#although under the weather feels like an understatement

[edulweiss]

*longest sigh ever*

[aennasan]

There is a reason why Kenji Sato stays hole up in his room whenever he is sick.

It wasn't because he is too sick to move around and take care of himself. If that happens, Mina would have taken care of him in a pod, where he could rest for the whole day, and feel better the next day.

It wasn't because he hates being seen as weak either. The idea of being seen at his most vulnerable may have brought a pink hue on his cheeks but it didn't bother him as much. He is sick after all. There is nothing wrong with that.

What bothers him is the fact that he could be a bit….er….. clingy. When he is feeling under the weather, the constant warmth of someone is very comforting to him.

Actually, a bit clingy may be an understatement.

When Mina informed you that Kenji cannot meet you for the day because he is not feeling well, it worried you so much, especially, when Mina insisted that he would be alright and she would take care of him.

Although Mina is an amazing help, how could you just sit back, and wait for him to get better without checking up on him, or lending a hand to take care of your own boyfriend.

Mina was insistent that you shouldn't. But you refused to back down, so against her better judgment, she let you in, with a reminder and an ominous warning; “I wish you goodluck.”

The moment you stepped foot out of work, you made your way to his house, and it broke your heart to see him bundled up, and sleeping under the covers. His shivers were so intense, that even if he is hiding beneath a bunch of fluff, you can see the tremors above.

“Kenji, I am here. Do you need anything?” You softly called out to him, and patted the area, where you thought he would have his head.

After hearing your voice, his tremors stopped… for a moment. He whipped his head out of the covers with renewed vigor, eyes wide, nose red, his whole face is pale with sickness.

You almost fell backwards when he suddenly hugged your torso and nestled his head on your stomach. You shivered at the sudden shift of temperature, feeling the heat boiling out of his skin, goosebumps forming on the part of your body he touched.

“How are you? Feeling better?” You asked. Voice laced with concern and worry. He didn't reply, instead he just shook his head like a kid. You put your hand on his forehead to check his fever, and you don't need a thermometer to know that even if it was midday now, his fever hasn't gone down.

“I’ve brought some porridge. Let me put them in a bowl so you could eat. Mina told me that you refused to eat anything. That is not good, you need food to have energy, and for the medicine to work.”

Removing his arms tightly hugging you, you scold him softly, and leave a kiss on his forehead before putting a plaster of kool fever, to help with his high temperature. You heard him cooed at the coolness, and watch as he closes his eyes, as you help him tucked back on his bed. His head resting comfortably on his pillows. You left his room, and made sure to close his door softly, before heading towards his kitchen, and put the food you bought in the microwave to heat it up.

Even outside his room, the air is thickened with the heady smell of sickness. Usually, Kenji would play even if he was sick. However, with the gloomy atmosphere of his house, and the minimal lights opened. You are sure that he never even set foot out of his room, for anything. You tapped your finger on the counter, as you watched the red blinking number countdown. You were in deep thought worrying over Kenji, that you didn't see the shadow looming behind you, the quiet steps he took as he approached you.

You let out a scream of bloody murders when an army suddenly snaked around your waist. His face resting at the crook of your neck. His arms tighten up, whenever you try to move or do anything, refusing to let you go.

“Kenji? Oh god! You scared me! What are you doing here?

“You're taking too long.” He replied. Voice muffled because he still refuses to remove his face, nestling on your neck.

“Too long? I'm just heating up your food for five minutes. I will be back soon.” You convince him, as you try to remove his arms around you. Feeling uncomfortable with his high body heat, racked with fever. He is still way too strong for someone who is sick.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” He repeated. And you admit a bunch of question marks were forming on your head.

What exactly is going on? Also…Where is Mina? She is awfully quiet. She didn't even inform you about Kenji walking towards you.

Kenji Sato. Your boyfriend. Refuses to leave or move or let go of you, no matter how much you begged him too. He would even tsk or let out noises of disapproval whenever you try to do something to outsmart him.

So in the end, you just make yourself comfortable while he snuggle and hug your arm. His head resting on your chest.

“Kenji, what if I get sick too because you are way too close to me.”

“I’ll take care of you. And snuggle with you too.”

You are trying your best not to let out an exasperated sigh. No one told you that Kenji could be so clingy whenever he feels sick and vulnerable.

It got to the point that even if you excuse yourself going to the bathroom, he would throw a tantrum and cry, if you don't allow him in and allow him to hold your hand to do your business. The second time he refuses to let you go, you scolded him for a bit, which made him let you go alone, although reluctantly. You watch as he just sits there by the door, looking so sad and lonely, that guilt gnaws in your chest.

He looks like a kicked puppy, more than his usual wolfish demeanor and persona, which seeks to be always on the top.

