yet.

“Shall we?”

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

“Okay. Let's try again. Ready, Karn?”

Death's thumb and forefinger reach into the sockets of his mask and he indulges himself in a moment of massaging his twitching eyelids. As much as he's privately grateful that Karn had set you upon his broad shoulder after you started falling behind, he wishes you hadn't taken it as an opportunity to entertain the youngling by teaching him one of your juvenile 'earth games.'

Keeping to the head of your bizarre group, the Horseman tries to focus on the twisting cavern path that stretches out ahead, eyeing the corruption that grows from its walls in the form of pustule-yellow crystals, each one oozing rivers of glistening, black liquid. He picks his way carefully around a puddle of the vile substance and tosses his head over a shoulder to check that Karn is keeping his eyes peeled as well. 

A scowl darkens his glare when he notices that the youngling barely gives the puddle a fleeting glance and just steps lazily over it in one, gigantic stride before returning immediately to the human on his shoulder. 

You have an arm stretched out before you, fingers curled into a loose fist and after regarding your appendage closely, Karn lifts his hand and does the same. Giving him an approving smile that turns his ears beet red, you begin yet another round of the strange game, exclaiming, “Rock, paper, scissors, GO!”

On the word go, your fist bursts apart and you thrust it in the maker's face, your fingers pressed together and held flat like the 'paper' you're trying to emulate. At the same time, Karn lifts his bulky arm and holds his own fist up for you to see, earning himself an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, now I think you're just letting me win.”

Perplexed, the maker lowers his hand and frowns down at it. “How come I lost that time?” he asks.

“Because!” you laugh, “That's the fifth time you've chosen rock!”

“Aye, 'cause rock's the strongest,” he retorts matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and tipping his chin back.

“That's not – I mean, that isn't really how the game works.” Pausing to chuckle at the absurdity of explaining the logic of such a simple game to someone who'd never even heard of scissors five minutes ago, you continue, “Okay, so the rules are, scissors cut paper, paper covers rock, and rock breaks scissors.

“Aha!” The maker's exclamation is so abrupt, you can't help but flinch as his head whirls sideways to look you in the eye. “There, you see? Rock breaks scissors! Rock's stronger!”

“Yes, but I didn't choose scissors, I chose paper,” you explain, patiently.

“....But... rock could just tear through paper!” The pitch in Karn's voice raises a little alongside his mounting confusion, prompting Death to finally interject.

“Perhaps, Y/n, it would be sensible to stop this game before the amount of brainpower it requires to play literally kills the Pup.”

Sticking out his lower lip, Karn glowers at the ground, but the quick pat you give his neck is enough to put the maker's smile back in place. “Don't worry,” you assure him, “There are plenty of other earth games I can teach you.” 

“All of which will have to wait, I'm afraid,” Death quickly interjects, shuddering at the prospect of another minute spent listening to Karn fail to grasp even the most basic of concepts, “Whilst I understand that you two are having... ugh, fun, we can't afford to lose focus in this place.”

Like a switch has been flipped, whatever good mood had taken hold of you is promptly snuffed out. 

'...Fun?...' 

Something uncomfortable accompanies that word. It hits you more jarringly than it logically should, and your laughter tapers off to an uncertain chuckle, which in turn becomes a smile that fades slowly until an invisible weight settles itself over your heart and wipes any semblance of enjoyment clear off your face. 

'I'm having fun...' 

It doesn't seem... correct, somehow. Fun implies an instance of happiness. ...And happiness... Well. The term sits like a bad taste in your mouth and you can hardly believe it took the Horseman’s throwaway comment to draw your attention to it. You can't be happy, can you? How can you be happy after...

A ball of anxiousness starts to form in your stomach. 'Y/n,' your horrified mind seems to whisper, accusing and cold, 'Are you getting over them so quickly?'

“Oi?”

 Your leg is given a gentle shove and you flinch, startled to see Karn's finger slowly pulling away. He has his sights set on you, his jaw hanging open in a way that radiates concern and when you  flick your eyes ahead for a second, you notice that Death's head is twisted to the side, just enough to give you a glimpse of white bone behind his ebony hair.

“You okay? We lost you there for a moment,” the maker urges, quietly adding, “...again.” 

It comes far too easy, the knee-jerk reaction to throw yourself into an overenthusiastic response. Kicking your heels against his shoulder, you huff out a quick laugh that grates at your ears. “I'm still here, buddy. Just thinking about how you and the others are going to react to Monopoly.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Seriously, Karn,” you chirp, the grin stretching at your lips uncomfortable and awkward, “I'm fine.” 

God, isn't that just becoming easy now? Far easier than it ever used to be. 'I'm fine' rolls off your tongue like a lie that you're desperate to convince yourself is in fact, a truth. Still, it at least seems to have placated your gigantic companion, whose smile has returned within moments of seeing your own, so ready to accept that his friend really is okay. 

Or perhaps, he's just desperate to believe it, like you are. You wish Eideard was just as difficult to lie to, thinking back on the conversation you'd had with the Old One in Tri Stone yesterday. 

Stalking ahead, Death is once again turned away from you, but you aren't sure if he's ever been an easy man to fool.

The network of vast corridors finally come to an end as you turn another corner to see dull, grey daylight pouring in up ahead.

With you still sitting astride his shoulder, Karn follows the Horseman through an arched entryway and out into a spacious, grandiose courtyard, where you're pleasantly surprised to note that the rain has finally started to let up, leaving you all doused in little more than a light drizzle. 

Shielding your eyes, you squint up at the blanket of clouds overhead and spot the pale suns hiding behind them, trying to break through. You appreciate their effort, but the courtyard is still bucolic without the suns' rays shining down on it.

Like its sister, the stone is held fast to the gazebo's roof by a great, metal claw. “How come you makers all put the heart stones in such hard-to-reach places?” you gripe, raking your gaze over the area to search for anything that might be lurking in the shadows, unaware that Death has already done the same and found the coast is clear. 

Karn's boots splash through puddles as he stomps after the Horseman and replies, “If a maker lives long enough, their soul gets too old to pass through the Well. N'when that happens, they'll seek out an empty vessel - like a heart stone. And what would you do if you had your hands on a stone that held a human's soul, hm?” 

You consider the question carefully for a moment, then lift your arm in a shrug. “I... guess I'd try and keep it as safe as possible?” 

“Exactly!” Karn grins, snapping his fingers, “Those heart stones ain't just powerful artefacts – they carry the life force of our ancestors. We keep 'em up high like that for their own protection. S'a way to stop wee beasties from scratchin' em up, and the like.” 

Up ahead, you fail to notice that Death's fingertips are creeping up to gently touch at the wound on his chest. He ascends the steps into the gazebo and comes to a halt directly beneath the suspended heart stone, tipping his head back to regard it pensively with half of his attention on the surrounding area whilst the other half idly hones in on the faraway voices that whisper in the dark recesses of his mind. To quiet them, he brushes his fingers over the amulet's remains that are imbedded in his skin, just above the spot where his heart used to beat. 

Suddenly, the Horseman is yanked from his thoughts by a loud splash and a cold spray of rainwater spattering on his leg. Cranking his neck around slowly, he glares hard at the human who has appeared unexpectedly next to him.

Evidently, Karn had lowered you down from his shoulder and – like a human would – you'd elected to jump the last few feet to the ground, landing squarely in a puddle beside Death. The Nephilim's icy glare has you ducking your head and pressing your lips together.

“Pup,” he growls, never taking his eyes off you, daring you to let a grin slip onto your face, “Come over here. I'm going to need another boost.” 

The young maker strides forwards, raising his boot as he passes you and giving it a threatening jerk towards the puddle you're standing in, causing you to let out a gasp and leap backwards, shooting him a playful glare once you're safely out of the splash zone. 

Showing off his tusks, Karn stops at Death's side and offers his hand. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the Horseman gives it a dirty look before he eventually steps onto the glove, his pride taking yet another hit. Karn however, is beaming from ear to ear as he lifts Death up past his head, more than likely glad to be of help. 

The Horseman's scowl recedes ever so slightly at the young maker's expression and with a bit of difficulty, he manages to swallow some of his pride and dips his head in an almost imperceptible nod, as close as he'll ever come to admitting thanks. He doesn't see the maker's reaction, but he does feel Karn bounce excitedly on the balls of his feet, prompting him to turn his eyes skyward and heave a sigh as he sends his phantom appendage up to snag the heart stone.

As soon as the maker's hand is free, he shifts his gaze down and sweeps it across the ground at his feet, heart rate spiking when he doesn't immediately spot you nearby. Opening his mouth to call out, he raises his head and suddenly, your name catches in his throat. 

It turns out you haven't wandered far at all. You've only moved several steps away and turned your back on the maker, currently busy staring down at your reflection in a puddle. Curious, but erring on the side of caution so as not to startle you, he carefully leans sideways and tries and get a look at your face, hearing the telltale ‘shing’ of scythes being drawn above him. 

Your eyes are heavy-lidded, yet they remain transfixed upon the water, its placid surface casting a grubby and hazy reflection back up to you, and Karn wonders what you must be seeing in there that has caused your face to grow so haggard. 

Are you merely seeing yourself? From his angle, all he can see is the vague shape of a human.

Just then, a loud clang shatters the peace of the moment and you suck in a gasp, snapping to attention once more.

Death raps his scythes mercilessly against the heart stone until it comes loose from its metal bindings and plummets to the ground just as the first had, causing Karn to grimace at the treatment. Whoever's soul has inhabited the stone, he only hopes they don't take umbrage. 

“Well, Pup,” Death grunts as he drops down beside it again, bending his knees as he lands, “I believe you know the routine by now.”

Brushing a thumb under his nose, the maker nods and waddles over to hoist the stone up into his grasp whilst the Nephilim begins to head back the way you’d all come from, only faltering in his step when he finds you staring down into the puddle once more.

Karn doesn't notice this time. He's too focused on digging some dirt out of the heart stone's notches with the tip of his forefinger and then using the back of his hand to sweep it clean.

It's only when you finally speak up, your voice quiet and subdued, that he tips his head towards you and begins paying close attention. 

“Can... can I tell you guys something?”

“Well, o' course you can!” Karn booms eagerly. In contrast, Death merely spares you a curious, sideways glance.

Picking absentmindedly at a nail on your left hand, you try to speak, only to find the words aren't coming as easily as you thought they would, so you let your jaw fall shut again and swallow thickly before making another attempt. “It's just something that's, uh, well, it's bothering me. I feel guilty about it, but – Christ, I hope you guys don't think less of me for saying this but – I think I… I'm actually having a -.... a good time?”

The heavy weight of their stares presses upon you until, after a moment, Karn's face brightens and he announces, “Well that's great,” moving the heart stone further up his shoulder so he can beam down at you, obviously failing to see why your having a 'good time' might be causing you distress.

“No, it's not, Karn! It’s wrong.” Sighing roughly, you rake your hands through your hair and try to explain in a way the young maker would understand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I just... I’ve been feeling a bit guilty lately.”

“Guilty?” he asks, “For havin’ fun?” 

“No, no. Well, kind of but... I mean, It’s only been a few days. How can I be feeling happy after losing so much? It just doesn’t seem....” Fishing your hand through to air as if you might pull the right words out of nowhere proves futile and you eventually give up, letting your hand drop back to your side. 

“...Right?” Death's voice flutters into your ear and you pull your gaze up off the ground to stare at the swaying, ebony hair in front of you, uncertain whether he'd intended for you to hear him.

All the same, you answer. “Yeah... Exactly.” 

You fail to notice that Death's jaw has set into a hard line, teeth clenched tighter than a vice underneath his mask.

The Horseman remembers vividly how he'd been nigh inconsolable the day he took Absalom's life. His own brother... Every fibre that made up his wretched, twisted body had come alive with a rage unlike anything he'd ever known. 

Creator... He'd been so angry - at the Nephilim, at Absalom, at the Charred Council and his siblings... It had taken centuries before he'd been ready to admit that all he was doing was distracting himself from the real target of his ire. Death always liked to believe he was above falling victim to guilt, yet there it was – still is, in fact - settled in his chest like shards of glass, and no matter how much time passes - centuries, eons or a hundred thousand years – it will never be enough for the Horseman to escape the shadow that guilt casts upon him. 

It bears no significance how often he tells himself that his shame is foolish and unnecessary, that he and his brothers and sister did what had to be done. The Nephilim could not go on the way they were. They had to be destroyed, or else the rest of Creation wouldn't have survived. 

They had to be. 

In moments that are few and far between, Death catches himself wondering what his un-life would have been like if someone else had taken up the mantle of 'Kinslayer.' No, he doesn't regret what he did. He would never choose to go back and change the past... But that doesn't spare him from experiencing the residual shame of what he'd had to do, even so many years down the line. 

He almost envies you, in a way. 

How easy had it just been for you to admit that you're haunted by guilt? What kind of bravery is that and where in the nine hells had it even come from? How could you say – out loud – something that had taken Death centuries to even admit to himself? 

Well, at least in that regard, you're less of a coward than he is.

“It sounds as though you’re clinging to guilt,” he murmurs.

His words strike you hard in the chest. “Clinging?” you echo, “Death, I don’t like feeling guilty!”

“No,” he concurs, patient as ever, “But you don’t like feeling happy either. Because feeling happy makes it seem as though you’re coping. And feeling you’re coping is almost worse, because who could possibly be coping after they’ve lost so much?”

The Horseman’s question is rhetorical, you know, yet still your mouth falls open to respond, though you soon find nothing emerges other than a silent breath in place of words. When you don’t offer up a reply, he turns to the entrance and tilts his head over a shoulder, regarding you from the corner of his eye, adding, “You think being happy after a tragedy makes you a bad person?” 

Swallowing down past a thick lump in your throat, you give a hesitant nod. 

“Well...” he huffs, “From what I’ve seen, I think I can safely attest that you’re not.”

“Definitely not,” Karn agrees with a decisive bob of his head. 

You have to blink hard a few times to chase away the tears that threaten at the back of your eyelids. “Thanks, guys... Doesn’t make me feel any less guilty though.”

“And it likely never will,” Death says matter of factly. 

“That’s a bummer.” 

The human colloquialism is lost on him but he gets the gist of your expression and lets out a soft snort before he replies, “Perhaps. But grief and guilt do become easier to bear.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Well, maybe not for a long, long time, and perhaps, every so often, they will rear their heads and strike with a vengeance, but it does get easier, because you will learn to live alongside it. I’ve seen it time and again in humans. You’re nothing if not a resilient little species. You will live with anything, if you give yourselves time to learn how.”

And with that, he faces forwards again and begins the long trek back across the courtyard to the tunnels that brought you here. It isn’t long before you catch up to him and keep stride for a few paces, followed, as always, by the loyal maker at your back.

“Huh... thanks, Death,” you smile earnestly up at him. The heaviness hasn’t shifted at all from your chest, but you find that it isn’t quite as difficult to carry as it had been moments ago. “I think that’s one of the most comforting things you’ve said to me yet.” 

“Hmph. Yes. Well,” he grumbles, “Don’t get used to it.”

---

With the second heart stone offered up to the Guardian and sealed into place, the three of you turn your attention to the third and final tunnel - the one you’ve yet to travel down, and not least because, emanating from the entrance is an eerily familiar, yellow glow. 

Still, with little other option, the three of you gradually make your way through the open doors and find yourselves in a lower subsection of the Foundry. Karn is almost suffocatingly close to you, causing even the maker-intended tunnel to feel cramped and claustrophobic, although you have to admit that having a giant walking so near to your heels does leave you feeling adequately protected from behind, that is, until you come upon a relatively small, nondescript chamber. Or, it would be nondescript and wouldn't even particularly stand out from many of the Foundry's other chambers had it not been for the dozens upon dozens of corrupted, crystalline growths that burst like a fungus from every, available surface. 

Death's eyes narrow upon them. “Stay close,” he warns, leading the way down the narrow staircase and keeping as far from the crystals as he can, more for the sake of the two younglings behind him than any sense of self-preservation.

He hardly needs to tell you twice.

The light from those terrible growths of corruption almost seems to burn at your skin as you pass them, and for a moment, you begin to wonder if it's radiation that causes the unnatural glow. Then, you decide you don't know enough about chemistry and put it from your mind. There are far more pressing matters to worry about, after all.

“Death?” you hum, feeling the familiar, winding knots of unease begin to coil around in your stomach. 

The Horseman's eyes zero in on a dead construct sitting slumped in one corner. “Stay close,” he growls, but even then, he reaches a hand backwards and blindly grabs the hem of your shirt, tugging you until you're very nearly stepping on the heels of his boots. 

On an unspoken whim, Karn closes the distance to an even more claustrophobic degree. 

Dangling from a clamp set into the ceiling overhead just like its brethren, you spot the third and final heart stone, and from just one glance, you know you'd been right to worry about things that come in threes. 

“Uh, isn't that supposed to be blue, like the others?” you ask, nodding towards it.

“Aye.... It is,” Karn mutters darkly, ears flattening to his head, “There's somethin' very wrong with this one...”

The heart stone glows the same, pus-like yellow as the crystals growing all around it. Black gunk oozes from within it, dribbling down the patterns carved into its surface until each rivulet converges right at the stone's pointed tip, forming one, big globule of corrupted liquid. Eventually, it grows too large and you watch in horrified disgust as it finally relinquishes its hold on the stone and drops to the ground with a loud, wet 'Plop!'

“Ew,” you declare. 

“At least this stone doesn't require that I use you as a springboard, Pup,” Death remarks, rolling his shoulders and lifting his arm towards the ceiling.

Recognising the steadily increasing glow emitted by the gauntlet around his wrist, you dart out a hand and snatch his arm back, earning yourself a fearsome glare in return. With the Horseman's golden eyes boring down into you, your nerve begins to waver until you eventually pull away, yet the question bubbling up inside your throat still manages to find its way out. “What are you doing!?” you blurt, “The stone's corrupted!”

“I can see that,” Death coolly replies, making to raise his hand once more before he catches the fleeting look of alarm that you send up at the maker beside you. Sparing you a brief sigh, Death forces his glare to soften, if only a fraction. “Y/n, if we stop here, we'll have come all this way for nothing.” 

“But if we put that thing in the Guardian, something could go wrong!” The Horseman subjects you to his most uncompromising glare, one he's often been driven to use on his petulant siblings. 

“And if we do nothing, then nothing will change. Corruption will continue to spread across the Forge Lands, Tri Stone may eventually fall, and we'll be no closer to the Tree of Life.”

“But-” Hesitating, you chew on your lip and glance up at the maker. “- But Karn will have to carry it... You said we shouldn't let Corruption touch us!” 

Death's expression turns grave and you can see the pinch of his brow, hidden as it is beneath his mask. “I know,” he admits quietly, “It’s a risk. But unless you can think of another way to get it to the Guardian -” 

“I don't mind carryin' it!” Karn interrupts, jabbing a thumb into his own chest, “Corruption'll have a tough time gettin' under this thick skin.” 

You tip your head back to look up at him, worry laying heavily across your brow. “But, Karn-” 

“Oi, don't you go worryin' about me.” The unexpected gentleness of Karn's voice is anything but typical and reminds you more of the dulcet tones you might hear from the soft-spoken shaman, not your zealous and excitable young friend. “I'll be all right.”

Helplessly, you turn a pleading look onto Death, but you find no reassurance in the Horseman's calm and enigmatic eyes. 

Your acquiescence comes in the form of a resigned sigh, and once he's satisfied you won't protest further, Death hums approvingly and raises his hand once again towards the heart stone.

It seems so baffling to you that the ghostly appendage that flies from his gauntlet can be so strong and solid. Long, skeletal fingers latch easily onto the stone's uneven surface and clamp down, hard, seconds before Death is pulled up towards the oozing stone and clings to it, withdrawing his scythe. 

As he knocks the stone loose of its clamp, you can do little but hold your breath and watch, hands jumping into closed fists when it suddenly crashes to the ground with a dull but tremulous 'whump!' and a moment later, Karn is using the back of his gloved hand to nudge you away from it, giving him enough room to step protectively between you and the corrupted heart stone.

Death drops down to the earth beside it and moves around the maker, keeping a close eye on him whilst he bends down and slides his hands around the stone, braced and ready to react should anything begin to happen. After a few moments of regarding it as though he expects it to spring to life at any second, Karn sets his jaw and with a strained grunt, he hefts the cumbersome load up and settles it upon his shoulder. 

The tension in the chamber is thick and oppressive enough that you can almost feel it lend a heaviness to the breaths that enter your lungs. Whatever time-stream this realm rides upon seems to grind to an abrupt halt and you're all left in perfect stillness, watching.... waiting.....

… But nothing happens. 

One of Karn's eyes cracks open, having been squinted shut after he first touched the heart stone, and he glances down at himself, letting out a muted 'oh,' of surprise. 

“There, you see? He's fine,” Death tells you, “Now, let's get this stone back to its host.” 

Barely needing to be told twice, Karn begins to pick his way around the crystal growths and heads back toward the entrance whilst you and the Horseman walk in line with one another, following his path.

“So,” Death starts, folding his hands behind his back, “Are you learning to trust me yet?” 

“I already trust you, Death. I mean, it took a while but, I am there.” You're too busy admiring the broken construct you pass by to notice the shock that flashes across Death's eyes. 

You trust him?... 

And you really think a few days is a while? 

He drags his gaze off your face and elects to frown pensively at the straps of Karn's boots. At his silence, you continue, “Just because you trust someone doesn't mean you don't think they can be wrong sometimes.”

The old Nephilim huffs, uncertain of whether he should be insulted that you think he makes mistakes, or impressed at the philosophical side to your argument. After all, he himself would trust his siblings, but is more than aware that they're capable of erring from time to time. 

Appraising you thoughtfully from the corner of an eye, Death opens his mouth to accuse you of spending too much time around the puzzling and sagacious Eideard when, all of a sudden, Karn lets out a startled cry, disturbing the relative peace that's fallen over you.

Yelping his name, your eyes snap up to the maker, whereas Death's immediately land upon the reason for his alarm. 

From deep within the heart stone, Corruption's hideous consciousness had sensed a fresh, unwitting host, and temptation spurred it to send an insidious part of itself forth in search of the body it yearns to inhabit.

Blood rushes into your ears at the sight of the black, oily tendrils that stretch out of the heart stone and you barely register that you've taken several steps towards Karn before a hand is suddenly hauling you back and you soon find yourself gaping up at the bristling shoulders and jutting spine of a predatory Horseman. 

However, much to your shock and dizzying relief, Corruption’s target isn't the youngling. 