After some time, Kenji finally slept like a log. The fever finally went down. You let out a sigh of relief and did your best not to make a sound so as to not wake him up.

You have learned your lesson when you woke him up earlier. You were greeted by a disgruntled Kenji, scowling, and full of distrust. He would close his eyes but the moment he realizes he did, he will shoot awake and scowl at you with a pout. Asking if you moved. Even if you say no, he will just glare at you.

It was like playing a game you will never ever win so you just sat there, holding his hand tightly, patting his side, humming a melody, to make him feel relaxed and finally sleep.

You thank all the gods when you pull your hand from his hold, and all he does is grumbles a bit before turning, and continues sleeping.

You tiptoed walking towards outside his room, making sure that you will not make any noise, as you slowly close his door. You were in bated breath as you carefully walked backwards away from his door, counted to ten, and cried tears of joy when no angry Kenji went out to lash out at your disappearance.

You almost had a heart attack when the moment you turned, Mina was in front of you.

“Mina, you-”

“I wished you good luck. I even told you not to go.” The AI replied with a sound followed by a shrug.

You're probably just so tired and drained that you have no energy to argue, and you even thanked her for preparing a meal and a hot bath for you as an apology.

Although, a sick Kenji is a pain in the ass, you admit he looks kind of cute and adorable, pouting and clingy like that. You just hope that when he does that next time, it wasn't because he was sick.

You can't take cute photos of a sick Kenji Sato, right?

[beanxiv]

be there for you ; katsuki bakugou

summary: katsuki always takes care of you, it's time to return the favor for your beloved!

word count: 1k

note: i'm finally transferring all of my old work to this acc, you can applaud

warnings: cussing, use of petnames, sick katsuki :(

katsuki took pride in keeping himself fit and healthy. you knew this better than anyone else. he slept early, dressed according to the weather, and ate only what was best for his body (most of the time.) but the one day he left the dorms for his early sunday morning jog, wearing nothing but a tank top and sweats, was the day the sky almost split apart in thundering lightning and rain.

so when katsuki came back to the dorms angry and swearing on everything under the sun-- or, rain?--, dripping wet, and shivering, you were sent to a panic.

he swore he was fine and waved off your worries. he'd just dry off and continue with his day like normal. a little rain wouldn't faze the katsuki bakugou; future number one hero!

yeah, more like number one stubborn shit. (lovingly ofc 🥰)

within the next day he wasn't even able to leave his room for classes. bedridden and extremely unhappy about it.

you weren't allowed to skip classes unless it was an emergency (in your opinion, this was most definitely an emergency), so you settled on waking up early to leave a loving feel better note on his nightstand and some medicine before you left for classes.

to say it was a long day for both of you was an understatement.

for katsuki, he missed you and cursed himself for getting sick and missing school. now he'd be behind all his classmates and forced to catch up when he got back to school.

for you, you also missed your boyfriend and worried about his health. wondering if he took the medicine you left for him. you knew he wouldn't want you to worry about him, but you couldn't help it.

the school day lingered far longer than it usually felt. but as soon as the last dismissal bell rang, you were sprinting to the dorms. you didn't bother knocking when you reached katsuki's door, there was the possibility he was asleep, and you didn't want to bother him.

he was very much awake when you opened the door, and the creak of the hinges made him jump.

"katsuki! what the hell are you doing?"

"fuck.." katsuki stood up from his desk like he just got caught committing a crime. "uh, 'm not doin' anythin'."

his words were tired and slurred. so were his movements.

"you little shit, were you studying??" your words were scolding, but not harsh.

"uh, no." katsuki's eyes darted to the textbook that laid open on his desk, that he was definitely not pouring over two seconds before you walked in.

"i can't believe you-- well actually i can. but that doesn't make this any better!" you moved towards his desk, shutting the notebook and turning back to your workaholic boyfriend. "you didn't rest at all today did you?"

katsuki coughed, unable to blatantly lie to you again. you shook your head and sighed. "did you at least take the medicine i left you?" when he nodded you continued. "good. now, get in bed, i'll change out of my uniform and be back soon."

katsuki knew better than to defy you now. he climbed into his bed with half-hearted grumbles about you bossing him around, and how he's totally fine, doesn't need you to look after him at all.

when you arrive again, katsuki sees that you've brought with you more medicine, a bottle of water water, an extra blanket, and— is that a bowl of ramen? when you noticed katsuki eyeing the steaming bowl you giggled.

"you probably haven't eaten yet, and i know how much you like ramen. although, this one isn't spicy, it'll warm you up just fine."

"thanks, baby..." katsuki mumbled as you placed the meds and blanket on his desk, then settled into bed next to him with the water and ramen.

"i'll get ya sick," katsuki gently shoved you away from his burning body.

you shrugged, "i'd rather be sick with you than for you to be sick alone."

katsuki smiled at the thought of your affection until you placed the water on his night-stand and tried to feed him the ramen.

"what, no i can feed myself, idiot." he turned his face from the spoon of broth you were trying to give him.

at that you frowned, "you're allowed to accept help from others katsuki, especially me. i just wanna be there for you and if you don't let me... then i've failed at my duty as a significant other," you half-joked, placing a dramatic palm to your chest.

katsuki rolled his eyes, "fine." he let you spoon a few bites into his mouth to your delight.

"mm, 's good." katsuki's attitude had deflated and he leaned against your side as you fed him the warm broth. once he'd finished the entire bowl of ramen you settled under the covers with him, they were insanely warm. it made you want to curl up under his chest, wrapped in his arms and the sheets.

as if it was second nature, katsuki did just that-- tucked you under his chin; arms circling around you. he gave you a squeeze and sighed. it was like all his problems went away when you were cuddled into him.

"baby, 'm gonna get you sick." katsuki mumbled against your head.

"but you'll be there to take care of me too, yeah?" you kissed his jaw and katsuki could've sworn his fever increased by a few degrees.

" f'course i will." he returned your kiss, maneuvering his head to place it on your head, right between your eyebrows. no matter how many times katsuki did it-- giving you sweet, innocent kisses would never not give you butterflies that fluttered around your lungs and tickled your stomach.

you giggled against his neck, "well, then. maybe getting sick doesn't sound so bad."

like and rblg if you enjoyed!

© beanxiv — all rights reserved. copying, reposting, translating, and modifying in any platform or by any means is not allowed.

[carnivorousyandeere]

Welcome to the Cliffside Inn P.2; Cecilia Intro

Time to meet the imposing Lady of the Inn, the manager, the boss, and Kurtis’ long-suffering mother— the octopus mermaid, Cecilia Silverton.

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5

You didn’t get to rest much before a knock came at the door. Blearily, you wandered towards the door and cracked it open, ready to let the cleaning staff know you were okay for now.

But your eyes met an imposing figure in a silk dress and shawl, rather than housekeeping garb. Your eyes met hers for a brief moment, and your heart just about leaped out of your throat.

You may not have recognized her son at first sight, but you certainly recognized Cecilia Silverton, the manager of the Inn. She was featured heavily in the promotional materials of the raffle you’d entered.

Seeing your mouth gaping like a fish, Cecilia brushed past you into the room and straightened the blankets and pillows you’d been lying in before sitting down and patting the place next to her.

You sat nervously, letting the hotel door swing closed with a click.

“H-hello, Mrs. Silverton,” you started, cursing yourself for being so starstruck. But it wasn’t her wealth that really intimidated you, as much as her stature and the icy expression on her face.

“Doctor,” she corrects, raising an eyebrow and holding her hand out as you stumble over yourself to apologize. “It’s quite alright, my dear. Many publications forget to include that title.”

You gulp nervously but nod.

“In any case, I just wanted to welcome you personally to the Cliffside Inn, and…” She sighs, though not without affection, “to apologize for my son, Kurtis. He can be rather… spirited.”

The understatement makes you want to laugh, but you hold it in for fear of offending Cecilia.

“It’s alright,” you smile placatingly. “He is energetic.”

Cecilia smiles, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes. “Yes. I just wanted to be sure the welcome you received was up to the Cliffside standards.”

She stands, taking in a deep breath. “Although… you do seem a little under the weather, dear. Mind if I check your temperature?”

Before you can answer, Cecilia feels your forehead with the back of her hand. “Hmmm… you don’t feel too warm… but please don’t hesitate to reach out if you’re feeling unwell. We want all of our guests to be happy and comfortable during their stay.”

Failing to wait for your response once more, Cecilia swishes out the door.

[direwombat]

oooh how about “5. that emotional moment that you can't find a plot for” for the short fic challenge with fragile creatures:3

god i'm so sorry for dropping this 3k beast for a prompt fill but...it ran away from me. M to E range for some light smut but please enjoy syb going reaching her braking point :)

When Sybille calls Jacob to meet her in the mountains, she has every intention of killing him. 

It was a decision she had made a long time ago. All of the Seeds are dangerous in their own right. John was volatile. Joseph is cunning. Even Faith had a way of distorting reality to her whims. But she’d been confident she could find a non-violent solution to neutralize and bring those three to justice (although, her success in that matter could be debated). Jacob, on the other hand, based on what she knows about him — and she knows more than most — he’s not going to give her any other choice. He’ll die for the Project. For his family. And she gets the distinct feeling that the only way she can bring the others to justice is if he’s six feet under. 