The heart stone lurches in Karn's grasp and he digs his fingertips into its callouses to keep it steady as the tendrils detach from their main cluster and drop to the ground near his feet. Rankled, the maker back-peddles up the steps and away from the writhing mess of darkness, whilst all you can do is watch from behind Death's guarding arm as corruption slips and gurgles its way across the room like a grotesque slug, heading straight for the broken-down construct slumped in the corner.

By the time Death realises its intent, he's too late to stop it. 

The flailing ball of corruption reaches up with its tendrils and slides them underneath the stone plates that make up the construct’s chest.

“What is that thing!?” you exclaim. 

When Karn takes in the pieces of stone on the ground, his face turns pale and he sucks in a sharp breath, his stomach sinking like a stone. “It... it’s a custodian,” he utters, his horror lending to your own. 

“Karn!” Death barks, and you suddenly find yourself grabbed yet again and shoved none-too-gently towards the young maker, “Get her out of here!” 

Acting swiftly, Karrn drops the heart stone and dashes back down the steps, clumsily curling his fingers around your torso and ushering you back to the entrance, away from the shuddering custodian. 

A pair of brutally strong hands that look well-equipped to dish out some serious, blunt-force trauma pound into the earth, gripping fistfuls of stone as the thick and undulating strands of corruption knit the broken body back together. The arms are first, dragged across the ground and slotted into the shoulders whilst a blocky head is set into a round, open cavity on top of the custodian's torso, which in turn, is lifted onto the last component; a rotating, stone sphere. 

Suddenly, the crevasses where its eyes would sit fill with the sickly yellow light you've come to know so well, and they lock straight onto the Horseman, who stalks backwards further into the room, deliberately drawing the construct away from you and Karn.

With his quarry's attention fixed wholly on him, Death whips out his scythes and splays his shoulders out wide, offering himself up as a challenge, though you can't help but think that bait would be a more appropriate term. Eerily, the hulking beast doesn't utter a sound from its stony maw, it merely pivots its body towards Death and begins to roll like a charging bull across the room, carried by its spherical base. 

It reaches him and rears itself back, arms thrust high over his head, ready to pummel the Nephilim back to dust. You're ashamed of the way his name leaves your lips in a helpless, desperate cry.

Less than a second before he's flattened however, Death strafes expertly to the side and skirts around the custodian, leaving mere inches of space in his wake as its fists obliterate the ground where'd he'd been standing. 

Lightening-quick, the Horseman strikes out at its exposed back, though it doesn't stay exposed for long. 

The custodian's size and weight give the impression of a creature that should be slow, it's movements cumbersome, yet the ball that bears its mass allows for a much broader range of movement. Namely, within a split second, the custodian whirls around on its axis to face Death, swinging its arm out in a wide arc, a move that would have bowled him clear off his feet had he not leapt back out of the way in time. 

Even from halfway across the room, you can hear the growl of frustration that escapes from underneath his mask as he makes another attempt to get close enough to the wildly swinging construct to even land a single blow on it, yet every time you start to think he may have found an opening, he's sent careening back by a sweep from one of the custodian's fists. 

“We have to help him,” you realise after the construct once again bludgeons one of the yellow crystal growths to smithereens in an attempt to reach Death. Glancing up at Karn, you find him staring grimly out at the battle with his lips peeled back over gritted teeth and it soon becomes evident that he hadn't heard you. 

Jaw setting, you turn about and begin to falteringly make your way down the steps. No sooner have you made it to the bottom than Karn suddenly snaps to attention and he lunges after you, throwing out a hand and slamming it to the ground right in your path, blocking the way forward. “What're you doin!?” he barks, frantic, “You tryin' to get yerself killed!?”

“We have to help him, Karn!” You attempt to sidestep his hand, but the maker is persistent, moving to stop you wherever you go. Grabbing his leather-bound thumb, you pull yourself up onto your toes and peer over the appendage, catching sight of Death just as he deflects a particularly savage blow that sends him skidding backwards for several yards until he's able to regain his balance. 

Now borderline hysterical, you cry, “He can't do this alone!” 

“He's Death! He's always done things by himself!” 

Even as Karn speaks, a foul curse is spat from the Horseman's mouth as he tries and fails to sever the beast's hand as it makes a clumsy grab at him. You twist your neck around and peer up at the maker behind you, causing his heart to thunk down into his stomach when he sees tears welling up in your eyes. 

“He shouldn't have to, though,” you utter, your fingers curling tightly into his glove, “Please, Karn?” 

The youngling stares back at you. There's not a force in the universe that could move him to action quite like the sight of your tears. Hesitating for all of a second, he sets his mouth into a determined line and his eyes grow as hard and unyielding as the stone underfoot. 

“I'll help 'im. You stay here,” he growls, nudging you back and standing to his full height. 

You get the impression that he's not asking. 

Death's scythes are battered by the custodian's fist yet again, though they still hold strong, even as their wielder's patience is quickly wearing thin. Unleashing a furious growl, the Horseman holds his ground, his back to the staircase as his assailant rolls like an unstoppable steam train towards him, its arm raising high into the air. 

Unfortunately for the corrupted construct, due in part to its one-track mind, it's so focused on Death that it doesn't even see the new and far larger threat barrelling in its direction.

There's a gut-wrenching instance in which you're convinced that Karn has entered the fray too late, and the Horseman will surely be unable to counter the coming strike. As the custodian's fist begins to descend, Death braces himself, crossing his scythes in front of him and wondering why he's been unable to call upon his Reaper form during this fight. 

All of a sudden, something enormous whooshes past his mask, and from the corner of an eye, he sees a hammer, swinging up through the air to meet the construct's downward swing in a head-on collision that throws the enormous beast off balance and, more pressingly, away from Death. Momentarily stunned, the Nephilim risks a quick glance up to see Karn standing beside him, rolling his shoulders. 

“What do you think you're doing?” Death hisses venomously, “I told you to get-”

“Suck it up, Horseman! She's right - You can't do this one alone.”

Curling his lip at the maker's snappish interruption and your insinuation, Death discovers that he has no time to retort because the custodian is suddenly upon them once more. 

Karn, although slower, is at least equipped to totter the construct on its axis with every swing of his hammer, and his addition to the battle allows Death more opportunities to get in close and tear a chunk of stone off its arms, back, anywhere that he can reach. 

Following only a few minutes of combat, it becomes clear that the speed and unrivalled agility of the eldest Nephilim, coupled with the sheer, brute strength of a maker is too much of a challenge, and the sinister force driving the custodian pauses, rolling its host back a few yards and assessing the threats ahead of it in search of a weakness, an opportunity, a chance. 

Karn and Death have planted themselves directly between you and the construct, the maker quivering with adrenaline and the Horseman just as calculating and cold as you expect him to be. 

Suddenly, the custodian's head stops swinging back and forth between the two and comes to rest with its yellow gaze pointed straight through the middle of them.

“Why's it just standin' there?” Karn rumbles, an uneasy feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach at the custodian's decidedly thoughtful pause. Next to him, Death's eyes are narrowed to thin slits as he considers the stone behemoth warily whilst it simply peers back, unmoving.

A sensation that he's still unaccustomed to hits him in the chest at full force when he finally realises what – or rather, who – the construct has turned its sights onto.

He's too late to shout a warning, or to try and stop it as the custodian suddenly explodes into motion and lurches forwards, hurtling straight for them and keeping its shoulders low like a battering ram, forcing both maker and Horseman to dive instinctively out of its way rather than risk being mowed down, just as it had planned.

Within a fraction of a second, Death is wheeling about, a cry of outrage lingering in his throat. Karn is quick to follow suit and the maker's entire face drains of all colour once he sees the disaster about to occur right in front of them. 

Corruption – fuelled by hate and spite – had spotted the group's vulnerability, and they had just stepped aside to let it pass. 

Fear is not something that Karn ever likes to admit to feeling, but in that moment, watching you trip backwards up the steps and land painfully on your backside when the custodian careens towards you with hellish intent, the maker is certain he's never felt so afraid in his life. 

Deep below the crashing waves of fear however, there's something far more reactive bubbling to the surface. He's never been an especially aggressive maker, not in temperament at least. 

That all changes in a split second at the realisation that you're in imminent danger. 

Without even taking the time to think, the maker discards his hammer, leaving it forgotten in his wake in favour of charging after the custodian as though a fire has been lit underneath his boots. But even though he's running at a speed he's never reached before, down in a dark, frightened corner of his heart, Karn knows he's too slow to get there in time. That doesn't stop him from willing himself forwards though, a bellowed shout of 'NO!' blasting from his mouth and a hand reaching out to you.

Behind him, the Horseman's own arm shadows his movements, lifting towards you as well. 

Death is aware of only two things. 

The first, his Reaper Form is suddenly trying to return with a vengeance, bucking against the magics that keep it shackled. And secondly, even if it manages to emerge, neither it nor the youngling will make it to you in time. 

He doesn't even register that he's sent out the mental command to his gauntlet, hardly notices the flash of purple light or the phantom hand that lunges forth and flies across the room towards you, long, disjointed fingers splaying out wide, reaching, stretching to their limits in a desperate attempt to win the terrible race. 

Scrambling futilely backwards and blind to everything but the construct bearing down on top of you, your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, throat too tight with terror to even scream. There are fists as big as cars lifting high above you and all you can think about is how much the next few seconds are going to hurt. 

They do hurt. Just not in the way you'd expected. 

Pressure suddenly cinches around your torso and you don't even have a second to take a breath before the air is knocked from your lungs as you're ripped forwards violently, your head snapping back from the abruptness of the motion. You collide with something hard and cold that immediately curls itself around you, and when your head stops spinning and you can open your eyes again, you look up to see the underside of Death's chin. 

Confused as to how you've come to be in his grasp, you turn your gaze outwards and find yourself staring in horrified awe at the brutal scene playing out in front of you.

The custodian's fists had all but demolished the steps where you'd been sprawled mere moments ago and the beast appears just as confused as you are to find that you're not a blood-stain beneath its hands.

Without slowing for even an instant, Karn rams into the construct's back and digs his fingers into the grooves around its neck, wrenching it back and hurling it sideways into a cluster of crystals that shatter upon impact. You hardly recognise the youngling with the way his teeth are bared, revealing the real extent of his formidable tusks as he bellows resoundingly and unintelligibly, casting aside all decorum to bend down and engulf the custodian's head in his fists. 

With you pinned protectively against his heaving chest, Death tries to block the view with his arm, but you still manage to peer over the top of his limb, watching raptly whilst Karn squares his shoulders and gives the head a nauseating and vicious twist, wresting it clean off the custodian's shoulders and effectively severing the corruption from its host.

An awful screech turns your blood to ice, yet you still stare agape at the oily rivers that slide down the custodian's body and sink into the floor, followed moments after by crumbling remnants of limbs and stone plates that are no longer held together by tendrils of corruption. 

At last, the chamber falls still and quiet once more, save for Karn's guttural grunts and your tentative sigh of relief. 

Flexing his hands, the maker glares hatefully down at the mess and gives it a dismissive snort before he whips his head around to face you, his chest convulsing with every breath. Suddenly, the body curled over you begins to unfurl as Death straightens up again and lowers his arms, letting you take a shaky step out of them before you turn around to face him. 

The Horseman doesn't even bother to stop his eyes from darting over you from head to foot in search of any fresh injuries.

“So...” you croak, rubbing at the back of your neck where an ache has already begun, “That was-”

“-Close?” he guesses. 

“I was going to say terrifying, but yeah, it was pretty close.” 

Booming footfalls alert you to Karn's approach and you turn to meet him, only to be startled by a pair of gigantic hands that curl around you, hovering just close enough to keep you trapped amongst trembling fingers. 

“Are you all right!?” Karn blares, beads of sweat trickling down his forrid, “Did 'e hurt you!? Tell me you're okay!” 

He's still shaking as the last threads of rage seep out of his bones and you're quick to place a calming hand on his thumb, raising your voice to be heard over the maker's babbling. “Karn, I'm okay! Chill! Death pulled me out of the way in time.”

The youngling's ears remain plastered to his skull and he doesn't look even remotely reassured, his eyes roving up and down your body as though he expects to discover a hidden injury. 

After yet another near-death experience, you aren't quite sure where you find the capacity to crack a joke, but somehow, your lips manage to quirk up into a faltering grin and you say, “I-It's a good thing Death found that gauntlet, huh? It.. uh, it came in really handy back there.” 

You may have tripped over your words, it may have been awkward and clumsy and you may be subjected to a very unimpressed glare from the Horseman, but for the time being, your focus is on the crumbling maker in front of you. 

Karn's heavy breaths pause for a few seconds whilst he takes in your words, blinking at you with a perplexed frown. Then, he draws in a long, shuddering breath and expels it roughly again, his chest deflating as the warm air washes over your face until his exhale turns into a rough, throaty chuckle. “Ha... 'handy,” he grins. 

Not even Death's deadpan stare prevents your shaky, wheezing giggle, if anything, one glance at the Horseman and you dissolve even further, breathlessly leaning against one of Karn's hands. 

It's clear that the thrill of surviving another potentially fatal encounter has left you feeling giddy, something that Death can't fault you for, and in fact, he even lets a flicker of an indulgent smile bend the curve of his lips. Glancing up at him, you suddenly fall silent, peering at him as though he's sprouted a halo. “Death?” you say, incredulous, “Are you smiling?” 

Quick as a flash, his face drops into its usual scowl and he crosses his arms, cocking a hip and drawling, “And why on earth would I be doing something like that?”

Undeterred, you lift a finger and point to one corner of your mouth. “You smile with this side. Your left eye sort of half-closes and gets all wrinkly whenever you do it.”

To that, the Nephilim can't come up with a response, more-so because he's taken aback by the knowledge that you've obviously been watching him far more closely than he'd assumed. Fortunately for his pride, you don't press the matter and rather than wait too long for a response, you let out a hum and push yourself away from the maker's glove as he gets back onto his feet, giving you a clearer view of the now destroyed custodian. 

“Talk about putting the 'Karn' in 'carnage,” you say, appraising the pile of rubble before raising a brow at the youngling, who returns the look with a sheepish smile. 

“Aye, sorry 'bout that. Hope I didn't scare you none.”

“Don't worry, you didn't. It was weird to see you angry though.”

Pressing his lips together, Karn makes a sound at the back of his throat, something between a hum and a grumble. “Doesn't happen often,” he admits quietly. 

As the pair of you absently start to make your way back towards the entrance together, walking side by side, Death goes entirely unnoticed. He considers you both in silence, catching everything from the way Karn lazes into each step which gives you the chance to keep pace, to the lack of distance between you both, always staying within reach of one another... 

You make... rather good friends, he realises, stubbornly ignoring the pit that opens up in his stomach at the very thought, reminding him that he wouldn't know friendship if it came up and slapped him around the face. He might not be any kind of expert, but he does recognise it when he sees it. 

Earlier, when he had been searching for a way to open the fall gate, he had heard you through its thick stone, his keen ears picking up on the muffled conversation held between you and the maker when you thought yours' were the only ears listening.

You planned to stay with the makers. 

Well.... Fine.

Good, even.

The Forge Lands... will make an adequate home for you, Death can't help but privately admit. And the makers will be perfect guardians. Of course, he shall have to have a word with Eideard before leaving, to ensure that the Old one keeps you and Karn out of trouble, as much as he can. 

Yes... It's the perfect solution. You'll remain here with the giants, and Death can carry on, alone.

Karn will be happy to have you all to himself. Perhaps in time, you’ll actually even notice the way he looks at you.

“Death?” 

The Horseman blinks and looks up, tugged back to the room by the sound of your voice. You've stopped on the staircase and twisted around to face him even as Karn continues on to cautiously retrieve the heart stone. 

“Are you coming? Or are you just gonna stand there until the end of time?” 

With an air of nonchalance that only Death could summon, he shakes his thoughts away and saunters over to you, using his knuckles to prod you up the stairs once he reaches your side. 

“Get moving,” he grumbles, though the command has no real heat behind it, “I'd like to get this stone back to the Guardian before we run into any more surprises.” 

You're walking ahead of him, so he doesn't see your smile wither and die as you make it to Karn's side, the youngling already having reclaimed possession of the corrupted heart stone.

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

The heavens had once again split open during your short walk back to the courtyard and the rain drums mercilessly down on your heads as you all emerge from the tunnel and step out into the courtyard. Aside from nature’s downpour splashing noisily against the ground, your journey has passed in relative silence, although Death gets the sense that there are several, burning questions you're dying to vocalise, and he doesn't miss the surreptitious glances that Karn keeps sending your way, the maker's lip trapped between his teeth all the way back to the Guardian. 

Much, much too soon for your liking, you soon find yourself standing before the monstrous construct once again, your neck craned painfully in order to look up towards its head where, right in the space above its stony brows, there sits a hole, framed by a bronze surround which is obviously meant to house the heart stone laying across Karn's shoulders. 

The skin on your thumb is subjected to a vicious torment by your other hand as you absently pick at it until cold fingers suddenly wrap around your wrist and tug your hands apart. Sheepishly, you peer up at Death and tuck your thumb into the hem of your skirt, hiding it from view. After a few more seconds spent underneath the Horseman's chiding frown, you let out a sigh when he finally releases you and turns to Karn, who's teeth haven't stopped worrying at his lip. 

“Pup,” Death calls, causing the maker to give a start and whip his head down, releasing his welted lip in the process, “It's time.” 

The small puddle of dread that has been sloshing around in your gut ever since you arrived at the Foundry promptly turns into a flood that rises into your lungs and squeezes at your heart. 

As if he's fine-tuned to the same wavelength as you, Karn hesitates, furrowing his brow before twisting back to regard the heart stone and pressing his palm gently to its surface. You could almost swear the yellow light pulses in response, which makes you wonder how deep the connection really runs between these giants and the stones that supposedly hold the souls of their fallen brethren. 

“We've seen its work, Horseman,” the youngling says, his ears drooping as he speaks, “Corruption fair weeps from it. Maybe....” He falters, and when he looks down at you, you notice that his forehead is etched by worried lines. “Maybe Y/n's right. Maybe this ain't such a good idea.”

Death's head swivels from the maker on his right to the human standing to his left. Just like that, it dawns on him that he's amongst not one, but two younglings. 

“I have a theory,” he begins, impressed that the patience in his tone could match Eideard's, “The other two heart stones were pure. I'm wagering that their radiance will cleanse the third.”

After a pause, the youngling tips his head back to stare apprehensively at the Guardian. “Mayhaps.” 

“Not, uh.. Not that I'm any kind of authority on corruption and magical stones and whatnot,” you offer in the ensuing silence, “But have you ever seen what happens when you put a drop of ink in a glass of water?”

The Horseman lifts a brow, retorting, “I hardly think this is the time for -” 

“-The water doesn't turn the ink clear, Death,” you press, pleading. When he glances down, he notes that your hands are wringing together. “It's so often the other way around.” 

Surprised, he can't help but admit that your analogy raises a rather compelling argument, and a troublesome point. Yet even so, the plain and simple fact of the matter is that by choosing not to act, then the valley and perhaps even the whole realm will be condemned to a slow, but inevitable death. 

At least, if things change, there is a chance that they may change for the better. But first, the have to change at all. 

Death steels himself against the strangely affecting look you're giving him and he clears his throat, gently putting, “You both know that the greater risk is to do nothing.”

A somber moment passes between the three of you and you finally lower your eyes to the ground, conceding without uttering a word. 

Seeing your silent, if not reluctant acceptance, Karn too gives the Horseman a solemn nod and sighs, “Aye.” 

Without further ceremony, he steps forward and heaves the mighty stone from his shoulder, offering it up to the Guardian. 

Seconds later, your head snaps up when the stone is promptly ripped from his hands and shoots like a bullet up towards the enormous construct's head, propelled by whatever magic resonates underneath its surface. 

Teeth grit, you wince as the projectile crashes right through the wooden scaffolding and into its destined slot with enough force to jolt the Guardian in its struts, shaking the gigantic chains that keep its wrists secured to the Foundry walls. 

Immediately, golden light explodes from the stone, though it's soon drowned underneath a blinding, brilliant blue.

And then, your heart is thunking down into your shoes as the Guardian's colossal neck plates begin to rattle and at long last, the great beast raises its head, twin flickers of pale light bursting to life in the carved eye sockets. Its heart stone pulses in response with the same blue light and there is, for a moment, the brief hope that perhaps Corruption isn't strong enough to breath this construct's will. 

Suddenly, the entire world around you begins to shudder and shift and the air fills with the deafening sound of a mountain trying to move. 

Death's hand appears from nowhere and grabs your shoulder, holding you steady when you almost teeter sideways as the Guardian wrenches at the chains, straining against them until a thunderous CRACK rings out across the courtyard. 

To your horror, the rusted metal gives way completely, falling from the Guardian's wrists and crashing to the ground with one, final heave.

Over the din, you can hear Karn shouting excitedly. “The corruption has burned off like rain on a hot forge!” Beaming at Death, he exclaims, “You were right!”

However, one glance at the Horseman, and you can tell that the enthusiasm is far from shared. 

Death's fiery eyes narrow to slits as he looks up at the Guardian. 

Before you can ask what the matter is, he rasps a phrase that turns your blood to ice and sends panic sweeping through your veins. 

“I was wrong.”

You turn to meet Karn’s horrified gaze over Death’s head, the youngling’s expression perfectly conveying your own thoughts - at least those that consist predominantly of nonsensical screaming. 

Seconds later, you're clapping both hands over your ears to protect them. 

From somewhere deep in the Guardian's cavernous chest, there booms forth a roar so powerful, it feels as though a thunderclap has gone off right beside you.

Turning your focus up once again, you can't help but to gasp at the sight. No longer is the final heart stone shimmering with the blue radiance that the others share. Now, the unmistakable, yellow glow of corruption is prominent, drowning out any trace of blue, whilst thick tendrils sprout from within it. At an alarming speed, they grow larger and longer, so much so that in no time, they start to wrap themselves around the Guardian's neck and dig their pointed tips underneath its plating. 

One of the colossal arms gives an almighty shake, as though the beast is attempting to rid itself of the tendrils that are now snaking their way down to its elbow, coiling and spreading in every direction until a thick webbing of the stuff has engulfed its solitary hand. 

But tragically, whatever fight the construct might have put up was already over the moment the heart stone entered its head. 

Helpless, you can do nothing but stare and cover your ears against another, ear-splitting and haunting wail as the lights inside its eye sockets lose their pale hue and turn the colour of pus, flashing and flaring like a pair of suns on the brink of going supernova. 