Without him, the Cult loses its strength. They’ll be weak. Vulnerable. It’ll only be a matter of time before they crumble and fall apart entirely. 

It’s the smart, tactical move. 

Killing Jacob means a swifter victory. 

It also means killing the only person who’s ever seen her for who she truly is. Not the big sister or quasi-mother figure her brother sees. Not the Deputy or some sort of savior the rest of the county thinks she is. 

Her. He sees her. A woman whose fear is only overpowered by her stubbornness and who desperately fights to protect the people of the county because if she can’t do that, then what fucking good is she? He sees how she shoulders the burden of Soldier and Commander. How she bears the familiar mantle and ignores the consuming dread that when this is all said and done, they’re just going to discard her the same way the military did when they deemed her unfit for further service. 

Some people — people like Joseph — are born for greatness. But people like her, and people like Jacob? They’re born to die, because in the end, they're more useful as martyrs. Tools used to forge the path of victory. Never the victors themselves. 

He understands this, and aside from herself, she thinks he’s the only person in the damn county who does. She just wishes he also saw the tragedy in it too. 

Which only fucking makes this all the more fucking difficult. To say things are complicated between the two of them would be an understatement. The intense eye contact. The clandestine meetings. The way he fucks and gives her everything she didn’t know she needed — only you, only you, only you. She’ll never admit it because admitting it would make it real, but there’s a not insignificant part of her that thinks she might love him. 

But this is war. Her feelings have no place here and she can’t let them cloud her judgment. She’s better — stronger — than that. 

So, she called Jacob on their private channel under the usual pretense and told him to pick her up on the road towards their cabin. 

She walks into the biting winds, her fists shoved so deep in her jacket pockets that she threatens to punch straight through them. The leather of her bomber jacket does well to keep her torso warm, but the denim of her jeans just make her legs go stiff as she trudges through the snow. Off in the distance is the roar of an engine, smoothly changing gears to accommodate the slope. All the Peggie trucks sound the same, and a small, selfish part of her is grateful he’ll be here soon, if only so she can get out of the weather. 

A few moments later, she’s silhouetted by the vehicle’s headlights. Her shadow cuts a stark shape into the bright white snow on the ground. She turns around, shielding her eyes, and squints into the light. Scratched and dirty eggshell paint, a black cross painted on its hood; she may not be able to see the driver, but as it pulls to a halt a few meters from her and flashes its beams, she knows it’s him. 

She stomps her way over to the passenger door and flings it open. The rattling heater working overtime to warm the cab is a welcome balm to her freezing face and legs. She climbs in, and after slamming the door shut, she rides through an embarrassing full body shiver. “Gotta wear more than a pair of jeans if you plan on hiking up here,” Jacob says in the exact same way he’s told her dozens of times before. She grunts in response, and he doesn’t wait for her to buckle her seat belt before he starts driving again. 

She doesn’t quite settle into the hard leather seat. Too tense, too twitchy, and she knows Jacob notices because he notices everything. Her right hand unclenches in her pocket to instead grip the ice cold pistol tucked next to it. Her teeth peel off a flake of her dry and chapped lips, drawing blood, and she flicks the safety off with an Earth shattering click, but she doesn’t pull it from her pocket. 

Jacob looks at her from the corner of his eye and sighs heavily. “Whatever you’re going to do, Jackrabbit, better do it now.”

It isn’t a threat. It isn’t even a warning. Infuriatingly, she’d call it an order. An acknowledgement of her own ‘now-or-never’ tendencies. If she doesn’t kill him now, she never will. The deep breath she takes doesn’t steel her nerves at all, but as she pulls out her gun and points it at him, her hand is steady. Her voice, however, wavers. “Drive,” is all she says. 

He flares his fingers on the wheel, holding it in the space between his forefinger and thumb — it’s as close to a conceding gesture as he can make — before having to close his grip again to take a bend in the road. “I take it we’re not going to the cabin,” he says after a moment’s silence. 

“Shut up,” she snaps. She shoves the gun towards him emphatically, her finger on the trigger.

There’s a peculiar set to his jaw. It isn’t anger, or even disappointment. It’s something much deeper than that. His shoulders are square and tense; it’s how he’s carried himself every other time they’ve come to blows. But something is different here.

He’s…proud.

She’s not fucking around and he knows it. Knows that his end very well might come with his brains splattered across the interior of his truck. For the first time since they’ve met, his life is in her hands. Not the other way around. And he’d rather die by no one else’s. He doesn’t push her — not even with a smarmy, “Yes, ma’am,” —  not when the distance between her and the edge is minuscule. 

He shuts his mouth and he doesn’t open it. 

He doesn’t ask where they’re going; he knows it doesn’t matter. They pass the small dirt road that leads to their cabin and continue climbing the summit. The silence thickens as the air thins, the atmosphere in the cab heavy and oppressive. A storm cloud ready to burst. 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” she finally says when they turn around to start descending the mountain. One reason. That’s all she’s asking for. It’s all she needs to not have to go through with this.  

He smiles and gives her a glance from the crinkling corner of his eye. “You and I both know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” he answers softly. Of course she does. What reason could possibly alleviate the weight of his crimes and sins? What reason could make her shirk her duties as an officer of the law and let him live?

There’s only one, and it’s not something he can tell her. It’s one she has to admit to herself.

“Is this what you want?” he then asks, and were she standing, she might have actually staggered backwards.

“What I — What I want?” she stammers. “You know damn well this ain’t about what I want.” It never has been. All her life she’s done shit she never wanted to do. She never wanted to drop out of school when mama got sick, but she had to if they wanted to survive. She never wanted to become her brother’s legal guardian after her parents’ murder-suicide, but who would look after him if she didn’t? She never wanted to become the county’s Soldier of Fortune, but no one else had the skills needed to take down the Project at Eden’s Gate. 

And look where that got her.

She never wanted any of this.

“Then why do it?”

She narrows her eyes. The family resemblance has never been more obvious. “You are in no place to be asking questions here,” and she presses the mouth of the barrel just under his jaw. Her breath comes out ragged as she fights against the burning sensation pricking at her eyes. “Ain’t this what you’re all about. Huh? Being stronger than your enemies and shit?”

“If that’s what I am to you.”

“Stop that!” she snaps. “Enough! Enough with the mind games! Stay out of my damn head!”

“I’m not playing any,” he says quietly, and he sounds so impossibly earnest that she doesn’t keep him from slowing the truck to a stop. 

“Bullshit!” she cries. “How else can you be so calm about this?” Why is he just sitting there and letting her do this? Why isn’t he fighting back? What does he have up his sleeve?

“Because I know that whatever you’ve decided, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

That scream that’s been building in her lungs threatens to tear free. “You don’t get it, do you?”she hisses through gritted teeth. Tears escape against her best efforts. “You’re the only one who can stop me.” Only you. Only you can make this change in me. Her hand flexes around the gun’s grip, index finger trembling over the trigger. “So, stop me, Jacob,” she pleads. “Stop me.”

And he could toy with her. God knows she’s making it so easy for him. You surrenderin’, Deputy? You askin’ for me to take control? He could make her admit it, force her to verbalize her own fucking weakness. But he doesn’t. This isn’t the time for games. She’s already coming to him with her ribs cracked open and heart exposed. Hold it, rip it out — she doesn’t give a damn what he does with it. She just needs him to do something. 

He stares at her with those fucking eyes of his, like he’s staring into the goddamn depths of her fucking soul. “Put the gun down,” he says, only rather than coming out harsh and commanding, the order is soft. Almost gentle. His hand covers her’s over its grip, warm and large. He eases her finger off the trigger and slips the safety in place. “Sybille,” he murmurs, “Put the gun down.”

Weak. She’s so fucking weak. Her eyes squeeze shut, fighting back the tears already spilingl over. In all this time, not once has she cried. Not when Dutch told her she was the only one to escape from the helicopter crash. Not when she stood helpless as John bled out in front of her. Not even when her brother had taken on the mantle of Faith. But here? At the end — because that’s what this is: the end of her fighting, the end of her resistance, the end of the rope she’s been wearing as a noose — here, she finally lets herself cry. 

He carefully loosens the pistol from her grip, taking it from her and placing it on the dashboard.

After her pathetic display, he ought to put it against her forehead and cull her instead. She’s shown him the soft fleshy parts she keeps hidden behind her slowly fracturing psyche. The kindest thing he could do is just put her out of her fucking misery. But he doesn’t. Instead, he cradles her face and pulls her in until she feels the heat of his breath fanning against her skin. 

“Sybille,” he says, and the rough pad of his thumb wipes a tear from her cheek. “Open your eyes.” 

And like a good soldier, she does as she’s told. This is just the first of many orders she’s going to take from this man. He’ll tell her to jump and her only question is going to be “how high?” This is it. The tipping of the scales. The point of no return. He’s done it. He’s won. She can’t go back from this. He made her weak. He broke her. He’s going to put the pieces back together however he wants — make her whatever he wants — and she is going to let him. 

She failed. Her mother, her brother, Hope County, herself, she failed them all. 

But she never failed him. Not even when she actively tried. 

There’s a question in his eyes, eyes she wants nothing more than to fall into and drown in. He doesn’t ask it out loud. She’s not sure if he can, but he needs to hear her answer. “Yes,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “Only you. Only you.” And then his lips are on hers in a soft and gentle press. 