You're so distracted by the somewhat mesmerising display of such an effective, parasitic takeover that you hardly notice the titanic leg moving towards you until it smashes through the stone and wood scaffolding built around it and hurtles straight for you, Death and Karn.

Dragging your eyes down to what can only be described as an entire tower speeding in your direction, you try to choke out a gasp and your brain chooses that moment to freeze up, failing to provide you with a direction in which to dive. 

Lucky then, that Death's brain is still functioning perfectly. 

Whilst you and Karn stare agog at your impending doom, the Horseman, driven by sheer instinct, throws his scythe out towards the youngling and a hand towards you. 

The weapon's edge curls around one of the straps on Karn's backpack, and at the same time, Death's fingers wrap around the neck of your top. 

Without a split second to spare, the Nephilim leaps backwards out of the Guardian's path and subsequently drags you and Karn right along with him. 

The maker lets out a grunt as he lands on his rucksack, whereas you find your spine hitting Death's chest when he falls to the ground beneath you, and not a moment too soon, as the construct's leg goes sailing over your heads before it pounds into the dirt again just a few, scant feet from where you all lay.

To you, the world had almost come crashing down on top of you. 

To the Guardian, it had done little more than taken its first step into the world for which it was created.

All around, pieces of debris continue to crumble and fall as it approaches the cliff walls that hem the Foundry in, walls that bear no obstacle for a creature that stands twice their height.  

Trembling against Death's chest even when he pushes himself into a sitting position, you stare after the Guardian, your teeth chattering to witness it step over the cliff wall like you'd step over a stick in your path.

The thunderous foot falls recede into the distance, and only then do you scramble to escape Death's hold and shoot up onto your unsteady legs, a sudden, awful realisation hitting you harder than a slap to the face. 

“I-It's – it's heading for Tri Stone!” you struggle out, your exclamation followed by Karn's accompanying cry of, “The others!”

The youngling doesn't hesitate. He breaks into a lumbering run, bee-lining for the courtyard's primary entrance without even glancing back to see if either you or Death are following. 

“Karn!” the Horseman barks.

“I have to go back!” the maker bellows in return, never slowing his gait, “I have to make sure they're alright!” 

Fatigue is blessedly exchanged for adrenaline and you're able to forget all about your aching body as you break into a run and start after your friend in stubborn spite of the instinct to sprint in the opposite direction. The Guardian is an impossible obstacle that you have no way of hurdling.

And still, you run. 

With a snarl of frustration, Death spits an old Nephilim curse and follows suit. For a human, you manage to kick up a bit of speed as you chase after Karn through the Foundry, a Horseman hot on your own heels.

Hitting the enormous, circular chamber, you almost think you’ve somehow gone the wrong way, but the chains hanging down from the walls and the lava spitting and bubbling below you are so, unmistakably familiar, you have to do a double take, roving your gaze across the room as you hurtle along the curved catwalk. When you notice the rather worrying change, you nearly stop dead in your tracks. 

“The hammer's gone,” you breathe, following Karn at a sprint through the doors, your voice raising in pitch until it's an alarmed shout, “Are you shitting me? The hammer! It – It took the hammer!”

Karn’s feet pound like thunderclaps against the stone ground whilst Death’s are hardly heard at all. However, the cold that chases the back of your neck is reassurance that he is there, always behind you, even when you burst through the Foundry’s main entrance and spill out onto the bridge.

Smoke plumes rise ominously from beyond Tri Stone’s outer walls and all you can do is keep running until the wind stings at your eyes and the icy rain hits your skin like tiny sparks of fire.

The sky suddenly lights up and just moments later, from somewhere further down the valley, there’s a boom of thunder, indicating a swiftly approaching storm. 

[ninwrites]

a memory of love's refrain

Pairing: Joe/Nicky

Summary: a snapshot of an evening spent in a small Brooklyn apartment // circa 1940's

Joe trudges up the long staircase, his boots heavy against the wrought metal. He’d bargained with Nicky about the cost of four flights of stairs against the beautiful view it awarded when they had first decided to move to Brooklyn, because Nicky had been convinced it would be better for them to stay somewhere closer to the ground, as it would award them a quicker escape. Joe had hushed him, insisting the view would be worth it, and that upon the rare chance such a getaway would be required, he’d personally carry Nicky out to save time.

Of course, no view could compare to that which greets him when he steps past the threshold, already unlacing his boots before the door has even shut behind him. Joe could spot Nicky in a sea of thousands, could find him by the guide of his soul with his eyes closed; it is not quite so difficult to see him here, bustling about their small kitchen. Nicky likes to put a record on while he prepares food, and the music is magical and mournful, the lyrics winding around the room, echoed by his low humming. The air is filled with the sharp scent of peppers and garlic, the melody punctuated by the rhythmic grind of a porcelain pestle and mortar, which Joe had made as an anniversary gift for Nicky some time before, though neither could quite remember what exactly they were celebrating.

“Take a photo, habibi, it will last longer.” .

Joe laughs softly, absentmindedly wiping any excess grease from his hands on his denim overalls as he crosses their small apartment. “No image could ever capture your ethereal beauty, tesoro mio, the camera would shatter in my very hands, struck down by divine intervention.”

Nicky turns, his back leant against the countertop. There’s a smudge of red paste across his cheek that Joe follows with his thumb, nipping at the pad even as the bright scent of chili tickles his nose. “Angelo,” he whispers, reverent. Nicky is leaning into his touch before Joe has noticed that he’d moved, hands caressing each side of Nicky’s face with a grace reserved for holy things.

“You’re making Ojja,” Joe hums, pressing warm kisses to every plane of Nicky’s face that he can reach. “Oh, angelo, it is not just your face that the heavens carved from marble, it is your very heart.”

“Incurable,” Nicky mutters, hooking his thumbs in the back pockets of Joe’s overalls. “It has been a long week. I do not know about you, but I am missing our family greatly, and this is as close as I can think to having them here with us.”

“Love is that which makes a home, and your food is almost as sweet with it as you are.” Joe rests his forehead against Nicky’s, which is good as saying ‘I miss them too’.

“I always enjoy watching Booker’s face redden as he pretends the spices do not affect his delicate French sensibilities.” Nicky says, nonchalantly. Joe barks out a laugh, rough and warm.

“Mon amour,” Joe teases. “You’ll just have to make it for them when they return.”

Booker and Andy were both in Europe anticipating the repercussions of war, and Joe and Nicky were in America, as it was groundwork which often brought the more reliable information. They had created a lovely little home in a brick apartment near a dockyard where Joe played engineer, while Nicky established a presence in the neighbourhood, occasionally taking up work bagging at the local grocers a few blocks away to maintain appearances. They were bachelors, both orphaned at a young age, living together to save money - and it was working. No one batted an eyelid. The truth didn’t matter. History taught that people never stayed discontent in their circumstances for long, and they could feel conflict upon the horizon like the electricity of an oncoming storm.

Joe pulls back, pressing a kiss to Nicky’s hairline. “I am the luckiest man in the world.” He swipes his pinky along the ridge of the mortar, touching the tip to Nicky’s tongue. “Do you taste that?”

“Tastes like harissa.” Nicky points out.

Joe shakes his head, kissing the corner of Nicky’s mouth, chasing the heat. “That is joy, vita mia, that is life and love.”

“If I had known you would have returned so hungry, I would have packed you an extra sandwich.” Nicky pulls Joe in until their hips are pressed flush. “The ojja will not take long to cook. I was hoping to have a dance before dinner but perhaps we should eat while the sun is still high.”

“I would eat your food, stone-cold and seasoned with gravel, if it meant I could share the meal with you by my side.” Joe curls his hand against the newly shaved nape of Nicky’s neck. “A dance does sound quite lovely, though.”

“Then it is agreed.” Nicky presses a quick kiss to Joe’s cheek, the skin beneath warm and flushed. “What shall we dance to first? Any preferences?”

Nicky walks over to the gramophone, his hand curled around Joe’s without thought. The gramophone stands on a small table next to the window, on the sill of which sits a pot that is filled with whichever flower Joe had most recently procured for Nicky. The other day he had brought home roses from a local florist, which had cost a few dollars and gotten him a nice ribbing from the boys down the docks for being sweet on his mystery woman. It was all worth it for the shine in Nicky’s eyes when he brought them close to his face and took in their sweet scent, for the way he had whispered thank you against Joe’s mouth and the tender care in which he watered them each morning. When the flowers crumble, Joe will make potpourri of them, and their apartment will linger with the memory of the petals even as a new flower, a dahlia perhaps if he can find one that suits, takes pride in the sunlight.

“Something romantic,” Joe says, as though there is ever any other option.

Nicky hums, his focus on the small stack of records leant against the wall. Joe slips an arm around Nicky’s waist, his chin hooked over Nicky’s shoulder, pressing an idle kiss to his collarbone. Nicky has folded the sleeves of his linen shirt up to his elbows, his forearms warmed by the August sun and dusted with golden hairs. If he weren’t so preoccupied, Joe would have kissed from his elbow down to the pulse point of his wrist and across each finger tip.

The gramophone crackles as the needle spins, and then cheerful, warm jazz fills the room, carrying the voice of Annette Hanshaw: “you have a great way, an up-to-date way, of telling me you love me, it gives me such a thrill, I know it always will.”

Joe hums, taking a step back only to offer his right hand to Nicky, his left folded behind his back as he bows his head. “Nicolò.”

Nicky smiles, a tender and private thing, for Joe’s eyes only. “Yusuf.” The curve of his palm is a perfect fit against Joe’s open hand.

Joe presses a warm kiss against the ridges of Nicky’s knuckles. “It would be the greatest honour of my life to dance with you around our kitchen on this fine evening.”

Outside the window, a pigeon coos. Nicky’s head tilts. “While I feel it necessary to point out that I did ask you first, if I recall correctly, you professed the very exact thing last night.”

Joe, undeterred, draws on Nicky’s hand to bring him closer. “Then, perhaps you would do me the honour twice? You know, they invented music for lovers.”

Nicky’s eyebrows creep up, the corner of his mouth drawn up into a sly smile. “Yusuf, I’m not sure there is anything in existence which you don’t believe was invented for lovers. Everything from the moon, to a simple loaf of bread, to the game of chess.”

Joe undoes the top two buttons of Nicky’s shirt, leaving the front of his chest exposed, his collarbone protruding like a hawk’s wing. “Everything that I am, that I do, is borne from love.” He slips his hand beneath Nicky’s shirt, palm pressed over his heart. “Who would I be without it? Who would I be if I had not fallen for my beautiful enemy?”

Joe makes a pointed noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head just enough that his curls, when he ducks his head to press a kiss against Nicky’s sternum, brush against the underside of Nicky’s chin. “Every day that I wake up next to you is a good day, for I get to live it in your shadow.”

Nicky’s hands cradle Joe’s face, as though he is holding something precious, a great treasure worth revering.

“Yusuf.” Nicky tips his forehead against Joe’s, his lips brushing against the bridge of Joe’s nose.

He’d broken it the second day of their acquaintance, swung his arm wide with a force so great it sent Joe sprawling to the floor. Joe had laughed through bloody hands, his lips and teeth stained bright red. It was the first sign of fire that he’d ever seen in Nicky, and that same spark flickers behind Nicky’s eyes now.

“You have never been in my shadow.” Nicky whispers. “You have always been my sun.”

He draws Joe in for a deep kiss, stepping back and trusting that Joe will follow, and he always does - he’d once walked to the ends of the earth across burning sand without even knowing Nicky’s name. The rest is easy.

“If music was made for lovers as you so profess, then we must dance to it.” Nicky whispers against Joe’s cheek, letting his arms rest on Joe’s shoulders, his hands hooked loosely behind his neck.

They sway, from one side to the other, and it’s less a dance and more the flow of the record rising from within them, their bodies moving in time with the echo of their hearts. Joe clutches at Nicky’s elbow, fingers caught in the linen, soft against his worn touch. His other hand slips around to press against the small of Nicky’s back, at the bottom of his spine, where Joe had once run him through with a scimitar.

The gramophone skips, Nat King Cole’s rich voice filling the room. Nicky tips his head, his eyes half-lidded. Joe hums along, soothing his hand up Nicky’s arm and around his shoulder, his fingers tapping along the ridge of Nicky’s spine. Nicky hides his smile against the cut of Joe’s jaw, pressing a kiss to his pulse point, letting the warmth of Joe’s skin radiate around him, the scent of saltwater from the docks mixing with the orange notes of his cologne, at once familiar and calming.

“Would you sing for me, Nicolò?” Joe asks, his hands tracing secrets and lines against Nicky’s back. Nicky doesn’t protest about how his voice isn’t that great, because he knows it would be a waste of time, and besides that, he doesn’t mind.

“The melody haunts my reverie and I am once again with you,” His voice is low, and it cracks on some of the words, but he can feel Joe’s smile against his ear, knows his eyes are closed. He insists it helps him hear better. “When our love was new and each kiss an inspiration.”

Joe peppers the line of Nicky’s neck with half-open kisses, peeling the collar of his shirt back as far as he can, across his shoulder and down his chest, his breath ghosting across Nicky’s skin in huffs of heated air.

“But that was long ago,” Nicky’s voice drops to a whisper. “And now my consolation is in the stardust of a song.”

The sun has already begun to sink into the horizon. Nicky pulls back, admiring the way the sunlight casts Joe’s profile in shadows, caught in his air, reflecting off the gold in his eyes.

They’ll have to eat by candlelight tonight. Joe will love it.

[pinknerdpanda]

Reunited

Word Count: 3,530

Characters: Sam x Reader

Warnings: ANGST, fluff, a curse word or two...i mean, it IS me.

A/N: This is my (extremely late) entry for @atc74​’s Duets Reboot Challenge. Sorry I didn’t get it done sooner babes! Thanks for your patience! My prompt was the song “I Knew You Were Waiting” by George Michael and Aretha Franklin and I used some of the lyrics below. They are bolded. This is also the first in a long time that I have written Sam Winchester and I realized how much I missed him. This takes place between seasons 7 and 8 in a world where the awful Amelia didn’t exist. Flashback is in italics.

Beta’d by @shy-violet-soul​ and my twinny @hannahindie​ I love you dearly. Thank you for supporting me and reading my words and loving me.

gif not mine - x

Reunited

Sam Winchester knew the taste of victory; tangy and bittersweet, and somehow a bit stale. He’d fought and won so many battles he’s lost count, and even in the darkest of times, savored the flavor on his tongue like a memory. But this was not victory. This was agony.

He’d seen Dean die many times - a fact that still perplexed him after all these years. It was always the same; excruciatingly painful to watch and powerless to stop it. But even as Dean’s last breath drained from his lungs, Sam had hope. Hope that if there was something he could do - some spell or deal or alliance - Dean could come back to life again.  But Dean hadn’t died - at least not that he could prove. It was like he vanished into thin air. Nothing Sam had encountered up to that point could have prepared him for the realization that he was well and truly alone. 

Dean was gone. 

Leviathans, Dick Roman, Crowley, Cas’ betrayal; he could have handled it all and dealt with the fallout after the dust had settled as long as Dean was by his side. But he wasn’t and Sam couldn't. 

Sam felt hollow, a battered and crumbling shell of the man he’d once been. He found himself lurking in the darkness, consumed by the shadows of his old life. What the hell was he supposed to do? Go after him? All well and good if he’d had the slightest idea of where Dean had gone. Or was he supposed to continue the work his father started all those years ago? Dean or no Dean, the monsters remained. And as far as he could tell, no matter what he did - how much he sacrificed himself and his body - the monsters would always be there. So why should he try?

And so Sam stopped, allowing the numbness to overtake him instead. He was numb in a way that brought on thoughts of frigid winter evenings and toes nearly frostbitten. Numb in a way that was so much the opposite of the humid evening air that hung heavy around him. Sweat beaded against his hairline, dampened his undershirt and collected in places he’d rather not think too hard about. But the breathtaking summer heat did nothing to thaw the frozen rock inside his chest.

Long hours of aimless driving brought him to this town and when the familiarity settled on him, Sam frowned. Out of all the places in all the world how had he ended up here? There was a reason he’d planned to keep this place in the rearview mirror, but apparently his subconscious had disagreed.

Nothing had changed much in his years since high school. The same aged brick buildings loomed hauntingly around him as his feet carried him down what has once been a well-worn path. Ancient street lamps flickered helplessly above, their lights providing the bare minimum of defense against the darkness of night. 

Looking up, Sam checked his bearings as he brushed the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. If he remembered correctly - and if nothing had changed - Sam should be coming up on the shop that…

Sam’s internal monologue came to grinding halt as his eyes roamed over the figure in the window ahead of him. Surely not. It was his mind playing another in a long line of cruel jokes on him; it must be. How else could he explain the sight of her...here? 

She hadn't changed much that Sam could tell from this distance. Her hair was a little longer, but still the same shade of deep violet she had ways loved. Gauging from the fringed, lace duster, leggings, and boots, her affinity for black clothing hadn't changed either. A man approached her and Sam watched in awe as a smile bloomed on her lips; the very same one he'd fallen head over heels for long ago.

It was like the last 18 years were nothing more than a breath behind him. 

Before he realized it, Sam found his long legs had carried him closer to the shop; to her. His breath hitched and his heart jumped as he opened the door. 

Her lilting laugh sent chills down his spine, but the abrupt silence that followed made his hands shake. Her eyes nearly bulged from her skull and her dark purple lips parted on a bewildered gasp. The look shared between them seemed to linger for hours, both frozen in place as memories danced behind their eyes.

The man she’d been speaking with before cleared his throat and ducked his head. The sound shook Sam out of his haze enough to register the need to move from in front of the door so the man could pass. The bell tinkled as he exited, leaving them alone in a room thick with unspent tension.

“Sam,” she breathed. “Is that really you?”

Sam nodded, mesmerized by the way his name still sounded like velvet on her tongue. 

Hesitant steps brought her around the counter and mere feet from him. Chipped black nails dug into the skin of her palms as she clenched her fists and released. 

Sam smiled. He’d seen her face a million times in his head over their years apart, but time had slowly eroded the image he���d retained. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that his own memories had betrayed him, leaving him only a poor substitute of the exquisite beauty she was.

His heart thrumming erratically, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her before he could even process his own actions. She hummed, her own arms snaking around his waist and her face pressed against his chest. Sam’s head dropped, his nose pressed into her hair and he inhaled. 

Something inside him shifted then. Weeks spent hanging on by a thread, barely able to hold himself together enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other; pain, anger, hopelessness, exhaustion, fear - it all came crashing down on him in that moment. She held him as uncontrollable sobs shook his massive frame, her palms kneading soothing patterns against his back and soft, comforting words fell from her lips in a whisper.

Only once the tears stopped and his breathing returned to something resembling a normal cadence did he pull back. She smiled up at him with sad eyes for a moment before she untangled her fingers from the fabric of his shirt. Sam watched as she moved behind him, locking the door and flipping the “open” sign. When she finished, she grabbed his hand and he let her drag her through the shop and into the back room.

The room wasn’t large, but it fit a desk, couch, small fridge and some filing cabinets. She motioned for him to take a seat before grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and the box of tissues from the desk. She sat next to Sam, handing him a water and placing the tissues between them.

He chuckled, the sound watery to his own ears, and thanked her.

Silence lingered, but not in an uncomfortable way. Despite having not seen each other in nearly two decades, Sam found himself at ease with her as he’d once been. He felt safe.

“What brought you to town, Sam?” 

Long fingers played along the lid of his water as Sam huffed a laugh.

“I’m, uh,” he pursed his lips, eyes trained on the bottle in his hands. “I’m not exactly sure, to be honest. I just kind of started driving and ended up here.”

She hummed and Sam chanced a look at her. Her brows were drawn in up consideration and she chewed absently on her lower lip.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she mused, not looking at him. “But of all the places you could have wound up, you sure picked a pretty crap town.”

Sam laughed, the sound much closer to sincere than it had been in weeks.

“I don’t know, y/n. It’s not so bad.” He met her gaze. “Some of my favorite memories are in this place.”

Y/n smiled as she ducked her head. 

“What about you? I thought you were gettin’ the hell outta Dodge as soon as graduation was over?” Sam’s voice held a hint of teasing in his genuinely curious words.

Sighing, y/n sat back and tipped her head toward the ceiling. Sam wondered if it was the question in general that made her uncomfortable or the fact that it reminded her of the promise he’d broken. 

“I tried. Left for a while, but you know what they say. There’s no place like home.” Rolling her head toward him, she shrugged.

“That is what they say,” Sam echoed hollowly. He was in no position to empathize, having had no real home of his own. But he tried. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh don’t be, Sam.” She laughed, sitting back up and tucking a foot under her thigh. “I’m happy, for the most part.”

Sam nodded, unsure how to respond, but needing to address the guilt weighing heavy in his mind.

“Y/n, what happened...back then...I wish...” Sam began, but she waved him off. 

“Water under the bridge.” Her smile was relaxed and warm.

“No,” Sam shook his head, his eyes scanning the carpet fibers as though his thoughts were written there. “No, you deserved so much more. I never would have stood you up at prom, if I’d had a choice. I was furious with my dad for moving us that night. I begged him to let us stay one more night, or at least call you and explain, but there was nothing I could do. My family has always been a little...uh...nomadic. We never stayed in one place for too long, but it was my senior year, and Dad said it would be different…”  Sam shoved his fingers through his dark hair roughly.

“I know, Sam.”

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Not really.”

Y/n placed a hand on his forearm, drawing his attention to her. “I’m really sorry about your brother, Sam.”

Sam froze. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Your brother? Dean?” 

Sam nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And?”

Narrowing her gaze, y/n bit her lip, thoughtfully. “Did you happen to notice anything different about the store when you came in?”

“Am I having a stroke or something?” Sam stared at her, his face scrunched and his eyes wide. “What does the store have to do with Dean? And what does Dean have to do with prom?”

Y/n shook her head, chuckling lightly. She stood up, hand outstretched toward Sam. He looked between her offered palm and the amused expression on her lips. 

“Come on, I want to show you something.” Y/n smiled, tipping her head toward the door.

Sam took her hand and was surprised to find her actually succeeding in bringing him to his feet. He shot her a wry grin and she shrugged.

“I’m stronger than I look, Sam.” Winking at him, she pulled him back into the empty store. 

He had been so intently focused on seeing y/n that evening that he really hadn’t paid any mind to the interior. Looking around now, however, he realized how much things truly had changed.

“When my dad started this shop, it was a simple used book store.”

"Yeah, it's where we met," Sam blushed.

Glancing around, he spotted a familiar brown chair and the memory of that day came flooding back.