She shudders in his arms as he embraces her, dragging her over the gear shift between them and into his lap. A high pitched whimper escapes as she presses herself against him, her mouth opening invitingly and he eagerly welcomes himself inside. He kisses her until she can’t breathe and then he keeps going, greedily stealing the air from her lungs, her soul from her body. She grips his jacket so tight her knuckles go white, and when she can’t take it any more, when they finally break, the hand he has resting at her hip pushes her heated core against him. 

With a low groan, her head falls back, exposing the pale column of her throat. “That’s it,” Jacob murmurs against her skin, dragging his teeth lightly over her jugular and sucking a bruise above her collar — finally marking her in a way that will tell everyone who she belongs to. “Give in, sweetheart. Surrender to me.”

And she does. God help her, she does.

He could do anything he liked to her in this moment, and she wouldn’t fight him. 

She shifts against him, rolling her hips and arching her back as her fingers come twine through his hair, less to guide him and more to steady herself. Tethered to him like he’s a lifeline, she’s liable to drift away if she lets go. An anchor, he grounds her and holds her steady. She’s been adrift so long, battered by wave after wave of misery that it’s a miracle she was never pulled under. But here, with him, she’s finally found her port in the storm

He pulls off her coat, violently peeling it off her arms and exposing her skin to the chilled air inside the cab. She shivers, not because of the cold but out of anticipation, and she’s dipping down to kiss him again. They only break long enough for her to pull her t-shirt over her head and toss it onto the passenger seat. His hands, rough and blazingly hot, stroke her sides, trailing up to cup her tits and thumb at the stiffening peaks of her nipples. 

With a growl, he rips her bra off and she gasps, goosebumps prickling and her hair raising to stand on end. She moans his name and helps him slide her jeans and panties down her hips before she tugs off his belt. Her fingers dance over the button and fly. She pulls him out and wastes no time lining herself up.

There’s a mutual exhalation of breath as she sinks down on him. The breath is pushed from her as he breaches her. He’s a lot to take even if she’s prepped, but she can’t wait for that. She needs him. All her focus goes to the stretching burn as he fills her, rocking her hips until she’s taken him fully. Her head swims at the litany of filthy praise that rolls off Jacob's tongue, and when she finally relaxes, fully adjusted and her legs giving out, his hands come to rest heavy at her hips. A strangled moan escapes her lips, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder as he starts moving. 

They don’t fuck. It’s far too tender to be called that. Jacob has never been a gentle lover, and she can’t deny that during most of their encounters, her own actions were driven by that white-hot combination of rage and lust. But here, there’s none of that. He looks at her with adoration, and every touch is reverant. Here, all she feels is the overwhelming and almost painful intensity of her desire and affection for the man. She loves him.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

And he loves her back.

They rock against each other like they have all the time in the world. Slow, leisurely movements with no worry of being caught or having to rush back to their respective people. It isn’t just some itch to be scratched. This means something. They read each other in ways no one else is capable of doing, letting the pleasure ebb and flow to prolong the end for as long as they can. 

Inevitably though, the tightening coils knotting in their stomachs demand a break in tension. The rocking turns to rutting, and as it does, she lifts her head to press her brow heavily against his, staring him right in the eyes. Her hands run up the musculature of his torso, coming to cradle his face as his grip tightens on her hips and he guides them both towards their beautiful, ecstatic release. 

Stars burst behind her eyelids and she shudders as he cums, warming her from the inside out. Panting heavily, she slumps, boneless against him and presses lazy, open mouthed kisses to his neck as they both catch their breath and the fog of lust lifts. She whimpers as Jacob maneuvers her, tucking her into his chest and her head underneath his chin. But he never pulls out. His cum leaks from her around his softening cock and she grips tightly at his jacket. His arms are wrapped around her, holding her close as he strokes her hair. 

“What happens now?” she whispers. A dark nugget of fear forms in her gut as the afterglow fades and shadows creep back in. For the first time in decades, she’s at a loss for what to do next. 

“Now, I take you home, back where you belong,” he says. 

Home. The word causes something warm and fuzzy to bloom in her chest. He’s been telling her he would do so since this thing between them started. At first she thought it was a threat, and maybe then it was, but now? Now it’s a promise. “And then in the morning you and I are going to talk with Joseph.”

The mention of his brother makes her stomach knot and she instinctually curls in on herself. She stares up at him, weak and doe-eyed. “Don’t…don’t let him take me from you.”

“I won’t,” he says, drawing her in for another kiss. “Your place is with me, Jackrabbit. I’m not gonna let anyone take you.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. She takes a deep breath and for the first time since this all began, she says, “Take me home, Jacob.”