"It is." Y/n smiled.

Sam saw the flicker of something in her eyes and he guessed she was reliving the moment in her own head as much as he was.

The first day in a new school was never easy and Sam found himself seeking the comfort in the form of paper and ink and the musty smells of adventures waiting to be had. He’d seen the bookstore on his way to school that morning, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was just the place he was needing.

The overhead bell tinkled as he walked in. The sheer number of books crammed into every inch of the shelves lining the walls was incredible. It would take him ages just to find a book in this place, and Sam couldn’t have been more excited about the prospect. 

He quietly surveyed the shelves, trying to decide the best place to start his quest when his gaze fell on her.

She looked so serene with her nose buried in the yellowed pages of a worn paperback and legs sprawled sideways across an enormous, overstuffed brown chair. Sam recognized her from school earlier in the day; the shimmering violet hue of her hair, brilliant even in the dim lights of the store, was enough for her to stand out, but it was her eyes - wide and full of mischief and wonder - that he’d been drawn to first. 

His first instinct was to turn around and pretend he had never been there. But before he could, those same wide eyes found his and he froze.

“Hey! You’re the new guy, right?” Her inky black lips drew up in a heart-stopping smile. "I saw you at school earlier. I think we have a class together."

Clearing his throat once, and again for good measure, he introduced himself.

“My name’s Sam,” he grimaced at the way his voice cracked slightly around the single syllable of his name. “Sam Winchester.”

“Nice to meet ya, Sam! I’m y/n.” 

Y/n snapped her book closed and stood, tossing it in the now vacant seat. 

“Can I help you find something? First book’s on the house,” she winked at him.

Sam opened his mouth, intending to refuse the offer when a stocky, mustached man appeared in the doorway behind the counter. The man nodded at Sam before turning his attention to y/n, a gentle chiding expression washing over his face.

“Sweet pea, you’ve gotta quit saying that,” he tsked softly. “We can’t sell any books if you give them all away!”

Y/n’s face scrunched up in guilt, but Sam noticed the playful glint in her eyes that seemed to contradict her expression.

“Sorry, Daddy. Last time, I promise.” 

Sam stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to...I was gonna pay for…”

The man waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it, son. Y/n’s just got a big heart and I can’t exactly fault her for that,” he huffed a laugh and shook his head lovingly. “Just like her mother.”

Y/n cleared her throat and shook her head, a smile playing at her lips.

"Anyway, a few years back, before he passed, some folks came in asking about these strange texts. Dad was never one to pass up the chance to learn something new, so he researched it a bit. It took some time, but he was able to track down a copy for them.

“A week later, a husband and wife came in saying someone had told them we might be able to help them. Jump forward six months and our little used book shop had become a hunter’s library and spell apothecary. Need a hard to come-by text? Missing that one ingredient for a binding spell? Look no further.”

Sam’s jaw went slack as she spoke, his hazel eyes growing wider and wider. Looking around now, it all made sense. Tall shelves still lined the walls, but rather than tattered paperbacks and crumbling spines, the shelves held large, leather bound books, document boxes and an assortment of glass jars lined up neatly. The space above the door was littered with faint, though recognizable protection sigils and, looking closer, he found the window sills lined with salt.  Y/n gave his arm a gentle squeeze and continued.

“Imagine my surprise when I overhear a few people talking about Sam and Dean Winchester, the men the angels and demons fear,” she shrugged. “I asked around and heard all about your harrowing adventures. Starting the apocalypse, stopping the apocalypse, dying...like a lot. I kind of made it a habit to check up on you from time to time. It was strange because some days I felt just as close to you as we were in high school and others...it felt like there was this insurmountable mountain between us. Sounds kinda creepy saying it out loud, really. I can’t really explain it, but I always had this feeling that I’d see you again.”

Sam blinked, his mind desperately trying to make sense of what she’d just told him. Somehow y/n knew; about hunting, monsters, him. She knew. And at that realization Sam felt the tightness in his chest ease ever so slightly, the frost that encased his heart slowly ebbing away.

“So, all of that to say...I am really sorry about what happened to your brother.” Her brow furrowed as she met his gaze. “That Dick Roman was really aptly named, wasn’t he?”

Despite the confusion and the pain and the sheer absurdity of the whole situation, Sam laughed. Not the sad, pitiful sound he’d grown accustomed to making. No, Sam laughed. The sound rumbled through his chest and forced the dimple in his cheek to show. A small rush of warmth flooded his chest as he sucked in a breath, dabbing at the corners of his eyes.

“So you know, then? You know everything?” Sam eyed her.

“I mean obviously I don’t know everything, but thank you for assuming it’s possible that I could.” She nudged his shoulder playfully and grinned. “You flatter me, Sam Winchester.”

Sam shook his head, the gears in his brain still trying to click into place. “I can’t believe this. Any of it. I never thought I’d see you again, but now I’m here and you’re...I don’t have to make excuses or lie. You understand.” Sam frowns. “I wish I had known sooner. I have thought about you so many damn times over the years. I wanted to look you up, but I didn’t want to drag you into any of this. I wish I could go back to that day...”

Y/n stopped him.

“Listen. I don’t regret a single moment. Sure I can look back and see all those disappointments; prom, graduation. Any more, I just laugh. If any one thing had gone differently - if you’d convinced your dad to let you stay, or if you’d looked me up - I’m afraid the world would be an even darker place than it is now.”

Grabbing Sam’s hand, y/n squeezed as her eyes found his. He studied her gaze, surprised but relieved to see the mischief and wonder hadn’t waned over the years. But there was something else. Something Sam recognized, but couldn’t even begin to hope for; love.

“I believe in free will, Sam. But seeing you walk through those doors tonight? For a second it felt like we were drawn together through destiny.” 

The frozen pit behind his ribs thawed - little by little - as she spoke. All this time she was just out there, waiting until they met again. Waiting for him.

Sam cupped y/n’s face, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. Y/n’s eyelashes fluttered at his touch and she sighed, leaning into his palm. 

“Ever since Dean,” Sam paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes and steeled himself before looking at her again. Her gentle gaze grounded him further and he found his voice to continue. “Ever since he disappeared, I have felt so lost. Dean was all I had left and I didn’t think I could go on without him. And then I wound up here. Finding you, knowing you understand...it’s the first time I’ve felt anywhere close to being whole.”

Y/n placed her hand over his and turned her head to kiss his palm. 

“You don’t have to be lost any more, Sam. I can help you. We can find Dean together.”

Sam’s eyes burned at her words, at the promise she was offering him. “Y/n...I can’t ask you…”

Y/n cut him off with a press of her lips against his, he felt her smile into the kiss as his body went rigid. When she moved to pull away, he stopped her, his large hand cradling the back of her head and urging her closer. He kissed her back with everything he had, pouring out every emotion he’d felt in her absence from his life. She swallowed down every fear, pain, anger and frustration that Sam offered up.

When Sam broke the kiss, gasping for air, he found her smiling back up at him. Her eyes glassy and her lipstick smudged lips beautifully kiss-swollen, she traced his bottom lip with the tip of her finger.

“You’re not asking me to do anything, Sam. I’m offering.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged, this time in relief as the final dregs of ice melted away from his heart. As though she could sense his need, y/n wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. Sam pressed a kiss against her crown before she tilted her head back to look into his eyes.

“Welcome home, Sam.”

Like what you see? Want more? My SPN Masterlist is here, and MCU is here. Thanks for reading! :)

A/N 2: I am using my new and improved taglist. If you want to be added, see this post.

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[spectralscathath]

What Does It Mean, To Be Unyielding

The sky was never meant to fall. Mountains were not meant to crumble to dust in moments. The end of everything was not meant to be silent.

And yet it is.

The world was dust and ash under hands unable to fix it, and Elm had endured. She was not built to buckle or bow. She was supposed to be unbreakable, even when everything else around her is broken.

She is not the only one.

Ao3 Link

-------

She wakes up and it is quiet.

Just silence. A pale sky.

She forces herself to take stock of the situation. Her head rang like a bell’s toll, staring up at the sky as she watched dark smoke eat at the edges of the yellow sky.

She forces herself to move. She forces herself to sit up. Her vision goes dark as she does, vertigo sinking its claws into her as she nearly passes out again. She breathes through it, her vision clearing slowly, a strange unbalance lingering. She realises her arm is broken,  her bones shifting in protest in her right arm, her shoulder thrown out of alignment and her forearm crooked in a way that it wasn’t meant to bend.

She stared dully at her shoulder for a moment before she strips her jacket off, the pain there but distanced from her, her head too foggy to register anything of substance. The bone protrudes from her back, her shoulder joint having popped out of its socket.

She takes a breath, holds it as she places her left hand on the dislocated joint, and exhales sharply as she wrenches it back into place.

The pain hits her and she lets it out in a yell that she can't hear. Tears well and they fall. She doesn't fight them.

She uses her jacket to bind her bones, refusing to let her gaze linger on the aged scars that warp and melt the muscles of her right arm. She forces herself to stand, another dizzying wave striking her. She rides it out, looks around. She expects her breath to fog in the air, but it doesn't.

There are fires scattered everywhere, and they are doing the job of keeping the lethal cold at bay. She is surrounded by rubble. On one side, there is nothing but destroyed cities and smoke. Behind her, there is a mountain of destruction. Atlas had fallen, half-into the pit it had been lifted from.

Elm’s cheeks are hot, devastated brown eyes staring at the wreckage that had been her kingdom. Robyn had challenged her about what the kingdom was, if it was the people or the land they lived on. As if the two could be so easily separated. If a house burnt down, people were allowed to grieve what they lost. Atlas had been home for so many, Mantle had been home for so many, and all that was left was carnage. Elm's home was rubble now. All that she had now were memories, and she could only imagine it was the same for so many others.

Was she not allowed to cry for what was gone? Even if everyone had lived? And what if they hadn't? She didn't want to destroy Mantle. She didn't want Marrow to be arrested and treated like a traitor. She'd never wanted any of this. She hadn't known what else to do, so she'd tried to trust James.

And for what? Rubble? Ash? Smoke?

Clover was dead. Marrow was a turncoat. Harriet and Vine had left her. Robyn had yelled about an evacuation, using the staff.

She could only hope it worked.

She walks through the bones of Mantle, the fires growing thick around her until she reaches the epicenter of the explosion. There was nothing. Not even the ship that held the bomb was left. Vine and Harriet, Robyn and Qrow- did they survive? She didn't know. She couldn't know. She could only fear the worst.

The worst was that she was the last one standing, once again.

She remembers how she got the scars on her arm, she remembers the Grimm, she remembers SBLE.  She watched her team, her friends , be torn apart and devoured right before her eyes. She remembers Centinel acid staining her arm as she fired Timber's missiles at the cavern roof, bringing the whole mountain down onto the Grimm nest.

She remembers the quiet afterwards as she woke up. A pale sky.

She couldn't seem to die.

Not then. Not now.

She wipes her eyes. She’d allowed herself too much of a breakdown, and she had to do something. Anything. She hasn’t seen Timber since her fall, nor Marrow after Robyn and Qrow moved him when he was unconscious. His aura had been broken. She hopes he had gotten out, that they all had. No one should have to die in a falling city.

She closes her eyes and focuses her attention inwards, reaching for the copper fires of her soul. There were a few barely kindled embers, not enough to last her. She shouldn’t be reckless and use her aura up now, the smart thing to do was to let the fires of Mantle keep the Solitas chill at bay until she had more to draw on.

So she walks. She doesn’t know what she was looking for, she doesn’t want to find survivors, she didn’t want to find bodies, and there wasn’t anything else worth looking for. She finds herself drawn out of Mantle, towards the wreckage that was Atlas, metal and earth twisted together.

This was her home . All this pain and devastation, all this loss, was it really how it had to go?

She begins to hike up through the mountain that was once a kingdom, the air too still and too quiet. She recognised this street. She’d walked it a million times on her way to work. She could see Atlas Academy from here, the spire split in two, crushing everything under it. She knows those streets. If she’s right- those are the streets she grew up on.

She moves in a daze as she finds her street, staring at the Academy that crushed Hestia’s Avenue, and so many others. Her parent’s bakery is in there somewhere, crushed to nothing. Did they get out? Were they safe?

She can’t even check. She almost buckles, there and then, but she can’t. She has to keep going. Even if there isn’t anything to keep going for, she has to. If only because no one else could, and she had to keep going for their sakes.

She walks along the fallen spire to Atlas Academy. If nothing else, she might be able to find medical supplies, rations, something to help recharge her aura faster. She doesn’t know how to keel over, she knows how to survive, and she needs to think logically and salvage what she can to do that.

The Academy doors are blocked by collapsed walls when she reaches them, and she has to take a second to stop herself from doing something foolish. She’ll find something else.

On the other side of the Academy, it’s like part of the earth has been ripped away, sheared off and fallen to the side. She can see the military base that wound through the landmass, too dangerous to traverse in her weakened state. One wrong step and she could fall or die.

She has no choice. She has to turn back. She remembers she fell from the hanger. She’d tried to catch herself on her semblance, root herself in place, but the floor had been so damaged that it didn’t matter in the end.

She should try and find the hanger, or the area around it. She might find her weapon, and if nothing else that would be a comforting weight on her back.

Away from Mantle burning, the cold bites and stings her skin, trying to dig under and nestle like a parasite. Elm shivers as she walks, her makeshift sling not helping to keep her warm. Perhaps she should have followed uniform regulations a bit more closely.

She walks off Atlas until she’s found herself back in the warmth of Mantle’s fires, many of them starting to burn out, and starts her hike, picking a direction she hadn’t been in yet and hoping that it’s the correct choice. If she looks beyond the city she can see the tundra stretch endlessly, untouched by the calamity. Soon enough the snow would set in, and Atlas would be gone, buried under ice and forgotten, like so many of the Solitas expeditions in the past.

Her legs burn from exertion, exhaustion settling on her shoulders like a cloak as her throat is dry, the sharp air harsh as she breathes, but she won’t let it stop her. She can’t. She has to find her warhammer, supplies, shelter, at least until her aura’s full enough that she can set out. She won’t die here. She won’t stay in a dead city. Maybe if she walks long enough, she can reach the ocean, find a boat, a ship, the long range radars had transports. She could find one and go to Argus. Tell everyone what happened.

She finds an airship crashed on the ground in one street, Atlesian Knights sprawled around it like bodies. This must be the ship that fell when Atlas tilted, when her team left her. When Robyn and Qrow had gone after them. Why did blowing up Mantle matter so much to Harriet? Why did any of this have to happen in the first place.

She finds Timber, and she nearly sobs in relief. The metal is scuffed and scratched, but as she clips Timber to the back up hook on her belt, the weight feels like home.

She’s in no real shape to wield it with any of her usual grace, much less to fire her rockets without her semblance to anchor her there, but Timber was her life, an extension of herself, and she felt incomplete without it.

She sees no sign of Marrow. He must have gotten out. There’s no signs of anything alive, except for her.

She walks around the base of Atlas, the smell of agitated dust filling her nose as she gets close to the crater that the city had fallen into. She supposes there must have been some sort of explosion on impact, it certainly looked like there was destruction galore.

She spots a flicker of blue light, during her hike, and it catches her attention. Is that Dust? A holoscreen? Her scroll was confiscated by Qrow, perhaps she could at least try and see if there was any way she could get a message out.

She walks and then she sees it, torches that still burn in their grates with blue fires, even in all the destruction the flames remain lit. She grabs one, she’ll need light when the sun eventually goes down, and if these are still burning, burning cold , then they’re a better choice than anything else.

She looks up, breath catching in her throat as she sees the gouge in Atlas’s side, hanging over her like a guillotine blade. Inside she sees geometric shapes and a glint of brilliant gold. The Vault.

The damage reached that far inwards? What had those kids done ?

She holds her torch high as she turns. There wasn’t much to be salvaged here. She had to go somewhere else.

She spots a gun on the ground. The metal is ebony, patterned with swirling silver filigree.

She drops the torch, the flames hissing gently as they remain lit.

One half of Due Process is light as she picks it up, and she starts searching. James. If anyone else could have survived the fall of Atlas, it would be him. He was just as sturdy as she was, maybe even more so. He’d been acting erratically, but they were still allies. She was still loyal to him.  

“James!” She yells, voice ragged and rough as it tears from her like a curse. “James, where are you?” Please, she didn’t want to do this alone.

The silence chokes her in response. She doesn’t have a holster, all she can do is hold Due Process as she looks around. She won’t put it down. Dread uncoils in her chest, fleeting hope at risk of being ripped away.

She sees the gun he had created, torn in half- no, cut in half, the slash was too neat for it to be an accident. She walks over with her hand clenched around his gun, her knuckles going white as it shakes in her grip.

Her heart shatters in her chest like a diamond hit at just the right angle, so thoroughly she knows she’ll never heal it again, and she crumples beside his body.

James’s face is finally peaceful, even with his body twisted in ways it wasn’t meant to. His dark blue eyes stare, reflecting the pale sky with an unseeing gaze. She doesn’t want to look too long, to take in the details, but her eyes are drawn to the white of his jacket, to the red that blooms over his heart.

That wasn’t caused by his fall. The stab wound is too thin, too surgical, too precise.

Winter had been by his side when he’d sent them away. If Marrow had turned on them, if he had been free to turn traitor… He wasn’t the only one.

James was dead, and just like her, he’d been left to rot.

Her hand shakes as she drops Due Process, reaches to close James’s eyes, and that is what breaks the final part of her. Ugly sobs tear claw their way free as salt stings on her face, and she is so tired of trying to get back up, of trying to keep fighting, because what is the point when there is no one left to fight for? Clover, James, SBLE, everyone was dead, or gone, or they’d left her, and maybe they were right to, if she was so useless she couldn’t even protect the people she loved more than her own life.

She kneels there until the pale sky goes dark, until the fires of Mantle have burnt out, until she has no tears left to shed. The sky is clear, and above her is a million stars, finally free to shine, unhindered by the light of Atlas.

Elm looks up at them as they paint stories in constellations, and she thinks about how James knew every single one by heart. She thinks about shared missions with Clover, tucked away in a tent in a blizzard, trading stories of their own as they wait out a snowstorm. She thinks about how they were gone now, how they’d been stabbed in the heart by people they thought they could trust, and she wishes that it was her instead.

She hears a whisper of fabric, a gentle rustle that drags over the ground, and she accepts her fate, bowing her head as she concedes. How could she be so foolish to think that she was the only one to survive.

“I respected him, you know.” Salem’s voice is soft as a shroud. “James Ironwood held a determination that comes around once in a lifetime. It was a shame to see my Ozma waste it so thoroughly.”

“If you’re going to kill me, kill me.” Elm spits, brown eyes vicious and protective as she glares at her, because she won’t have this witch say another word about James. She doesn’t deserve to say his name. “Don’t just stand there and talk.”

Salem raises a brow, and Elm doesn’t have it in her to be afraid. The Queen of Grimm looms large, her hands folded regally before her, a monolith untouched by time. There’s no word to describe her presence, she simply Is, and Elm wonders how they ever could have hoped to beat her.

“I confess,” Salem is studying her now. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to have survived. I have been in devastation such as this countless times, and no one ever does. You must be very strong.”

The word dug into Elm like a barb, twisting and tearing. If she was so strong then why didn’t she stop this? “You’re wrong.”

“Then perhaps you’re lucky instead,” Salem muses, and Elm has to bite the inside of her cheek to ward off the grief that punches through her.

“Shut up.” Elm growls, choosing anger over pain. Her hand finds Due Process, weakened fingers wrapping around the gun. Timber would be too obvious.

“Dr Watts escaped, of course,” Salem converses as though they’re talking about the weather, and Elm hates it, she hates being toyed with like a cat played with a mouse. “He offered to give me a ride back to Evernight, can you imagine? How pedestrian, to ride in an airship. I’m almost curious.”

If snapping won’t work, Elm chooses silence, setting her jaw stubbornly as she glares.

Salem’s lips curve, her smile on the knife’s edge between dainty and alluring, and it makes Elm feel sick. “From what I recall, Cinder has chased Ruby Rose and the Winter Maiden through those portals to Vacuo. The staff is powerful indeed, it seems. It’s no matter. Vacuo was my preferred goal, originally. It seems I will be returning to my preferred plan.”

“So why attack Atlas?” Elm asks, trying to figure out what she was missing. Why was Salem telling her all of this in the first place?

“An attack of opportunity,” Salem elaborates freely, the hem of her dress dragging over the ground as she walks closer. Elm’s finger rests on the trigger of Ironwood’s gun as Salem continues. “When I heard that my Ozma had placed both the staff and the lamp in such close proximity, I couldn’t help myself. I try not to act in avarice, but it seems I succumbed to that particular vice. It’s no matter. Soon enough I will have what I desire.”

“You won’t win,” Elm snarls on instinct, but she wasn’t so sure she believed it. She’d believed in James, when he’d said he had a plan to stop Salem. She’d believed in a lot of things, and all of it had failed. Who was protecting the relics now? The Staff was in Vacuo, guarded by Shade Academy and a bunch of turncoats and teenagers. They’d protected the Staff, sure, but at what cost? A kingdom? If they continued on their goal, wreaking destruction in the name of saving everybody, then eventually all Salem would have to do was pluck the relics from the rubble of the four kingdoms.

Salem smiles wryly at her, gliding closer, and Elm strikes. She fires Due Process, the black gun barking as she pulls the trigger again and again. Salem soaks each bullet up, bone white skin splitting as the force of each shot knocks her back, but she doesn’t fall.

Due Process clicks and keeps clicking, the chamber empty.

Salem heals, because she can’t be killed, why was Elm even trying when she couldn’t be killed? “Are you done?”

Elm’s hand shook as she lowered it, her last stand futile. Salem wasn’t anything else but an inevitability, it seemed.

Salem hums in interest. “Even now, you fight, when you’ve lost everything. You refuse to die as much as I do, it seems.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Elm rasps, voice on the verge of giving out.

“Tell me, what would you do for him?” Salem gestures at James, and Elm can’t bring herself to look at him again. “He died, and for what? A few children’s whims? A meagre attempt to prolong what they cannot halt? He will be remembered as a monster, as a traitor. He will be the villain of the story those children will tell.”

“No,” Elm shakes her head in defiance of the thought. “He’s not a monster. He wanted to do what was right- he just lost his way. They betrayed him.” They betrayed her. She’d trusted them and they treated her like she was a mindless thug, an automaton with no thoughts of her own.

“They did.” Salem tilts her head. “So why is it that traitors get to live on and tell his story, when they were the ones who placed the sword in his heart in the first place? That’s not fair.”

It wasn’t. It wasn’t right. “If they had just trusted us from the start- we gave them everything, how could they lie to us like that?” Clover was dead because of them. James was dead, and they’d paint him as something he never was meant to be.

“You gave them your trust, and they broke it.” Salem draws closer, kneeling down to brush hair from James’s forehead. Elm doesn’t stop her. Why was it that an immortal nightmare showed more respect to him in death then everyone else had in life? “They killed James. They caused all of this. I certainly didn’t. All I wanted was the staff and the lamp. Everything is gone, because of them. And they left you behind to deal with it.”

Elm’s shoulders heave with a sob that had nothing left to fuel it. Her team, the ace ops, they’d just left her. Why? Wasn’t she worth even untying? They were meant to watch each other’s backs. Maybe it was what she’d deserved, leaving James alone with Winter.

“Perhaps they didn’t think you’d survive.” Salem contemplates, rising once more to her full height. “They certainly underestimated you, if so.”

“No one was meant to survive this.” Elm really was expendable, wasn’t she?

“But we did.” Salem extends a hand down, her porcelain fingers embroidered with dark veins. “You are like me, in that respect. You’re unbreakable.”

Elm stares at the offered hand, and she finally realises that Salem won’t kill her. Her brown eyes go wide as the implication hits, flicking up to Salem’s blood-red gaze.

Salem smiles like she’s giving her a gift. “There’s nothing for you here. Come with me, and we can rewrite the story they’ll tell of Atlas. You can show those children what their thoughtless actions have wrought.”

The thought is tempting in a way it shouldn’t be. Elm reaches, hesitates.

Salem’s eyes gleam with victory. “Don’t die here. Live on for those who have fallen. No one else will fight for them now.”

Elm takes her hand, engulfing cold fingers in a warm grip. Salem pulls her to her feet with strength that belies her slender frame, and Elm realises she’s taller, like always.

It’s almost funny.

Salem’s grip tightens on Elm’s hand and orbs of light swirl around their joined hands, sparkling in every colour of the rainbow. Elm feels something wash over her skin like water and air all at once, not quite warm and not quite cold, and for a moment she aches as it settles on her broken bones, but then the pain is gone.

She pulls her right arm from the sling she’d made, the warped scarring still there but the bend in her forearm fixed, as if by- oh. Magic. Obviously. Her aura feels full, like a blazing hearth as opposed to the few smouldering coals it had been, and she summons it forward, copper light rippling across her skin like waves as she becomes indestructible again.

Salem smiles at her as she lets go of her hand, her calm smile veiling what looks like delight. “I can do far more than merely destroy. Tell me your name.” It’s not a question.

“Elm Ederne.” She doesn’t list her rank. There’s no point in that now. The military she fought for was over. She’d made her choice.

Salem commits it to memory. “Well then, Elm. Shall we be off? There is much to be done.”

Elm reaches down to pick up James’s gun, her arms bare as she lets her makeshift sling fall to the ground. Due Process fits in her hand, and it feels wrong to hold someone else’s weapon but it feels right because it was James who carried it first. She can’t leave it behind. She can’t leave him behind. She won’t let him be forgotten.

The silver detailing is beautiful as it swirls over the ebony metal, and Elm nods to herself. She falls into step behind Salem, and it doesn’t feel like the wrong choice. She is going to make sure that everyone who left her, turned on her, that they’ll see that she won’t be brought down so easily.

“What are your orders, Ma’am?” She wouldn’t yield again.

[gukptune]

Pairing: jimin x reader, member x reader

Genre: angel!au, angel!jimin, angelhunter!reader, fallen angel!member, unrequited love?

Warnings: explicit language, gore, unhealthy sibling relationship, funny business, loads of sexual tension, eventual smut

Summary: only once in a blue moon do an angels fall from the skies, to the luck of a young angel hunter an angel fell right into her hands.

Words: 6.6k+

Note: This has been in the works for the longest time!!! This is a multiple members x reader, but the second member is revealed in the story! I’ll add them to the tags a few days after the release, spoilerss. I hope you guys will like it, it’s very original (i hope).

The crunching of snow, crumbling at the heel of your shoes. The pure white earth blending with the light blue sky of the early morning, the only sign of ground being that of the overgrown Oak trees, bare of leaves with only some stringy twigs remaining. With the occasional cuties running across the ground and little furry creatures, lightening your mood by the minute.

The crisp wind slicing the bare skin of your cheeks. Your fingertips tightening around the leather wrap of the basket in your hand.

Skipping over the protruding roots of the Oaks, you make your way towards the far creek, far enough for your heels to start aching. The wisps of your hair brushing past your cheeks in strange patterns, as if it was getting rougher. Giving you a sense of unease. You faced the direction of which the wind originated letting the air rush past your ears as you watched the obscurity in the distance.

It looked like nothing special to the usual eye, but you weren’t usual. If you were just anyone else, you’d just assume it was some bird flying in a strange circle and you would have gone about your day. A sinking feeling maybe had found itself within you, was it really that time again?

Instantly, you forgot about the basket and your search for the pollen, it wasn’t as important now that you’ve seen that.

You ran like your life depended on it back towards Hearth. As soon as you reached the gates your fellow mates faces twisted with confusion at the usually calm collected girl running like a crazed witch ablaze.

“Brother! Brother!” You yelled, as you reached the castle’s courtyard, hoping to get a sense of his direction. Within an instant one of the hunters raised his finger in the right direction. You thanked him quickly running into the left wing, he must be in the library.

Blasting the damned door open, you scurried about. Whipping your head around, you finally see the spot in which his dark hair illuminated by the large window. He’s completely covered in thick fur, making your nose flare but you couldn’t think too much of it now. Your tapping heels quivered his ears enough to make him expect your arrival but the look on his face changed when he sees how distressed you looked.

“What happened—”

“I saw one, it fell in Ivory Orchard—well not really. I was near it and it was falling east from the direction of Hallow Creek,” You spit out, catching your breath with your hands on your knees bracing yourself.

Your brother’s eyebrows cocked, “Are you sure?

“Yes! I’m sure, Taehyung—you know it was suppose to happen weeks ago, it’s here now,” You told him.

The look on his face was doubt and worry, of course, you had just given him hope for the season. It had been slow and well, it was about time. You’ve all been lacking in game.

“I’ll get the Guild out,” Taehyung got up, dropping his book on his seat as he pushes past you without a glance.

You were fuming, knowing damn well what he meant, “The Guild?”

“Yes, if you saw one there’s always bound to be more than one,” He responds, marching towards the main hall with you trailing behind him.

He was walking fast, and you were walking even faster than him. Managing to get in front of him you scoffed, “I found it.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter if you’ve seen him, y/n, only matters when you catch one,” His eyes burned into yours.

Grunting you made your way past him, “So I’ll go fucking get it.”

Before you could get far, he roughly grabbed you, pulling you back, “You’ve never caught one, shit, you’ve never even fucking seen one up close Y/n. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Neither have you.” Friendly rivalry wasn’t something that ran in your family, it was rather brutal. You all wanted to be the epitome, the best. Never given the chance yet now was that time.

You didn’t understand his anger, you gave him information, if there were many why would he be worried that he wouldn’t have the kill.

“Y/n, look at yourself. You’re kidding yourself if you think you’d actually kill one of them.”

“Look at you, we both know I’m more hunter than you are—Father’s said it, Mother’s too fucking nice to tell you the truth,” You spat.

Reality was hard on him, you know that. Since childhood you’ve excelled past him. It was humiliating, you knew it. Whilst you were praised for your talents, Taehyung was considered a waste. You were twins, they considered you the blessed twin thinking that you excelled past many because you got all your Father’s talent leaving none for your twin, making him the lesser.

Your parents never treated you guys differently, but neither was your father a liar. He was honest, to the point, wouldn’t bullshit whatsoever, whenever Taehyung would slack, he’d get in trouble. You never thought Taehyung would ever grow into a hunter, you never thought he wanted to be one. You two used to share a bedroom where he’d constantly be reading, dreaming and drawing. He’d follow you on herb hunts to merely draw the flowers, he was strong, physically but he couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

During your physical maturity he passed out seeing the red stains on your bedsheets, he also cried thinking you were going to die. You were close, as close as any twin could be until he could finally understand the stares and murmurs he’d get about being the lesser twin. It was then, when you were both sixteen when he broke away finding his own group of friends and leaving you alone. You didn’t seek friendship, neither did you try.

Your brother became his own person, of course many would still talk when you needed to stand together side by side with your Father but otherwise, he was his own man. A man many women lusted for and well, had. He became a true man-whore. Picking women like they were toys he could discard, one of the reasons why you preferred being away from him. That and his disgusting friends, none of which were worthy enough to be called hunters.

He kept his mouth shut, his eyes dropping towards your shaking hands. You knew he can’t stand in your way. Pushing past him you rushed to your bedroom to ready up. Gathering all the gear you’d need, gathering your thoughts for the first time—a lifetime of training to finally kill—

An angel.

The long day had drained into a long night, teams of what few hunters existed unearthed the area. Ripping apart the little greenery and even threatening the villagers around. You rolled your eyes at their attempt, of course the people around here despised your kind—mostly out of fear and hatred.

Hunters, they should be grateful. The kingdom does nothing to protect them, only the Hunters do the dirty work, getting paid little for it, leading Hunters like yourself to sell your catch to others that would pay a high price for it. Including, alchemists who’d used the parts for their craft, or wealthy nobles who’d consumed them for holistic beliefs. Or if desperate you’d even trade them to witches.

Of course, many hunters lurked for different hunts, you were the most daring kind. Angel Hunters, hunting the feathered that fell from the sky during a blue moon. They’d all fall the same time and scatter around the world for safety, their safety whilst causing chaos to your world. They’re of high priority to the royals and rich, they love to hang their precious wings on their walls for status. Getting their asses kissed by those that desire to be them as they gloat about their hunt, eluding the fact that you, angel hunters like you, get drenched in blood getting those pretty wings for them.

As much as you hated angels, you hated those people way more.

The snow had started to level, stomped on by your people. You had lost hope at this point, you weren’t going to get that angel, over the hill you could see your brother ordering men around to find the angel. They’ve found a feather, so now they’re determined.

Most Angel Hunters were men, they could handle their strength easier, it was just the truth yet the rare females were always stronger, if we inherit it that is. You weren’t going to come out this far again anytime soon in this weather if you hadn’t thought it would be the right chance to finally get that pollen, before it’s all gone.

Huffing you trudged over towards the ravenous creek, known to have killed many little children from neighbouring villages apparently. Good, you didn’t have to worry of teeny devils getting in your way, you’d gladly push them into the water in fact.

The red pollen plant popped clearly against the white snow, you fell on your knees, deep in snow as you eyed the plant trying to get a sense of a good one. Needing a healthy, juicy one to properly extract. Turning around you grabbed your bag and pulled out a small drawstring bag, lined inside with leather and wool on the outer. Leather to keep the plant from getting into the fabric, with edition from the wool keeping it all dry. You continued to pick at all the pollen you could.

It was strangely serene, the sound of rolling water and the occasional chirping from birds. If only you could sit here forever, if only that wasn’t extremely boring.

Getting off your bum, began to get back, eyeing a large group of pollen, excitement filled you as you ran towards it. One of your hands, trying to wisp it all up, causing a stain on your bare skin, your eyes widening in shock as the stain began to drip off you onto the dusted white snow illuminated by the night sky.

What—

This wasn’t pollen. It was blood, it wasn’t just any blood, fresh blood. At this point in the season and time, no animal was out hunting. It was hard to believe at first that it was blood, but the smell was enough to secure that thought. No more second guessing, it has to be.

Your head whipped around, looking for any signs of more blood, hopefully a trail. The damned thing lost what seemed like a ‘death approaching’ load of blood.

A thrill shot through you, a trail. Not just any, a trail any animal could smell from far away.

Instantly, you rushed towards the droplets. Red and fresh, hard to see in the darkness but reeks enough to tell you it was close.

You knew this area well, you knew everywhere very well. Thanks to your talented twin who’d sketch maps and locations all the time, you managed to remember most of it, without his permission of course. You could only think of one place it would be hiding in.

There it was—whimpering.

Heavy breathing.

Your heart raced, somehow in the tiniest place in your head you wished it wasn’t an angel, hoping it would be anything but that, yet there in the thorny bushes circling(circling) around a bare space where a large white oak once sat before lightening took it down. Approaching it, you gripped the blade in your waist. Unsheathing it and twirling it in your hand to point in its direction. Within the ring of bushes, you saw something over the thorns. Stealthily you hopped over the bush, landing without a sound. Seemingly your previous skills worked wonders in this case, you were used to doing dirty deeds for others with enemies.

You circled the white fluff covering the ground, its feathered covering it from danger but also from knowing of approaching danger like yourself. Your heart raced, you felt like it was beating out of your chest at this point. Choking you up slightly, beating at the base of your throat. Your chest heaving trying to keep yourself calm.

Calm like the wind.

Finally getting around to a point where you could see light hair peeking out of the large wings. A weighted feeling filled you, it was just like you, looked like you. Human but winged, you blinked away your thoughts, they weren’t the right things to be thinking right now, those things were scums.

Before your feelings could get in the way of duty again, you lifted the blade to strike at it, where it would kill within an instant. With your body ready to strike a twig snapping underneath your feet causing light coloured eyes to blink into life.

A gasp left your lips as its wings feathered outwards, pushing it back away from you within an instant. As the wings spread apart it revealed the being that hid underneath the soft surface. Its eyes ripped apart with a shriek spilling from its lips.

The being scrambled towards the far end, pushing itself into the vines of the thorns and razor-sharp leaves, visibly leaving dents into its wings—feathers puffing through the air.

You hovered over it, trying your hardest to focus on your intentions, gripping the hilt of your knife so hard your hand could literally turn red. As you took in its physical attributes you saw it all.

The angel’s pure white lashes over its light eyes glimmering in the moon lit night, pupils directing its gaze towards the glistening dagger in your hand. Its bare chest heaving as it finally meets your gaze.

Your breath hitched as you could feel your heart tighten at the thing in front of you, seemingly so innocent, pure, nothing like you were raised to believe. It didn’t seem to be a shell filled with evil but rather, a terrified, frail, losing, prey.

Its white skin covered with scratches, blood, even dirt. Snow peppering on the ends of its relatively messy hair, as a flake falls right on the end of its button nose, you sneered causing your prey to whimper, not truly from its attempt to duck but from its strained movement.

As it laid on its side, you laid eyes on the palm that grasped its waist, holding onto a large wound, dirtied with twigs and grass. Its bare feet kicking even though it did nothing to get up, it was pathetic, even sad how hard it was trying but in the end it does nothing to help.

You stepped closer to it, blinking towards it, finding a spot for you to strike. It squinted in pain, its mouth shivering as it managed a few words, “Please—I—I won’t hurt you.”

It spoke the language you do and for some odd reason you didn’t expect that. Of course, you’ve heard the tales, gotten the lectures and studies about Angels but to finally be in front of one and getting the information firsthand was just—different.

“You can’t hurt me even if you tried,” You spat, narrowing your eyes at the angel’s wounds. It took note, nodding as it lets out a deep breath seemingly spacing out.

Its head whirling, as its eyes kept drooping.

You couldn’t help but feel sympathetic, but you couldn’t show it, “Gosh, from all the tales I’ve been told to fear those like you—you don’t live up to your reputation angel.”

It blinks, puffing its cheeks before responding, “Fear me? I don’t—I’m sorry?”

You cocked your head with confusion, maybe the thing was losing braincells, “Don’t play dumb.”

The look on its face was enough to answer that. You shook your head pointing your blade at it, “Your kind fall from the sky to disturb the peace on our lands. No one in our world believes the folklore that was told to us as gullible children, that ’angels are messengers of god’ if anything you all serve the devil.”

Its eyes widened with disbelief, murmuring to itself. Pulling itself together it looked to you, “Is that what you believe? That we’re descendants of the devil?”

Its eyes watered. You couldn’t believe it, it must be acting, faking it for your sympathy maybe it would survive. Or it was stupid.

“I don’t believe in much of what they say, I believe in what I see—”

“And do you see the devil?” It cuts you off, “Please, we’re here to help.”

“Help with what exactly, it’s been centuries since your kind was valuable to us in terms of ‘help’ let’s just say—” You dropped to your knees, your hand striking your blade onto the end of the angels wing causing it to shriek out in pain.

“—nobles value your kind for reasons that you’d rather not know of.”

It nods, knowing that it’d survive longer agreeing than fighting you.

“You’re one of those angel hunters…aren’t you?” Its voice wavering, tears ran right down its face now, dropping all over its bare chest and—thighs.

Yours eyes looked down subconsciously, seeing exactly what you didn’t intend on looking at. You looked away, blade still plunged into the angel’s wing. Its shaking hand hovered over your own, suddenly it drops onto your skin. The angel’s hand was cold and delicate over your torn-up knuckles and broken nails.

It saw the hesitation in you, with every step you doubted. It wasn’t stupid at all. It read you, it understood you. It showed this, “We aren’t bad—we’re brought down here to help you all. We’re just messengers of heaven we have no ill thought or even the means to do such bad things.”

You didn’t want to listen to it, not at all. “Please—”

Its cries struck within your core.

“Then what are you here to do, angel.” As much as you didn’t want your heart to win against your head it always managed to. You blankly stared awaiting a response from the feathered being.

He breathes deeply before his eyes sank into your own, “To teach what can’t be taught through violence and pain.”

An overbearing weight on your shoulder told you it was a mistake, the little devil on your shoulder said to just stab him in the back right now—right through his heart—the back of his head through his eye sockets.  

But you couldn’t even imagine doing that, fuck, what was wrong.

You felt pathetic, like a failure. All your life you trained to finally lay eyes on your prey, to kill him and take his wings like the savages you were supposed to be. But you can’t, it felt so wrong. Your skin crawled, itched, grew hives thinking of it. That feeling in your chest, squeezing tightly within you had just made you the weakest link of all, a hunter who couldn’t hunt.

Here he was, the angel you thought to kill, walking in front of you with your overcoat covering him and his large wings. From afar he merely looked like an extremely pale boy with glittery hair and features, walking barefoot. His wings wouldn’t retract, he said from his injuries he can’t make himself hide it, he needed to heal first. What were you even doing?

He would look back every now and then, was he making sure you weren’t going to kill him or whether you’re still following him. You were guiding him to your home, you chose to be behind him to get a view of him and whatever upcoming dangers. You didn’t tell him another reason was to keep him where you could see, you didn’t trust him, not fully. He had his way with words, somehow so eloquent with his words and so convincing, maybe it was one of his traits, lying.

You decided to take him the long way that would allow you both to arrive behind the castle at Venandi Hallows, you weren’t about to drag an angel right through the front gates into the training ground for all the hunters who trained after dark to jump him and neither were you going back the same way you came to face your twin and have him see what you’ve decided to do, gosh he would be so angry, disappointed, he wouldn’t believe himself.

The angel cradled your coat around himself like a child, as he padded through the snow, the closer you got to home the more nervous you became. Hopefully no one would be out the back at this moment in the night.

“Is this the place?” His voice echoed, dragging you back to reality.

You blinked at the view ahead, nodding, “Yes, it is. We better be quick unless you want to die.”

He looked back at you, giving you a visible full nod as he side stepped for you to lead. You didn’t look him in the eye as you passed him, even feeling his radiating heat, must’ve been an angel thing which would explain how he was able to withstand the freezing weather with nothing on and not get hypothermia or well, die.

Your bedroom was the only place you knew as safe, no one would dare walk in unannounced. It was also further up the tower than most other bedrooms, the only problem being your brother who might’ve been in his room across your own.

For safe measures you locked the door as secure as you could, for some reason you felt a sense of possessiveness over the angel. The angel that now, still draped with your raven black coat, sat on your cotton sheets. He feels at the fabric underneath him, his gentle small hand brushing over it with such curiosity.

“What am I supposed to do now,” You mumbled.

The angel heard you. His eyes watch you pace back and forth around your room with such worry. You could feel his burning eyes. He lets out a squeak before he seals his lips shut, he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know if he could. You pause, looking over at him to lock eyes with him.

His chest freezes mid breath, he doesn’t even blink, staring back at you.

“You wanted to say something, angel.”

The angel nods, taking a deep breath before he responds, “I apologise for putting you in this position.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is. You didn’t need to help me, I don’t know why you did but I thank you… for saving my life. I owe my entire existence to you, I shall serve you until your last breath.”

That was unexpected. You didn’t want this, no, you wanted to get rid of him but instead he’s devoting himself to you just like that. You recalled the events earlier, groaning with frustration. He mentioned ‘we’ as he spoke, could that possibly mean there were multiple here to serve whatever purpose that he was here for as well.

“You mentioned something earlier, I want to know whether there’s more of you,” You asked.

The angel froze again, looking down at his hands whilst twisting them about, “Yes, there are.”

He seemed troubled having to express this. You didn’t expect him to be so straightforward to you.

“Angel. What are you actually here to do,” You pushed, stepping closer to him. You see him tense up. The little hairs on his skin standing up.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds, “I was sent to fall because of a prayer.”

“A prayer? Could you speak with sense! Stop speaking in metaphors.”

“They aren’t metaphors. A girl called for us, she’s spent her entire life praying for us to come here and we’ve finally been able to,” He explained, his voice wavering as if he was going to break out in tears.

It caused you to feel a squeeze in your chest.

“Who’s the girl.”

“I don’t know.”

This wasn’t going the way you wanted. You’d had hoped if there was a name, you’d take him to her, and he’d finally leave. You move yourself over towards a vacant chair, dropping yourself on it as if you were some heavy load.

The groan that left your lips and the hands that rubbed against your face told the angel that you were burdened by him. He felt awful, “I—I’d like to know your name.”

“My—my name? Why would you need to know that?”

“I don’t need to know it, but I’d like to know it.”

You sighed, “Y/n.”

“Y/n. Y/n…” The angel mumbles your name quietly, you could only see his lips move while he pronounces the word, “My name is Jimin.”

“Jimin? Strange name for an angel.”

He nods, letting out a breathy laugh, “I know. I was told to use this name when I’m here, it was my name before I died.”

Before he died. So, it was true that angels were the souls of those that passed. He must’ve done a lot of good to become an angel. Maybe he was the kindest person to exist, he seemed like he was. He was changing a lot of your assumptions of his kind, they weren’t so scary, they weren’t murderers of yet, nor were they seemingly ‘spawns of the devil’.

“Do you like being an angel?”