[annaphoenix1994]

Ch.12 - Uncharted Territory

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

Kiera welcomes Ghost into her home; Ghost struggles with his inner thoughts.

Cody, Wyoming

To say that Ghost wasn't nervous was an understatement. His stomach was turning knots during the whole flight, looking down at his lap as the plane landed. Kiera sat close by, but not too close as she wanted to give him his space - she knew he was overwhelmed. 

"Alright, we're here," She smiled at him. "You nervous?" 

"No." 

She cocked her head, knowing he was lying - but she didn't acknowledge it. She noticed how nervous he was by his constant gaze on his lap, his tense shoulders, and his shaky breathing. She began to wonder why he felt this way, but she tried to understand him. He had no home to go to, and no family... his comrades were his family. She then began to wonder if she should have invited Soap herself, knowing that he would at least relax a bit with someone he knew better than her alongside him.

He followed her to the parking garage, the cold Wyoming air piercing the exposed skin around his eyes reacting to the cold air. He still refused to remove his mask, afraid for her to see him as well as be vulnerable. He watched her fumble in her duffel bag, removing a set of keys from the side pocket before pressing the 'unlock' button, revealing a truck that he didn't expect her to be driving - a black fourth gen RAM 3500. Damn.

"We can put everything in the backseat. I'm so ready to go home." 

"I say you are." He replied, going to the passenger side to toss his duffel back into the backseat before climbing up into the passenger seat. The truck smelled of leather and coconut from the bottle of hand lotion in the cupholder. It was an odd mixture, but it was also comforting. 

"Alright, baby, please start." She said to herself, putting the key into the ignition. He watched her turn the key to the right, the diesel working hard to start in the cold weather, hoping that it did. 

After another try, it fired up. 

He tried to hide the smirk on his face under the mask as he looked out the window, watching a small cloud of black smoke coming from the tailpipe. He always loved diesel vehicles, loving the sound of them, although it was unfortunate that trucks like hers weren't as popular in England. Rev it up...

She removed the iPhone that she had kept in the console, plugged in the charger, and waited for it to charge to its desired percentage before turning it on, using the opportunity for the truck to warm up as well. "Alright, let's drown out this silence with some music." She giggled, looking at the notifications from her phone - most of them from her best friend, some being a group chat, and a text every day from her mother: "I love you, sweetheart. Please come home safe! We're so proud of you!" - This was a text her mother sent her every day, even though her mother knew Kiera wouldn't see the text messages until she got her phone back. 

Ghost watched her smile down at her phone, seeing the loving messages as plain as day, wishing he could receive the same thoughtful gestures. He noticed she didn't text her mother back, letting her know she was coming home. Why? 

"I'm going to surprise them. We got back just in time for Thanksgiving with about a week to spare," She said, taking notice that he was looking at her phone in her hands. "We have about an hour's drive from here. Feel free to get some rest." She informed him, opening her music app and playing music through the radio.

"I don't sleep in vehicles." He replied, looking at the screen on the radio to see what song was playing. He wouldn't admit it, but he liked her taste in music and was eager to listen to her playlist. 

The song was It Goes On by Sir Rosevelt and Zac Brown. The tune reminded him of his deployment and he began to wonder if she played it on purpose. 

During the drive, he kept his gaze locked on the landscape, absolutely mesmerized as the only mountains he had seen were ones overseas. Hell, even in England where he was from, he never saw mountains, only buildings. He had no reason to go to the northern country to experience it, although he hoped he could take her to his homeland one day, it was one day at a time at this point. 

The cabin soon smelled like an apple followed by a vague cloud of smoke - she had been puffing on her vape pen that she kept in the breast pocket of her shirt. He didn't like watching her smoke, but he had no reason to express his opinion on it. Hell, drinking was bad, too, but he had plans on downing a few glasses of whiskey. 

Rollin' in Your Grave by Daniel Murphy played on the radio, the rough tune catching his attention before hearing Kiera hum "I got a trigger, don't pull it, get ready to die; I got the right amount of bullets and I'm ready to die" as she exhaled another puff of smoke. 

He then realized that she didn't give a shit who was watching her - she was her own person with a personality. 

A personality that he was growing to admire. 

He was very vague with a morbid sense of humor masking his childhood trauma as she too was vague in pieces and carried the same morbid sense of humor with a wild personality and easy-going attitude, but he could tell she was like this to hide a deep trauma that was concealed by her own heart. "You want me to stop and get something to eat? I'm starving." She grumbled. 

"I can tell. You've been sucking on that vape like it's a pacifier," He chuckled. "It smells appetizing." 