“Yes. I get to help people. I get to see things people don’t get to see. Most importantly I get to meet incredible people…if I was never an angel, I would’ve never met you.” His words were sweet, too sweet for a world like your own.

“I—“

“Y/n!” A loud knock in the door made you jump off your seat, “It’s me, we’ve caught one.”

It was your brother. He’s, he’s actually caught one. You look towards Jimin, his expression showed everything—he was scared, worried for his fellow angel. He begins to get up, your coat slipping off his body.

“No! Sit down,” You whisper shouted, motioning for him to stay seated. For his own safety and your eyes’ purity.

You knew you had to go out to see it, hoping Jimin would listen and stay put, “I’ll be there in a second, brother.”

You hear him respond before his footsteps echo further and further away. Breathing a sigh of relief, you hear Jimin ask, “That’s your brother? He sounds… scary, did he catch an angel?”

“I think so.”

“Please—I need to help him—“

“No, I’ll figure something out, just please don’t go anywhere,” You cut him off, pleading at him, “I… I don’t want to lose you, okay?”

His face flushes red, his eyes widening. Jimin nods rapidly, settling himself into your bed. You don’t know what had gotten into you, there was just an overwhelming sense that filled you. But it wasn’t important right now.

You rush out of the door, taking one last look back at him. He gives you a worried smile, assuring you that he’d stay put but also showing that he was worried.

The race downstairs was quick, you could hear the loud shouting coming from the dungeons right away. It was indeed your father and brother arguing. You pushed past all the people in the way to get a proper look at the situation.

The angel tied up in the centre of the room, he was hanging from his bound wrist off the ceiling. He was terribly wounded, and his eyes couldn’t even stay open. Something strange did stand out amidst the argument.

Your father takes one look to realise you were here, “Y/n, tell me why your brother caught a defective angel.”

“A what?”

Taehyung growls, “Father said that this angel is defective, take a look at it.”

You knew what he meant, the angel didn’t have pure white hair, or pure white wings. They were black, pitch black. He was much larger than Jimin. You’ve read about these types of angels before. Fallen angels.

You knew one way that could allow him to live, one way.

“He’s a fallen angel,” You announced, the angel’s ears perked. He looks up at you from between the space of your father and brother. His naked body, glimmering in the candle lit room.

His left eye bruised and cut, his body covered in stab wounds, yet he still stood on his knees with dominance.

“So, it won’t sell,” Taehyung spat, “Like I fucking said, Dad.”

Your father curses, whipping his hand at the crowd of hunters motioning for them to leave. He lets out a sound of frustration.

“It’s been months since we caught one, Taehyung you need to lead a proper hunt. Y/n, I know you’re a good tracker, I know you can do this alone. We won’t survive without another one, please.”

That was all he said. Your father walks away without another word, knowing that you two would do as he told. You sighed, seeing your brother in distraught.

“Tae—“

“Don’t talk. I need to figure this out,” He interrupts, mumbling some plans to himself.

You look at the poor angel on the ground, probably wondering what his fate would be. “What about him.”

“It. Will die,” Taehyung pulls out his pocket watch, “With cuts like that, he’ll bleed out anyway. A painful death for a worthless hunt.”

Your brother doesn’t bother saying another word or sparing you a glance when he leaves. Stomping his way out of the dungeons leaving you standing across from the tainted soul. You took in his appearance this time.

Stepping closer, you see him try to move backward away from you with fear.

You continued, eyeing him. His hair was tousled, curly and longer than Jimins’. His body was stocky and buff, much more than Jimin. He was naked of course, you were trying to avoid eye contact with his privates. His thighs, his very muscular thighs, were what your eyes couldn’t part with.

You walk towards the table against the wall, pulling out the fabric underneath the gruesome tools and tossed it at his crotch. Completely covering him up. The angel’s head turned up, his eyes snaps towards you.

His lips curled into a smirk, “Can’t stand the sight of me?”

You tilt your head. He’s indeed very different.

“I bet you feel disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yes, in your men. I’d be disappointed too if I looked like them,” He laughs, his body language filled with arrogance. Well he was very deviant compared to Jimin.

His bounded hands rustled, the chains clanged against each other, he was getting off his knees. You see the way he didn’t care that the cloth had dropped off his crotch, he stood fiercely over you. His broad shoulders covering most of the light behind him.

He cocked his head sideways, narrowing his eyes into you. You hold your head up high unmoving, you didn’t want to show him that you were intimidated whatsoever.

“You look different from most of the hunters I’ve seen.”

“You’ve seen more than this?” You motioned behind you where the hunters were.

He nods his head, “You aren’t the only camp of hunters, darling.”

The word he used shot a spike through you.

“By that I assume that you’ve survived their hunt, why have you lost to this one?”

The angel bites the side of his lip, “A bad day, I guess.”

From the little experience you’ve had, he was the first fallen angel you’ve ever seen or even talked to. He was indeed fearless, he didn’t even flinch when your brother mentioned he was to die. He was so, ominous.

“You have a big ego.”

“No, I think I’m just confident.”

“You think you’re better than everyone—“

The angel clicks his tongue, “No, I just know I’m better than everyone around here. Don’t lie to yourself, all the sad brutes you house, they don’t compare to me. Be honest, wouldn’t you rather suck my cock than theirs?”

His perverted words should’ve made you feel disgusted, but instead somehow you were confused, your body was confused.

“How are you so shameless.” You took a look around to make sure no one else heard a thing.

He raises his eyebrow at you, “You’re the only pretty thing I’ve seen in years. How could I not be, I want to live too.”

So, he was trying to use you to save himself, great. You rolled your eyes, watching as the angel twists himself around possibly stretching out his sores and aches, giving you a look at his flexing abs in the process.

“Come on, it’s not like you’re not keeping a little secret already.”

You felt nerves rising up your spine, your face heating.

“I can smell the angel you have, no one else knows?” He grins, “You’re one naughty hunter, aren’t ‘ya.”

“I think you need to shut up,” You said with a low menacing tone, “I could kill you.”

The angel nods, grinning to himself, “But you won’t. You’re too nice.”

Nice, in a world like this nice didn’t exist. It was a pity and the rare sense of sympathy from most. You just couldn’t process the fact that the damned angel had figured it out already, why didn’t Jimin tell you that angels could smell each other.

“If you help me, I’ll be on my way and you can keep your little white angel.”

You had to, there was no other way.

“And how do I do that, I’m no doctor.”

“The angel can heal—“

“Then why can’t you?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes at you, “Like you said, I’m a fallen angel. I’m not like him, I’m the worthless leftover of heaven. Why do you think they tossed me away, why my wings turned black and my hair burnt away?”

“Alright then, just don’t make a sound, okay?”

He seemed pleased that he managed to convince you. Standing up straighter, his face flinching whilst you tried to unchain him. It was rather easy to pick these chains. The chains dropped to the ground with a rattle, the angel breathed a sigh of freedom. Rubbing his wrists with a pure smile on his face.

“Now, where’s your friend?”

You didn’t think this through very well, you were never good at making plans. You did manage to sneak the angel up, his wings were massive though, but you were thankful that everyone was at dinner instead of the living courters.

Pushing the door open you see Jimin curled up under your blanket, sleeping away with a peaceful look on his face.

When you shut the door leaving all of you finally alone. The angel flutters his wings out, it was then that you realised that the bottom half of one of his wings were missing. He sighed, taking it in his hands. He brushes it against his face, closing his eyes to savour it. You did find beauty in the darkness of his wings, you’d like to think he did too.

He saw you watch him, locking eyes with you he gave you a foreign expression.

“He’s sleeping,” You said.

The angel nods, “I can see that. We can wait.”

He sits himself in the chair you once sat in, making himself comfortable. You see his wounds start leaking blood again, you couldn’t help but feel like you needed to do something.

“Would you survive the night, with cuts like that?”

“I don’t know,” He revealed, his voice showed signs of doubt. He flicked his eyes back and forth between his stomach and your face, “At least I’ll die with a pretty girl looking over me.”

“Shut up. You won’t die.”

You walked towards the end of your bed where you kept most of the supplies for accidents. Rustling through the chest, you came across some tonics, chemicals and gauze. Hopefully it would stop the bleeding. You also picked up the thing you hated, needles and thread, you could never imagine using them for wounds neither did you even dare watch someone use it.

You marched over to the dark angel, setting the supplies on the desk behind him where you usually worked. His eyes watched your hand drop the stuff down, he furrows his eyebrows at it.

“What’s that going to do?”

You took a deep breath, “Hopefully, it will seal you up.”

His face was plastered with doubt still, he must’ve never seen such things. You wouldn’t blame him he wasn’t human after all. You pulled up another chair to place in front of him. Picking up a thin blanket on the way, holding it out to him.

He looks between you and the blanket again, “What do I do with this?”

“Cover yourself up, I don’t need to see your…uhm that, or breath over it when I stitch you up,” You sat on the chair.

The angel’s face twists to a grin, his eyebrows curving playfully, “I wouldn’t mind you breathing over my cock if you wanted.”

He sees the look on your face and immediately covers himself. You weren’t in the place to play along right now or argue. You just needed to make sure he wouldn’t die in his sleep.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“It won’t hurt as much as getting my feathers ripped out.”

You wanted to apologise, for the shit he went through. The shit your brother did to him, or made others do to him. It was so unnecessary, usually we hunt angels with the purpose of selling them whole now a days. Keeping them pretty, but of course your brother was angry that he wasn’t a proper angel, so he took it out on him.

“I’m going to start, okay,” You told him, your hands shaking as you held the needle.

He notices this, taking your hand in his large warm hands, “I don’t know what you’re going to do but it’s okay, it won’t hurt me.”

You appreciate his motivation, nodding. You clean him up a little before beginning. Right at the first incision his hand drops to your thigh, gripping onto it, “Oh fuck.”

You let out a little chuckle unknowingly.

“Oh yes, it’s real funny.”

“I’m sorry!”

He shakes his head letting out a smile, “Yea, yea.”

You started with the wound closest to his chest, then you went down. Closing three of them up and having one left. The last one being on the side of his pelvis. He pushes himself further towards the end of the chair, leaning himself back giving you more space. But with that given space his thighs spread over your own, trapping you in between his own.

You lean over his crotch, resting your elbow between the joint of his hips and thigh. Surprisingly he lacked hair in almost every part of his body but his head. His eyes never leaving you, watching you seal up his cuts.

His hands shaking from the pain, you could see from the corner of your eyes they came close to your face. His hand lightly brushes the fallen strand of hair behind your ear, you paused, not knowing where to look.

You blinked up at him. His face seemingly getting closer…and closer. His wavering hand, slipping behind your nape, pulling you closer to him. Now he was the one breathing over you, his lips so close. His eyes locked with yours, the dark eyes seemingly even darker now.

You see the ball in his throat move as he swallows. His lips brushing against your own, before it fully takes you. The wet, warm and soft pink skin against your own, heating your body up against the winter cold. He was burning you up, his touch was stirring you up. Lips moving against each other without a care in the world, you’ve planted your hands against his abdomen, feeling up the flexing muscle of it.

He lets out a filthy groan, filling up your ears with its alluring sound.

He threads his fingers into your loose hair, holding you against his lips. His free hand sliding up your thigh, so close to your warming core.

He pulls away with a lewd smack, his lips wet with your mixed saliva, “I don’t even know you name, darling.”

“Y/n.”

He smiles with bliss, “Jungkook.”

[nuricurry]

Saint Seiya | Ikki/Hyoga PG-13; “all i’ll ever be to you is someone else”

It’s strange, the way things change between them. When they become ‘something else’ rather than just associates or comrades, or even just friends. There are things that are different, but things that stay the same, and maybe that’s why the transition feels so awkward and stilted and incomplete, because they were picking up things in the middle. 

They had known each other since they were children, they had begun a lifetime of conflict and rivalry at an early age, but now that they’re older, it’s all a little different. Childhood spats about deciding who got to pick the game they played are different now at age seventeen, when their responsibilities are greater, the costs higher, the risks more steep. Now they fight about making the hard choice in sparing their enemy mercy or not, they fight over the fact that Ikki wants to dive into danger all on his own, while Hyoga chases after his shadow, picking up broken pieces left in his wake. That much will probably never change, the chasing, the fighting, the bickering. But there are new fights now, ones that Hyoga still doesn’t quite know how to navigate. He knows what arguments to give when Ikki pushes him away during a fight. He knows what to expect, when a new enemy rises and they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in over a month. What he doesn’t know is how to tell Ikki that he wants him to stay the night, not because he’s afraid he’ll get hurt, but because he likes his company. He doesn’t know how to tell him that he wants to touch him in a way that isn’t meant to hurt-- no punching, no grappling, no shoving or hitting. What he wants is for the two of them to hold hands. He wants them to kiss. He wants to look at Ikki and not see anger there, not see a scowl or frustration. He doesn’t know how to argue that telling someone that he’s in love with him isn’t about manipulation or coercion, sometimes it’s just conveying emotion and affection and it wouldn’t kill Ikki to say those words back, once in a while.

There are times when they are lying together on his bed in the apartment in Omsk and he feels as if he’s choking on memories, yet it’s still when things are so incredibly new. Something about the way that Ikki looks lying on his side across the bed from him, just looking at him, it feels like something that Hyoga’s seen before. Something in the unguarded rawness between his gaze and Hyoga’s is familiar when it shouldn’t be. The first time they have sex, when Ikki is pressing his back into the mattress and he has his hips pushed upwards with his legs around his waist, it feels like they’ve done this a dozen times before. It feels like they don’t need to ask, don’t need to test waters about what will and won’t work, what they do and don’t like, because their bodies already know. He has doubts that they could possibly be so compatible-- no one ever really is, not the first time, not the first dozen times-- but Ikki doesn’t want to talk about it when it’s over. He just wants to roll over and sleep, and so that’s what they do.

That night, and every night after, when Ikki is beside him, Hyoga has dreams he can’t explain. Dreams about a boy with bright blue eyes and a secret smile, about a childhood that isn’t his. Fields of wheat and aquamarine seas, completely unlike the cold tundra and black waters he knows best. In his dreams, his hands hold bows and pots and small childrens’ hands. In his dreams, he lies on the grass in hot summers, and that boy with his blue eyes and infectious laugh lies beside him. He wakes up after those dreams with his heart full and heavy in his chest, and he never knows why, because they’re just dreams. He compares their fights to broken bones. It’s a fracture born of trauma, a result of pressure building and building until finally parts of their bodies snap. It’s a wound that isn’t immediately obvious on the surface, it’s felt more than it’s seen, and it’s not something that can be easily healed. It takes time for things to be stitched back together for them, it takes them setting things into place and letting it heal over, hoping that the bones fuse together the right way, that they won’t just break again with the next slightest bit of pressure. But like broken bones, those cracks remain, and they never go away. They calificy, they get harder and crust over, but they can’t ever return to their previous state; the memory cannot be erased and its effect on them will remain, for the rest of their lives. Their relationship is like a mirror, chipped and cracked and broken, then put back together again. It can be fixed, but it can never be perfect, it will always be just a breath away from shattering again, into even smaller pieces the next time. The first time they really break is when they fight about dying. When Ikki throws himself headfirst into a fight he can’t win, and he doesn’t come back out. For months, Hyoga walks around, feeling like there’s something lodged in his chest, a huge sharp knife sinking deeper and deeper into his heart, painful enough that he feels like he’s splitting into two. He feels like he’s half-dead the whole time, like his soul was sucked out of him when he heard that there’s nothing that remains of Ikki’s body, and they’re sure he’s gone this time. 

He dreams of stormy seas, of his hand desperately reaching for someone else’s. He dreams about blue eyes and a bottomless pit, of hands touching his face and promising him that he’s not alone, that death isn’t the end, it is just a bump in the road. Trying to hold onto that voice, that feeling of warm and comfort, is like trying to grab onto smoke. It slips through his fingers like it doesn’t exist at all, and he just wakes up every day with tears on his face, and a name he can never remember on the tip of his tongue. 

When Ikki comes back, whole, reborn, it’s the splint put onto their relationship. It’s the morphine that blinds Hyoga to the pain, makes it all a little more manageable, a little fuzzy on the edges. He forgets about the nightmares and the loneliness and the knife in his chest. Until he asks that Ikki never does that again, and Ikki refuses to promise him. 

He knows his duty, he says, he agreed to accept this life and all it’s dangers, all it’s trails, when he agreed to put on the armor. He’s not going to back down because Hyoga’s afraid, because Hyoga can’t commit to anything that might end up being difficult. 

Their fight is less about dying, and more about commitment, because Hyoga tells him that Ikki is only so quick to offer his life because the risk is negligible. Because it’s easy to die and harder to live, because Ikki doesn’t have to face consequences if he dies, he doesn’t have to see the damage he leaves behind when he does. 

They have angry, furious, violent sex on the couch, not even bothering to try and make it to a bed. They push and bite and dig their nails in because it hurts but it’s real, it’s a screaming neon sign that tells them that they’re alive, they’re both here, and they can afford to do something so stupid and selfish again. 

For a week after, Hyoga dreams of soft, gentle kisses, of a warm body wrapped around his late at night. He dreams of words of praise, words of comfort whispered into his ears, of an arm heavy and familiar draped over his waist, and fingers tracing indistinct symbols into his stomach. He wonders if those dreams are all in his head, or if maybe Ikki is the one prompting them, late at night after he’s fallen asleep. Ikki denies it, he tells him to stop talking about his dreams because they’re blinding him to reality, but there’s a fear in his eyes when he says those words that Hyoga has never seen before. 

It becomes a loop, the structure of their relationship. A cycle that they don’t know how to break. They fight. They break. They make up. They fight. They break. They make up. The same three steps over and over again, in varying degrees, in different lengths. The breaks are shorter when the fights are longer. Because when they’re fighting over Ikki never giving Hyoga a key to his apartment, it’s not about keys, it’s about trust and establishing Hyoga in his life. That’s a long fight, a fight that lasts months, and is fixed with a slapped on band-aid of a copy of Ikki’s key but instructions to never be there when Ikki isn’t. But that also means that when the fights are shorter, the breaks are longer, they’re one of those deep bone breaks, the crack right down the center of the mirror’s reflection. When they fight about Shun, it’s a short fight, but it’s short in the way a bomb denotation is short. It only takes seconds for their worlds to completely fall apart, with an accelerant in the mix. 

He doesn’t know why he never said anything before. That’s a lie; he knows why. He knows it would break things and that’s exactly what it did. Explanations meant nothing when they came under duress. Words like <i>before</i> and <i>different</i> and <i>why are you holding this against me? we weren’t together</i> fall on deaf ears. Arguing that it’s not a betrayal when there was nothing between them to break doesn’t work because Ikki wants to be angry, and Hyoga can’t take those things back. “When were you going to tell me you fucked my brother?” Ikki says with his whole chest, and Hyoga can only plead for him to understand. 

He can’t lie and say it didn’t mean anything, because it did. Because he does care about Shun, and they did share things together. But feelings are not a zero-sum game; it doesn’t take away from his feelings for Ikki, for Hyoga to have feelings for Shun. They both have their pasts, they both have histories outside of each other, but Hyoga knows that it’s different, it’s different because it’s too close, it’s a line that’s far too easily blurred. 

And so they break, and they crumble, and they turn to dust. Finally they’ve reached the point where there is nothing left to mend. 

Hyoga dreams of fire, of a city razed to the ground. He dreams of cold air on his neck, of arms around his waist, but no comfort in that embrace. He dreams of apologies and cries for help trapped behind his teeth, unable to be said because there is no one there to say them to. He dreams of Ikki beside him, standing on the edge of a cliff, looking out over the precipice of their misery. He dreams of them letting go, and falling into the abyss together, dying over and over again hoping to be reborn the right way, in the right time 

They return to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

[stellar-imagines]

SCENARIO REQUEST: ❝malaise.❞

[ Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia ] [ Characters: Bakugou Katsuki ]

「 You knew about it before he told you but then again, it wasn't something that one would casually mention to their lover anyway. So, you stayed quiet about it until one day, you decided that keeping quiet about it won't do any good.」

Angst ahead!

[ Part 2 ]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI

It was during the winter, just a year after you had graduated from UA. You had been dating Bakugou for two years already but went your own way to pursue your dream. Your boyfriend had joined an agency that travels around the world while you started your own business with your friends from the Department of Support, specializing in repairs, creating new equipment and etc. You also did hero work. Thanks to the equipment you and your friends have created, it gave you the ability to participate in combat. The two of you shared an average-sized apartment in Tokyo, preferring a simple abode rather than a fancy one.

Bakugou had just returned from Hokkaido. You welcomed him with a warm meal that you knew he would want after such a long trip. His phone that sat on the countertop went off and you couldn't help but peek.

'Hey, wanna grab dinner at your favorite place? <3' There were a few messages that came after the first one but you didn't need to read all of them to figure out what was going on with your husband and this mysterious person texting him. 

There was this sick feeling growing in your stomach that you couldn't ignore. Bakugou comes back from his shower and dragged you to the dining table to eat. Along the way, he picks up his phone but he paid no heed to the incoming messages. After dinner, he helped with the dishes like usual and sat on the dining table afterward. At that moment, he began to go through his messages while you stayed behind in the living room to finish your report.

"I have to go to the shitty celebration tomorrow Don't wait for me and eat. I'll be back before midnight." Bakugou told you, pressing a kiss on your forehead. You hummed in response, watching as he retreated into your room.

You tried telling yourself that the text didn't mean anything.

On that Christmas, you had plans for the two of you. Not really a plan where you spend the whole day together but you prepared a present. No matter how hard Bakugou worked, he always came home to you, complaining about how shitty his day has been. Weeks have passed and nothing much has changed, you were grateful that it didn't change. But on this very day, the beginning of what you feared just occurred.

"Overnight? Staying for the entire week?" you said in disbelief.

"Yeah, something came up and we have to go to Miyagi tomorrow." Bakugou muttered. He watched you for a few moments, you had stayed silent when he spoke about the explosion in Miyagi that destroyed a handful of homes and how they needed help. 

"Well, it can't be helped. I'll help you pack. What time are you leaving?"

For the duration this thing happened, Bakugou felt this ugly feeling bubbling inside him. He hated coming home being tired to do anything with you. After two whole years of being in a relationship with you, he could tell something was missing. He still loved you, cared for you but why does it feel foreign? He likes coming home to you. You gave everything he wanted even though he never asked for it verbally. A warm bath, delicious food, sometimes a massage that can lull him to sleep. 

But he always had this one desire that you could never satisfy.

He took a few breaths, lips a bit swollen. The person on his lap shifts a bit before getting off and adjusting their clothing. Bakugou doesn't say anything the entire time, watching as the woman in front of him grabs her coat from the hanger. His office was dark and it was snowing outside. The woman pressed more kisses on his jaw and neck. Bakugou clicked his tongue.

"Don't leave marks, idiot."

"You're no fun. We've got this far and you're still hesitant." she says, pulling away with a small pout.

Bakugou feels that thing again. Guilt, the gut-wrenching pain, the regret. But he shakes his head. He was able to satisfy his other desires. These were the things he never did with you, he didn't know why he never did initiate it with you. If he had, he wouldn't have to seek for someone else.

He came home just a little after midnight. The weather grew a bit warmer and there were signs of the sakura flowers blooming. It was Spring. The lights were mostly off, except for those in the hallways that you always left on just in case he got home late. His hair was a bit disheveled and there was a kiss stain on the collar of his white dress shirt. Before he retired, he washed it off and changed his clothes in the living room. He tries to be as quiet as he can when he enters the bedroom, knowing that you had already fallen asleep.

You slept on your side of the bed as usual but your body was facing his side, one hand reaching out to his side. His heart clenches at the sight. In the middle of the night, you often searched for him, extending a hand which he would put over his body and pull you close. Bakugou notices the way your face turns into one filled with pain when your hand landed on nothing but the sheets. He sits on his side of the bed, right hand reaching to hold your extended hand but hesitates.

He didn’t deserve this.

It has been at least four months since your discovery and you decided to talk about this. It scares you how calm you were about this whole things. Maybe it was because you told yourself, 'It's not like we're married or anything.' Still, what a normal girl do was yell, scream and cry at the discovery. All you felt was pain and betrayal, like someone stabbed you with a knife, pushed it deep inside and stirred it around like a toy.

You find it ironic that you were wrapped in his arms when you finally decide to tell him. Bakugou was warm, his touch was gentle and he was in a good mood today. Perhaps because it was a day off, for the two off you. He has the chance to relax for a day, at least. The television was on, playing some movie that you can't even recognize but it served as nothing but a background for the two of you. This made you wonder for a while. Did he do this with whoever he was seeing? Cuddle in the couch and getting cozy with one another? You wanted to know, and at the same time, you didn't.

“Katsuki?” you whisper as he stops messing with your hair. He hums in acknowledgment and looks down at you. You didn't look up at him, keeping your gaze on the steaming mug of tea sitting on the coffee table. Your heart is racing and there was a small voice in the back of your head telling you to not do this. But your heart hurts, it's crumbling into tiny pieces that you know if you don't say it, it will crumble to dust.

“I know you’re cheating on me.” you said it so casually that it shocked Bakugou and yourself.

His heart stops and doesn't respond. How could he respond anyway? The ugly feeling overtook his senses and a voice in his was chanting, you fucked up. You took his silence as proof that you weren't making assumptions.

“It’s been a few months since I knew.…On winter, I suppose?” you don't know what to feel.

“I’ll be out by tomorrow morning.” you pull away, heading to your bedroom, leaving him alone in the living to think about what he had done.

You didn't cry in front of him but you did it when you were alone. Bakugou felt like Midoriya punched him in the face with his Full Cowl. His lips start to quiver, his heart is beating faster and he was starting to find it hard to breathe. It was minutes after you left that his tears begin to fall. He really doesn't deserve you after all. He made you cry, he hurt you.

He did this.

He broke you.

He remembers the first time you saw each other. He remembers the first time you kissed. Your first date where you tried to hold his hand in a crowded train. All the times you told him you love him. They say your memories come rushing before death but Bakugou wanted to say that it doesn't only happen in that certain time. He leaned back onto the couch, covering his eyes with his arm. You always supported him from the sidelines, making new and advanced gear for him to use in work. 

It was nearing midnight when you felt Bakugou laying down on the bed. He just lays down, wrapping his arms around your body and pulls you closer. You keep your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. He sniffled.

You actually want to know why he's crying. That wasn't the only question you had in mind. Why did he do it? Did he feel any guilt? Well, he's crying, so he does feel guilty. But still, why? Was it because you weren't enough? Did he want something more from you? Were you lacking something? Bakugou was an amazing person, a Pro Hero who's going up the ranks faster than anyone else. Ah, of course, it's because you couldn't keep up with him. You weren't that famous like him, maybe he felt ashamed to be dating you. In the end, whose fault was it? Your head was spinning that you wanted to hurl.

When you woke up, Bakugou was already awake.

You start packing and he helps you. Much to his surprise, you didn't pack everything because you didn't have enough space to fit all your clothes in. He doesn't say anything and neither did you, it was silent when you both packed. But eventually the silence has to end. When you stood on the door, he didn't know what to say until you were standing outside the door with a suitcase.

"I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, I-It was — I’m an asshole and you didn’t.....you didn’t deserve this. I don't deserve you at all. I'm the fucking worst. I—"

"I know you are. You're genuine when it comes to this."

You stare at each other for a while and you can see that his eyes wavered, growing teary.

“I just need some time for myself right now, I hope you understand. I can't trust you that easily.” you look him in the eyes and his face contorts into pain. He takes a step forward, holding onto to your wrist before you could leave. It was gentle, not too forcing but with the purpose of catching your attention. You cup his face with your free hand. He kisses you, passionately like the first time. He holds your face in his hands and engraves the feeling of your lips against his for the last time. You kiss him back, softer and with equal passion.

You were first to pull away and make eye contact with him. You probably didn't realize it but you were crying when you met his gaze. He was also crying, tears falling down his cheeks. A sigh left your lips, but you smiled and wiped his tears away.

“I still love you, you know that, right?” you mumbled. His eyes widen in surprise. You never even mentioned about wanting to break up with him but at this point, how can he call himself your boyfriend? You never said anything about ending things with him, because you still had feelings for him.

"Goodbye and take care of yourself. See you when I see you,"

"Katsu."

He breaks down when you were finally out of sight.

Total: 1984 words Published: 08.09.2019

Thank you for requesting! *｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و*｡ Hello, please don’t kill us for making it so angsty. I have been scolded by this person here (↴ ) for attempting to end this piece happily when anon-san didn’t request for a happy ending. (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞  ― author Hibiki/Lou

Thank you for requesting! Scolded this one ( ↑ ) for trying to make it a happy ending when no one even requested for it. This was meant to be angsty so we left it hanging with some loopholes. ― author Natsuki

Please do not mind the grammar mistakes and typos.

[shuttershocky]

You made a mention of how you wished Crimson Flower was more like Hisui's route from Tsukihime (I think, at least, sorry if I'm wrong!). What do you mean by that, if you don't mind me asking? While i read the manga for Tsukihime and know a little about the stories, some spoiler things I heard (like Kohaku's entire backstory) made it hard for me to actually read all the routes... (sorry!!!) had a similar hard time for Heaven's Feel, actually

I have at least one mutual reading Tsukihime so spoilers after the break

So in Hisui's route not only is Kohaku’s horrific backstory shown, but it’s also revealed that she’s the main villain of Tsukihime, the one behind the events of every route. Oh, Roa and Arcueid getting involved had been an accident sure, but there’s a reason why SHIKI had suddenly come back from nowhere despite having “disappeared” for so long. He had been chained up in a secret dungeon, with Kohaku using him as a test subject for her growing knowledge of pharmacology, and as a weapon for her to unveil when the time was right. She would destroy the entire Tohno family, and would do so by having them kill each other.

But the thing is, her revenge isn’t even rational anymore. Her rapist and beater, Tohno Makihisa, had been dead for years by that point, slowly succumbing to the dementia that comes for all Tohnos (although it’s implied that Kohaku had been poisoning him slowly in the last few painful years of his life) before his murder by his own son. The current master of the Tohno household, Tohno Akiha, has been nothing but Kohaku’s friend. She grew up knowing nothing about the almost nightly beatings and rapes, and when her father died and she found out what he had been doing, she was so horrified she had every servant in the mansion fired and all the other Tohno family members evicted, intent on being the only Tohno with Hisui and Kohaku. The two would be paid handsomely for their work, and they would get to live in a giant mansion for the rest of their days.

Still... despite that, Kohaku planned for her to die, and Akiha knew it. Kohaku would offer Akiha her blood for when the latter’s hunger grew too much, knowing that Akiha’s guilt would only worsen with every meal. Kohaku would also innocently press her on sensitive points, attempting to stoke her fiery temper, to the point where she slaps Kohaku in the face in one route and thus remind Akiha about what her father had done, further compounding on her guilt. Slowly, not only did Akiha believe that Kohaku and Hisui were her responsibility, but also that she deserved to die for having a happy childhood when a girl her age was being tortured a few rooms away. 

It’s important to note that Kohaku is specifically Akiha’s maid (and Hisui, Shiki’s). The two spend nearly all their time in the VN together, seemingly enjoying each other’s company, when the whole time Kohaku was subtly pushing Akiha closer and closer to her doom.

Then, once Tohno Shiki was finally brought back to the mansion, Kohaku had every piece she needed and released Tohno SHIKI back into the world from the cell she had been keeping him in, prompting the events of Tsukihime.

In the Hisui route, it all finally goes according to plan. Thanks to Kohaku empowering SHIKI, he’s able to overcome Roa’s influence and maintain his identity, prompting a showdown with Akiha instead of Arcueid. The two battle, and in his desperation, SHIKI attempts to go for an easier target and attacks Kohaku. Akiha then jumps in front of the attack to protect her, taking a mortal wound and crumbling into dust. An enraged Shiki then kills SHIKI, successfully destroying the entire Tohno clan and putting all their wealth and power into the hands of a non-Tohno (Tohno Shiki is not a real Tohno, but a stolen child of a Demon hunter family, just like Hisui and Kohaku are)

A few days after, Shiki confronts Kohaku with all the evidence that she was the one behind everything, and she admits it. But then she says something very strange:

“You know, I still find myself taking tea to [Akiha’s] room.” 

And that’s where the full psychological horror hits. That’s when Tsukihime hits its peak. Kohaku had loved Akiha. Why wouldn’t she? Akiha had saved her from the Tohno family, had fired and evicted every adult in the house who had lived with them and never helped her, had given her enough money so that if she and Hisui ever felt like leaving, they could live comfortably without working for the rest of their life. Akiha had known it was a likely possibility that she would be killed for being Makihisa’s daughter, and still, she trusted Kohaku with everything, accepting that her time to die would come eventually.

Kohaku loved Akiha, and still, she had her murdered. Throughout the Hisui route, Kohaku dehumanized herself repeatedly by likening herself to a doll, all so she could force herself to ignore her own human wishes and happiness for the sake of revenge on someone who was already dead.

That is what Edelgard’s route should have been like. All that talk about the Church’s tyranny and the oppression of the crest system? However true those may be, it’s still all just talk she uses to justify her vengeance on the world that turned it back on her. Three Houses makes it clear that she enjoyed her student life, and were it not for her crusade she would have wanted nothing more than to enjoy her student life with her classmates. 

Edelgard could have made lifelong friends. She could have graduated with honors. She could have painted her masterpieces. She could have fallen in love. 

She put all that in the fucking dirt because something inside her - something powerful, undeniable, and most of all, angry - needed to tear the Church of Seiros apart. After them would come Those Who Slither in the Dark for having tortured her and murdered her family, and then. And then...

There’s nothing.

Unbridled vengeance and hatred are irrational and all-consuming. it drives you to destroy everything in your path until you reach the end of the road and find that there’s nothing left.

Kohaku cannot cry tears for Akiha - she’s too broken for that - and yet the realization that she had a life with her and that was now destroyed for the sake of vengeance was too much for Kohaku to even process, which is why she still found herself bringing tea to Akiha’s room. Kohaku then commits suicide with a poisoned knife, still insisting that she was nothing but a doll, and a doll that had accomplished its purpose had nothing left to do but break. 

Edelgard should have abdicated the throne to a competent individual as soon as she had won over all of Fodlan, knowing that the last survivor of the old Fodlan she had destroyed was her, and she could only ever be an emperor of wartime.

Edelgard should have spent the years of the new dawn in a little cottage away from Enbarr, attempting to find herself again through her painting. Everything would seem okay, if a little too quiet for the once mighty Emperor. Every now and then however, when she thinks that there’s nobody around, Hubert would catch her talking to a Dimitri that isn’t there, asking if he’s finally learned how to dance yet. 

[stuck-in-hawkins]

Next to a Broken Castle

This is a gift for @willel​ / @kirabook​  This has been a long time coming, darling. Thank you for your patience, for your gift, and all your support. ^w^

This is an alternative scene. If Jonathan had found Will by Castle Byers instead.

~

Jonathan had his music turned all the way up. He wished it could be louder. He needed to drown Nancy’s words from his head, to pull himself away from the panic at having to find another job, and the crushing defeat of having to work at some place he hated, manning a register or stocking shelves.

How was it that Nancy didn’t understand that? This job had been the gateway to a career he was actually passionate about. Where else was he supposed to get a job doing photography in this town?

He hated having all this anger built up inside him. He wanted to slam things, kick everything that was in his way. But whenever he felt like that, he’d remember his father and the way his anger would fly. He didn’t want that. So he settled for throwing his laundry in the basket, and singing/ screaming at the top of his lungs.

He almost didn’t hear the phone ring but he caught it as one song faded into the next. He bolted up and ran to the kitchen. In a matter of seconds, he’d found himself hoping. Hoping that Tom would take him back, hoping that Nancy would be calling to apologize.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jonathan. Is Will there?” Mike asked.

Jonathan blinked and his heart skipped a beat for a second. An old fear crept up from the pit of his stomach. “No. I thought he spent the night at your place.”

“He did but… umm...”

The knot relaxed somewhat but he could hear the guilt in Mike’s voice.

Mike admitted, “We had a fight…. and he walked off. Or, well, biked off.”

Jonathan looked outside. It was pouring out and starting to get dark. “You let him go out in this?”

Mike’s voice immediately turned back to prideful, obstinate. “What was I supposed to do? Grab his bike by the handles?”

There was no denying that Mike and Nancy were siblings. The Wheeler family had a strong streak of stubbornness.

“I don’t know what you could have done but if he’s that mad at you, he’s probably not in the mood to talk.”

There was quiet on the other end. “Then, just…” he could almost hear Mike grappling with his pride. “Then, just please tell him that we’re sorry. That I’m sorry. And… just… find him, please.”

“I will.”

“Call me back the minute you do.” Mike ordered and the line clicked.

Jonathan hung up the phone and shook his head. No wonder those two fought like cats and dogs.

He opened the door to Will’s room, just in case. He looked at all the new drawings up on the wall. Will was working with charcoal now, and a fine dust had settled in parts on the floor around his desk. Will had been spending more time out of the house these days.

Will had once let it slip after an episode. “When is it gonna feel like home again?” The words had cut through him. He knew that their mom must have heard it, too. He knew that had to be why she was circling houses in the paper now, though he knew it wasn’t the only reason.

He grabbed his raincoat, flashlight, and for a moment, he thought about grabbing the rifle, just in case.

No. He thought. The gate is closed. It has been closed. “Stop thinking like that.”

He ran to his car, ducking out of the rain, and started it up. He’d drive around town first, he’d cover more ground that way. But a thought struck him.

‘Check the castle,’ he thought.

It was raining. Just like it had been that day. He got out of his car and shut the door. _____________________________

Will’s small voice asked, “Dad’s never been gone this long. What if something happened to him?”

It hadn’t been the first time their parents fought. It hadn’t been the first time their dad walked out to win an argument. He would be gone a few days but he’d come back. Things would be quiet for a while and then it would all start over again.

But this time had been bad. Things were broken. They had to wear shoes around the house because there were still hidden shards of dishes on the floor.

Lonnie had actually put his hands on their mom. She’d filed a report. Will didn’t know about that though. Will had been asleep in Jonathan’s bed. Jonathan heard their mother that night. “Get your hands off of me!!”

Jonathan ran out to put himself between them. Lonnie had let go. He was drunk and spewed out bitter words. “Turning my own son against me? Boy, she’s got you whipped.”

Then, he'd went past them into the bedroom, packed his bag, and left.

Jonathan felt for Will. He still loved their father. He was too young to understand why he left. He couldn't process that it was better for him to be gone. Jonathan had hardened his heart to survive all the words Lonnie threw at him. He’d learned to stop looking for acceptance from him. And, with more time, Will might have done that too. But this time, Jonathan knew it was for good. Or, at least he hoped it was. And that meant that all this would hurt for Will, much deeper than it would for Jonathan.

“Will, I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Will’s eyes had grown big. “What- what do you mean? Why wouldn’t he?”

“He hurt Mom. He really hurt her. If he came back, he’d hurt her again.”

Will bent his head down. Jonathan had been there when their mom explained to them. She had told them that even if she and Lonnie didn’t love each other anymore, they still loved Jonathan and Will.

But Jonathan knew that Lonnie didn’t love them. Not the way dads were supposed to. It didn't matter to him anymore, their moms love made up for that. She loved them more than enough for both.

Jonathan tried to comfort Will, as he saw his eyes brim up. “We won’t have to hear them fighting anymore. And, like mom said, we’ll still get to see him. It’ll be one on one stuff but we’ll get to see him.”

Will nodded.

Jonathan knew his words couldn’t make up for it. There was nothing he could say that would make it hurt less. There were no words that could shelter him from all the pain that would come.

“Hey. You want to build that club house?”

Will looked up, blinking. The club house their dad said he’d build. Will had spent months gathering fallen branches, picking out sturdy ones from deteriorating ones. Will had asked father their nearly every day until he snapped, “I’ll get to it when I goddamn feel like it. Stop nagging me. You sound like your mother!”

Will never asked him again. He tried to keep the good wood off the ground, so it wouldn’t rot. But he had resigned himself to the fact that it would never happen.

“I don’t know how to build one.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. I’ll show you.”

“You’ve never built one before.”

“Well, I’ve built enough. We’ll figure it out together.”

In that moment, Will looked at him with such love and gratitude, that Jonathan swore to himself, he’d make up for their dad’s absence. He’d fill the hole in their family. He’d do whatever it took to shelter his little brother. ________________________

Jonathan tread the familiar path. It was pouring. Why would Will come here in this? But then, he never fought with Mike, with any of them. He wasn’t the confrontational type. He avoided it whenever he could. Fights were normal things, but for Will they meant an end.

Jonathan heard a loud crack echo through the trees. He ran through the mud, his feet soaked through his sneakers. He tried not to picture what it could be as he heard more sounds of something being smashed. As he got closer, he recognized the sound as the ringing of metal and crack of tree branches.

As he came over a hill he could see Will, bat in hand, landing blow after blow to Castle Byers. The sanctuary they had built. Jonathan had stopped. He watched his brother curse and pull the front of it to the ground. He was seeing something inside his brother, beneath all the layers and guards he put up. Underneath all the quiet, the gentleness, the smiles, his brother was hurting more than he’d ever let on. How hadn’t he known? How had he missed it? Will sank to the ground and Jonathan found his voice.

“Will.”

Will turned, startled, and saw his brother soaked from the rain. He was overcome with shame. This place hadn’t just been Will’s, it had been a gift from his brother. It had been a promise of safety and love when his world had turned upside down. And he’d destroyed it… with their father’s bat.

He didn’t want to face him. He got up to run but Jonathan’s voice kept him still.

“Will, please.”

He walked up to his younger brother and couldn’t find the words. He was going to ask why. But he had intruded on the moment. It wasn’t right to ask. And that wasn’t what Will needed now. He pulled Will in and felt him crumble in his embrace. His sob shook Jonathan’s whole being. It was something visceral from a depth he couldn't fathom.

He held Will tight, and whispered, “It’s okay, Will. It’s okay.”

Will felt like a child again. He and Jonthan were now nearly the same height, yet he still felt small in his arms. It felt stupid and immature to be so comforted by this. Maybe that was all he was, a child, who would be left behind. Everyone else would grow and change and Will would be stuck, wishing for something that would be forever out of reach.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m here, Will. It’s going to be okay.”

Will cried and held his brother tighter. Maybe he just needed to get it out. Maybe he could allow himself this one last childish thing. Jonathan had carried him through the worst parts of his life. Now here he was again, on the night he felt like his world was falling apart. Picking him up, wrapping him in his arms, and sheltering him, like he’d done so many times before. He leaned on him as they walked away from the broken castle.

Jonathan wrapped an arm around Will. He would explain when they got back. That one fight did not mean the end of everything. As he thought about that, he realized he would have to follow that advice too. Sometime tonight he would have to call Nancy. It was something he needed her to know, too. Their fight didn't have to mean the end of everything. He would be there if she still wanted to work on it. He would be there for her if she wanted to see this thing through to the end.

Will looked at their house as they walked up. There was an overwhelming gratitude of being home. He remembered year ago, walking up the path, soaked, and carrying the tools from their project. The best part about building the castle had been spending the whole day close to his brother, putting something together from pieces that had been broken and cast aside. When they got inside, Jonathan wrapped him up in a blanket and put the kettle on. And Will could see he was doing it again, like he always did, fixing what felt broken. He breathed.

Even if everything else changed, he knew that would always be the same.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18285635/chapters/57007879

[writingcuredmyfrown]

The Sign

It’s been a long time since I wrote something, so I present to you my latest story. A tale, inspired by H.P.Lovecraft. 

Words: 1,843 - It’s a long read, so brew some coffee or tea, close your window and kick back!

I have always had a keen interest in everything witchy, occult, magical, necromantic, mystical and supernatural. When I was a small boy I used to gather all kinds of stones, leaves, odd trinkets, twisted branches and other curiosities. Then I would take them to a small room, next to the attic of my father’s old house, where I would experiment with them, chant verses I had read in old poetry books, color them with different pigments, submerge them in water etc. Now that I look back on those years, I realize that I wasn’t looking for something, or expecting results, but that I just loved doing it. I was drawn to the process, to the interaction with the object. It pulled me, gripped me, at points I even felt enthralled by it. 

Naturally, when I saw the advert in the newspaper, I immediately boarded the first train for Akshalam. Lately, my life has consisted of endless travel from place to place, all across this wasteland of a country. I’ve found many things of suspicious origin, trinkets with questionable properties, and tomes upon tomes with knowledge, long forgotten and obsolete. You see, money would seem like a problem, but not here. Practically the whole country now deals in such goods, they’ve become the new commodity, the new big thing. Gradually everyone became if not interested in the mystical oddities, then at least interested in becoming rich off them. 

The train ride was silent. There was a nip in the air of the wagon, which left me uneasy. All around me were people just like me, treasure hunters, seekers of relics and knowledge freaks. At times, looking through the window, I felt as if this isn’t the world I used to live in. I went back in time, in my mind, and saw such things that do not exist anymore. I looked around the train and carefully scanned my fellow passengers. They were almost husks, dried out humans with no sense of place or time. I was wondering why the incidents at the docks were increasing, and why the police weren’t doing anything. It seems that slowly, over the years, this land has fallen from grace, drowned in some sort of dreadful slumber, which paralyzes the mind, but leaves the body untouched. I felt like I was on an island, surrounded by vast masses of ocean, with its deep and silent waters, ready to engulf me at any point. I kept staring out the window, I thought maybe, out there, lies something else.

When I arrived at Akshalam I sat down at a coffee shop to eat and get some coffee. The ride was almost nine hours, and I desperately needed to press on, I couldn’t allow myself to rest in one of those two-story hotels, with no windows and barely any staff members, apart from the person at the reception. I’ve stayed at such places once or twice, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never fall asleep. There was always some strange, ominous noise coming from within the walls. Screeching, scratching, twitching noises that wouldn’t leave my brain alone. When I had inquired about them, the only answer I received is that it’s natural now. It seems that most buildings in town have developed such an issue, and the residents say the only way to deal with it is to sing a verse from a book titled “A poet’s endless dream”, which calms the noises down, subdues them. 

After my little break, I went straight to the carriage station. I carried the newspaper with me, the advert was written informally, it appears the person behind it wanted the editors to not change anything. It said: 

“In the city of Akshalam, June Street, you will find me in my shop. I have for you a secret beyond your imagination. A scripture, found in a recent expedition in the Kaloma Steppes, which bears a mark of curious origin. Find me, and inquire about it. We shall speak in private.  Signed, Jazem Al-Hafar”

I showed it to the man, handling the wagons and he mumbled something inaudible. When I asked whether I could be shown the way, or carried there, he mumbled something again, and motioned me to climb on. 

The streets of Akshalam are narrow, with living quarters cramped close together. There are no sidewalks, only ditches and trenches, used for sewage and waste. Everyone uses the streets, be it on foot, on a bicycle, on horseback or in a carriage. Transportation and moving around is difficult, but at least you have ample time to see and observe your surroundings. As we were slowly making our way through puddles, mud and masses of faceless people, I felt many piercing gazes, fixated upon me. I turned around and saw children, many children with dark skin and sky-blue eyes staring at me as we passed through. Their eyes were cold, dead. I felt them sapping my life force, draining me of my energy, turning me into a husk. I quickly looked away and tapped my driver on the shoulder, so he would hurry up. He mumbled and kicked the horses, which ended up scaring a bunch of passersby, who then angrily shouted at us in a strange dialect. 

The long train ride, followed by this restless carriage ride had left me exhausted. I was now outside the shop. A small, crumbling building with clay ornaments at the front. It had a sign - “Jazem’s Sacred Grounds”. The door was wide open, the only thing between me and the inside of these sacred grounds was the fringe door curtain, a black and gold masterpiece of the oriental craft. No plastic, only the finest silk, adorned with precious jewelry and wooden figurines. I took a deep breath and headed inside. 

I stepped carefully inside, the scent of something burning, perhaps incense, immediately hit my nose. The inside was small, with barely any place to take a step. It was full of shelves, boxes, crates, barrels and drawers. Some of the were widely open, their contents protruding a bit. It was dark, the only sunshine coming from a small window on the left wall. It was so filthy, that there was barely any light, and the beams that did manage to go through, illuminated a bunch of bundles of herbs on the counter. I didn’t know what to do next, I felt overwhelmed. From every corner and every little nook and cranny, something caught my eye. Flasks and vials with colorful substances inside, rocks and ores with a faint glow, numerous mounted heads, upon whose horns hung tribal necklaces; a small bird cage, now empty, different plants with twisted-looking fruits, countless sheets of paper, scattered about, full of incoherent writing, a cat with one eye, slowly walking across the end of the room, paintings of people, possibly long one, paint brushes, canisters, trinkets, bottles, pouches, glass ornaments and silver cutlery, a long hooded cowl, hanging on a nail on the right wall, and many, many candles, now extinguished. I felt my blood pumping, my heart began racing. The child, which was locked away within me was getting excited, it felt drawn once again. That’s what I feared most, that I would be consumed if I took one more step inside this place, that my own self would capture and lead me to my end. I came so far for this, I couldn’t stop then. I had to do it, to trust. I saw a copper bell, covered in dust on the counter. I slowly made my way there, trying not to push over or break something, and pressed it. 

From behind the counter suddenly jumped a midget with a long beard and no hair. He smiled at me, caressed my hand gently and introduced himself. Jazem Al-Hafar. His teeth were all golden, his lower lip was burnt, and his eyes were dark green. I’ve dealt with such situations before, my visits have taken me far and wide, but this man was something different. His whole aura was different. I felt scared and alone, but I couldn’t resist. I felt enthralled once again. So I did as he told me, I followed him into the basement of the shop. We grabbed torches and went down a narrow corridor, which seemed endless. Soon, we arrived. There was nothing there but a table with two chairs, and a scripture. A few candlesticks gave the place an ambience of dread and decay. The scripture, I thought, it’s right there. He motioned me to sit, and he sat directly across. 

The scripture was now in his hands, the seal had come off, he unwrapped the paper and gave it to me in a ritualistic way. I took it with my shivering hands, looked at Jazem and then looked at the writing itself. I couldn’t understand a word, the letters were written in a language I’d never seen, and not only that, they were also moving across the page, shaking, twisting. They formed a circle and started spinning faster and faster. I felt the scripture wearing me down, it was too heavy for my hands, but I couldn’t let go, no matter how hard I tried. The circle kept increasing in speed, and within its boundaries something began emerging, another piece of writing, I thought. A sign. A sign resembling nothing at all, yet melting my mind the more I stared at it. I kept losing energy, the intensity of the moving letters kept increasing, and slowly the sign became a window into another world, or dimension. I saw many people through that window, the train passengers, the hotel owners, the coffee shop keeper, those children on the street, and they all had the same sign on their foreheads, glowing in bright yellow. I wanted desperately to break the scroll’s hold, but I couldn’t. The window suddenly became a mirror, and I could see myself in there. Eyes wide open, full of blood, swollen nerve endings, and an iris as black as night. Then, when I looked at my forehead, I saw the very same sign, in its bright yellow tone. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. I couldn’t move anything, my mind was trapped inside a still body. 

And then, I woke up, head on the table. I leapt up and saw Jazem Al-Hafar right there, in front of me, holding the scripture, which was now sealed, in his hands. His golden teeth and burnt lip forming a sadistic smile, as he was stroking his beard. He took a candle and approached my face with it. 

“What do they call you, traveler?” he murmured.

I tried answering, but nothing came out. Nothing coherent, that is, only a mumble. A mumble, devoid of meaning and sense. His smile widened, he stood up and started climbing the stairs back to the shop. The wind was howling outside, and as it was making its way through the cavernous tunnel, it blew away all the candles. 

“Soon enough, traveler, all will kneel before the King in Yellow.”

[clericbyers]

okay, so, if s4 is set in the upside down, and there's danger at every turn in the UD... what if we get a byler confession, while they think they'll die? like, mike and will are being chased by a monster, they can't outrun it, and mike "sacrifices" himself to save will. while mike's running at it, fully convinced he'll die, he yells out a quick confession. it's really dramatic, and then everyone shows up, and starts killing the monster. it's later revealed that they heard the confession

Will’s chest burns with a conglomerate of pressures from inside his lungs and outside in the air. His arm is twisted funnily but he can barely feel the pain in comparison to the burning fire searing through his veins. One, two, one, two, he repeats in his head, taking a step with each desolate count. The darkness is never ending just as it was all those years ago and while there is some comfort found in not being alone, as he hears a crunch and whirls around with a quickness to spot Mike tripping over a fallen branch, Will is equally scared to have brought his friends along with him into this dangerous land. The Upside Down knows Will is here; the Mind Flayer can taste his flesh as easily as Will can taste the spores on his tongue with every breath from his mouth. No one is safe and Will and Mike are stupidly separated from the others. It was an accident, a moment spent too long trying to reassure each other that they would be okay, and suddenly, the party was split and Mike and Will were left alone to race against time. Time trapped in the morphing body of a shadow, of the monsters, of Death itself.

Time moves awkwardly; it ticks by slowly with the legs of an addled creature yet is equally as unchangeable as the irrefutable concept. The second hand slows its trajectory. It oscillates between moon-driven chilling ocean waves and sun-struck ripples of hot, sticky heat. It’s stuck between seconds yet jumping into minutes, never stable yet stable enough for time to pass. A bell tolls somewhere in the distance. Top of the hour, what hour Will can’t even begin to guess. Time works differently here, looping around his ankles until he trips into the next minute and the next minute and the next minute until he’s toppling over the edge into a free fall. A blanket of misdirection topples over Will’s eyes and he skids to a stop with a heaving breath. He turns to look at Mike, who isn’t far away but is far enough away that he could be lost in the darkness without even realizing it.

Will snaps his fingers, a glimmer of light sparking from the tips of his numb fingers and he repeats the action again and again in hopes that Mike can see the flashing light and find his way back to Will’s side. That’s all Will has ever wanted: Mike right at his side, forever and always, never leaving him as he can never leave Mike. The other boy makes his way where he belongs and hunches over as he catches a shaky breath or two. Mike’s bangs are plastered with sweat against his forehead and Will feels a silly urge within to brush those thin strands away. Perhaps it’s an urge he’s always had, perhaps it’s an urge he has now that they are lost and the possibility of time catching up to them disassembles into realism. Will’s not pessimistic, he leaves that to Lucas, but he’s not fairly optimistic either, he leaves that to Dustin. Realism isn’t where his ideas settle either, not since the Upside Down stole reality from him and shoved nightmares down his throat until he was choking on slugs and burning from the inside out as a demonic monster controlled his body. He doesn’t know where his ideas lie, perhaps nominalism or a more pragmatic strain of realism, but it doesn’t really matter when the world is falling apart around him and philosophical disciplines mean little in the face of near death.

Still, there’s something about Death’s touch hovering over Will’s throat as he watches Mike that makes him question such minimal things as the way one looks at life. And when Mike looks over at Will and shoots him a soft smile despite the blood and dirt smearing his face, Will is struck with a smidgen of optimism, a subtle mist against the crushing sensations taking over his thoughts. Maybe things aren’t that bad when Will’s got his best friend looking at him like he’s the only person that matters in the world. No, not the only person that matters in the world—they know first hand there are at least two worlds in existence, maybe more—Will is the only person that matters in his world, and that’s far more touching than anything else.

Will would kiss Mike if he had permission to do so.

The moment is gone as easily as it appeared, snapped in half with fear and shock as a monster’s cry shrieks through the air. Mike stands full and quickly turns toward the sound, reaching a hand out for Will in an odd gesture of comfort. Will doesn’t know if he’s supposed to take Mike’s hand, but he does anyway, shuddering at the familiar touch that’s been kept from him for so long. Mike’s fingers are warm despite the Upside Down’s chilly atmosphere and for a moment Will wonders if Mike is the one between them with the electric manipulation powers. Mike’s hold tightens and in the blink of an eye, Will finds himself slammed into Mike’s chest, his twisted arm throbbing as it smashes against the taller boy’s body.

Will doesn’t have a moment to ask what’s happening before the clock is ticking and he’s stumbling into the next moment in time. His fingers slip from Mike’s grip, wetness from sweat and moisture making things too slippery to maintain a solid hold. Mike turns back to grab at him but Will is already free falling and nothing but air fills his fist as he reaches out to grab onto whatever he can. The distance between them grows larger but Will still feels the echo of Mike’s warm hand on his. He can hear the monster screaming again, branches crunching and crumbling to dust under the creature’s heated feet. Will knows he’s not physically there anymore, but time has yet to catch up with his physical location so he sees the monster getting closer. He watches scaly claws and sharp teeth slither toward Mike, prepared to strike and taste the revitalizing, viscous blood of the boy who resists the Upside Down the most. Mike is still facing Will, his mouth wide open from calling out Will’s name. Mike can’t see the monster behind him, he can’t see that he’s seconds away from dying, so Will calls out in turn hoping that the other boy can hear him.

Mike turns, notices the monster, and then starts sprinting as fast he can to close the distance between him and Will and lengthen the one between himself and the monster. Will trips into a stand still, time frozen within him yet everything around him continues on, slinking through the shadows as it chases after his friends and family. Mike’s gesticulating wildly and shouting something Will can’t really hear, but when he skirts to a stop by Will, he can hear him much like hearing voices underwater. Will tries to open his mouth to reply but no words come out. Mike desperately looks back and then turns on his heel, face drawn tight with worry and a special type of concern that can’t be put in words. It hurts Will’s heart and he’s barely able to hear Mike’s parting words before the darkness takes his sight and envelopes him in smothered smoke. 

I’ll keep you safe, I promise! I’ll chase it away but you need to stay hidden! Wait for me, okay?

Wait for me, okay?

Wait for me, wait for me, wait for me.

Wait, wait, wait.

Tick, tock, tick tock, tick tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Time comes back in flaky, peeling layers that unwind and unfold into consciousness. It slams into Will’s body with every chilling breeze and he shivers back into reality with lingering shock. His hands are burning, sparkling with lightning and static despite him not even remembering activating an energy surge. It doesn’t matter now; somehow time has sent Will into the thick of things and there’s not a moment to waste. Almost like magnets of the opposite charge, Will and Mike easily find each other on the battlefield. Will feels like he’s missing something—there’s a gap in his memory, not as frightening as his memory loss when the Mind Flayer possessed him, but still an issue to be concerned about. When the monster is defeated though, the memories come back like gentle waves and it overlays the exhaustion burning his chest. Will’s chest is always burning, scarring over with every breath, but it burns with a soothing ache that reminds him that he’s alive and himself. The memories he lost when time played with his soul help mend the holes in his mind left by existing in the Upside Down.

The last memories Will regains are Mike’s parting words. They come through in a fuzzy haze as he’s holding the other boy to his chest, tending to the wounds Mike collected being overprotective of everyone. His hands freeze while wiping a bleeding scratch clean and time speeds up with his beating heart. Mike turns to give Will a look, probably curious as to why he suddenly stopped patching his wounds but the injured boy doesn’t get the chance to ask a question when Will pulls him up by his face and kisses him before time can steal the moment away.

I’ll keep you safe, I promise.

tick. tock.

I’ll chase it away but you need to stay hidden!

tick. tock.

Wait for me, okay?

tick.

You won’t ever lose me. Even if I die, you’re never alone.

tock.

Best thing I’ve ever done…

ticktockticktockticktockti—

…was fall in love with you.

[spinbitchzu]

lazarus | harumi

The elevator descends with sickening stagnance. All around her, the bodies tremble and sweat, fear pouring off of them in waves. Harumi has stopped being afraid; her skin is glass and everything underneath is missing, leaving only the terrible hollowness. Her heart beats slow in her head and chest and fingers, until she can hardly hear the whirr of the elevator car over the dull thud that feels like a countdown.

The shaft shakes with the commotion outside, and everyone moans in terror as one. Harumi is pressed against the cold doors as the inhabitants of the elevator seem to expand as if there’s anywhere to escape to. The walls seem to shrink down and the cold of the metal leeches into her skin. Another child whimpers and begins to sob, hidden somewhere in the crush of people.

“Honey, listen to me. Listen to me, everything will be okay,” a voice comes, shaking but tender. Harumi feels sick to her stomach.

The soft chime of the bell announces their arrival on the first floor, and as the doors crack, Harumi is shoved forward as the crowd flees in panic, scattering like ants. The woman, whose arms her parents had shoved her in, momentarily hesitates, a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, kid, you need to get to safety!” she cries. The whites of her eyes are too big as her eyes roll like a spooked horse.

Harumi stays rooted in place, listening to the rumble in the distance that shakes her to her core. She’s completely paralyzed.

“My parents,” she manages to whisper, resisting the jostling. “They’re still in there.”

“Kid, they’re as good as dead, you need to leave with me,” the woman urges her, pulling more insistently.

Harumi shakes her head frantically, panic bubbling in her throat. “I need to wait for my parents!”

The woman stares at her for a moment, almost calculating, and then her head snaps up as she catches a glimpse of something over Harumi’s shoulder. She blanches, and when she looks back, any semblance of compassion in her eyes is replaced by the unflinching hunger of someone who’s survival hangs in the balance. The sword of Damocles whistles as it cuts through the air and the woman turns tail, leaving Harumi alone.

It’s a funny feeling, to be standing in the middle of the chaos as it erupts. Harumi turns, too slow, to see the source of the woman’s fear and watches in captivated horror as all hell breaches the earth. A colossal serpent explodes through the sky scrapers, sending debris in every direction, and blasts through the street, following a red blur. She stares at it, realizing it’s one of the ninja that protects the city.

Her heart lifts and her lips part to shout to him, shout that her parents need help, but he’s gone before the words come. Instead of rescue, she sees gleaming muscular coils constrict around her apartment building. The structure creaks and groans, cracks spiderwebbing up the stucco sides. Harumi’s breath catches.

And then the building just gives, shattering in every direction.

Plumes of dust billow into the air and all around her, the screaming swells, harmonizing in a dissonant chord with the wail of sirens and car alarms and something else. There’s a wild, almost animalistic shriek mixed in with the cacophony. It takes a moment before she connects it to the choked fire tearing up her throat, and she dimly realizes the scream is coming from her.

“Mom! Dad!” The words escape her in a wretched howl. Before she can even process, she’s kneeling in the wreckage, shards of glass digging into her knees. Her hands scrabble and scrape on the jagged edges as she digs through the pile, desperation coursing through her veins like rolling lava.

Unlike before, she’s no longer empty—rather the opposite. Every warring emotion seems to spill over the brim, every heightened sensation too overwhelming to process. She becomes aware of the hot tears spilling down her cheeks and tastes the salt mixing with acrid ash.

The sobs that escape her are huge and gulping as she furiously digs through the rubble. The yawning cavern that gapes in her chest feels like it’s swallowing her as her fists fall fruitlessly on the uncaring heap.

“Mommy!” she bawls, voice splintering. “Daddy, please come back! Please, where are you?”

Where are you?

She shoves what must have once been a table and keeps digging. Her fingers catch on a broken window pane and slick, hot blood courses down her palms.

I need you!

A fit of coughing descends upon her as dust motes float into the air. She blinks away the tears that mingle with the grime on her face and sniffles and keeps digging.

I don’t want to be alone...

The drywall she moves crumbles to reveal more rubble, endlessly heaped in every which way. But if she gives up, what will she have left? The all-consuming maw that threatens to finish her? Harumi grits her teeth, eyes stinging once more, and keeps digging. Every inch of her quivers with adrenaline and need.

I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE!

The thought explodes across her like a wildfire and she flies into a frenzy of digging. Everything kind of whites out for the next few moments. Harumi tastes metallic copper with the salt in her mouth, and as her breath turns ragged, her spittle is dyed scarlet. It seems like a loop where as much as she digs, she only finds more debris.

Then suddenly, she heaves a fallen door over and her whole world freezes over. Time trickles to a stop. Even her heart seems to pause in its hammering rhythm. Her hands stiffen over what she’s uncovered.

The flesh under hers is cold and clammy, and does not give. It’s strange, almost grey, as if it isn’t human at all, but Harumi knows with annihilating certainty that it is.

And—

And it hurts unimaginably so. More than she thought it ever would. Pain seems to physically press against her heart as she lets out a strangled gasp, desperate for the inflation of her lungs to alleviate the pressure.

Her gut clenches, and she throws herself to the left as the contents of her stomach make a violent reappearance. She can’t help but weep even when her stomach settles and all the tension leaks from her body as she collapses into what used to be her home. She doesn’t stir from her position, eyes locked on the very thing that caused her nausea: a pair of intertwined hands that once stroked her hair and pinched her cheeks. Their wedding bands, though veiled in a thin layer of dirt, shine dimly in the light.

Harumi thinks, in an oddly abstracted way, that this is what it feels like to die.

Is this what damnation is? To have every little bit of you that loves be extinguished in one fell swoop? And if she lives still, what is left over? What survives the loss of everything that matters?

In the background, the sounds of the city carry on. The car alarms continue to rise and fall in their endless cry. The people continue to shout in fear. Even that forsaken snake continues to tear through the city, trailing destruction. But in Harumi’s head, everything has become eerily quiet.

Her eyes crack open as she senses something change. She opens her eyes to complete darkness, with just one beacon of light. Harumi’s eyes lock onto the tiny dark figure at the top of the building, sparkling with the golden weapons he raises. The crushing weight on her chest lifts for the briefest moment as Lord Garmadon’s mouth twists in a wordless scream as he plummets off the building. It should inspire terror or concern or satisfaction or something, but instead—

Instead, her mouth knifes up into a ruined little smile. And slowly, softly, Harumi’s heart begins to beat again.

…

Harumi waits for the rescue she knows will come. Soaked in the slimy aftermath of the Great Devourer’s defeat from head to toe, she sits cross-legged on the pile and makes up a little song in her head to pass the time.

The paramedic who puts a blanket around her shoulders has a gentle voice despite the exhaustion she must be fighting. Her tone is light as she remarks:

“My, my. Aren’t you the quiet one!”

... In the wake of the battle, Harumi is shepherded from place to place like a lost lamb. First, it’s a shelter full of cold strangers and burned-out volunteers. Then they drop her in an orphanage where the linoleum floors smell of lemon cleaners and the children cry all night.

Finally, she’s being chauffeured into the royal palace, feeling small and out of place to meet the royal family. The king and queen smile beatifically at her, but their painted masks ruin the effect. She shivers and pulls away from them, with their moon-white faces and blood-red lips, grotesquely beautiful. The cloying luxury of the palace, untouched despite the battle, disturbs her.

“This is your new home, Harumi,” the queen tells her, tucking her into bed. “Try to leave the past behind, okay? You’re a princess now.”

“And you should call us mom and dad,” the king adds kindly. “Good night, Harumi.”

She studies the happiness on their porcelain faces with detached curiosity and then imitates it. Like a little doll, she parrots back, “Goodnight, Mom, goodnight, Dad.”

That night she dreams of the elevator, of the doors that slide shut and seal her fate. Then four pairs of ink-black hands appear in the gap just before they close and pry the doors back open. In the darkness, a pair of glowing violet eyes appear, along with a razor-sharp smile.

Do not fear. I will protect you, daughter.

Harumi wakes up with something to believe in.