"Hey, it's my lifeline right now. I've been dying to hit it on that last mission," She raised a brow, glancing over at him before taking another inhale. "Still didn't answer my question." 

"I don't care, love. I'm not really hungry." 

She couldn't help but smile at his nickname, knowing most British men said this to women, knowing it wasn't meant to be a label, but it was still nice. "Well, don't be surprised when I get twenty chicken nuggets and a large set of fries from McDonald's and eat every bit of it. I'm fucking hungry. Those MREs were getting old." 

"I won't look when you're stuffing your face with chicken nuggets."

"I don't give a damn if you look or not," She chuckled. "Just wait until Thanksgiving. You'll wonder where it all goes." 

It'll all go to your ass, Ghost thought. And I won't be complaining. I like what I see. Fucking hell, Simon, stop sexualizing her. 

"If you say so." 

"I'll have to go to the store after a while - I don't have any food at my house." 

Simon nodded, leaning back in his seat to take the tension off of his lower back. He couldn't lie, he was very sore and desperate for sleep, but he couldn't take advantage of sleeping in a moving vehicle in fear of an ambush, but he wasn't going to let her know that. 

The silence between them fell again as Simon listened to the words of a Zach Bryan song. "So open the gates I'm here to prove, I'm better than my father was and where he came from, too." 

Fuckin' relatable, he thought. 

He ended up dozing off, the leather seat of the truck cradling him as she drove. She took notice of this and turned down the radio a few notches to let him rest, soon pulling onto the gravel driveway that led to her home. It was a running ranch with the main lodge where her parents stayed, a bunkhouse for the half-dozen wranglers that helped maintain the ranch, and a separate house further down the driveway where she lived. Stopping at the gate, she used the remote hanging on her sun visor to open it before driving through. Simon awoke at the sudden stop, his thoughts taking him back to Mexico. His hand rested on the handle of the door, preparing himself to jump out and proceed to combat before the realization of being in Kiera's vehicle stopped him from doing so. "Relax, Simon." She said in a comforting tone. 

She drove slowly along the driveway, Simon looking out the window at two wranglers on horseback, each equipped with a rope and a rifle in the scabbard on their saddles. "It's normal here," She spoke up. "We're close to the mountains. Never know when a wolf or a bear will surprise you." 

"Oh," Simon sighed. "So I guess the Colonel was right." 

"Right about what?" 

"He said you were a true cowgirl." 

She blushed, "I guess you can say that, but cowboys and cowgirls never have to introduce themselves as one. It's one hell of a life running a ranch. You'll see." She then stopped next to one of the wranglers on horseback, recognizing him as her younger cousin. 

"Well, well, well!" He shouted, stopping his horse. "Go on leave for three months and come back with a husband!" He poked. 

"Shut the fuck up," She scoffed, hiding her blush from Simon. "Don't tell mom and dad I'm back. I was gonna surprise them." 

"They're out in town anyway getting lunch," He waved her off. "They'll be back for dinner. Your daddy's got to pick up a load of calves. They took the trailer with him." 

Simon watched Kiera roll her eyes playfully at the thought before looking over at Simon, "My dad is damn sixty years old and he doesn't stay still. Always doing shit he doesn't need to be doing when he's got young men around here to do all the hard work for him." 

He chuckled at her words mixing with her accent, "I see where you get it from." 

"Frankie, this is Simon," She introduced. "He's our guest." 

"Guest as in guest, or boyfriend?" He poked. 

She glared at Frankie, "A guest I'm about to give permission to hurt you if you don't shut the fuck up." 

"Copy that, Officer," He snickered, readjusting himself in the saddle, mocking his cousin playfully. "I'll see you at dinner. Gonna go push some cattle to the front pasture for the winter." 

"That should've been done already." 

"Shit, you ain't been back for an hour and already runnin' this place. This ain't that much of a tight ship, cousin. Simmer down." He played.

Simon didn't like how her cousin was talking to her, mainly because he wasn't used to watching relatives bicker in play. He had hoped, for Frankie's sake, that he was joking. Otherwise, he'd be getting a death glare from Simon every time he laid eyes on him. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you around." 

"When you get a minute, you need to exercise that blonde horse of yours. The fucker has been batshit crazy since you left." 

"Maybe because nobody else besides me is supposed to be ridin' him." She retorted, rolling up her window before accelerating the truck forward, curving around a bend and passing the main lodge. Simon's eyes were glued to it - it was a modern log cabin with exquisite taste and class that was at least two stories. 

"Why isn't nobody else supposed to ride your horse?" Simon asked with curiosity. 

"It's a rule around here. Not just for me, but for everyone. You don't ride another cowboy's horse. We have horses that are a free-for-all, but a wrangler's main horse or one of the family's, it's a big no-no. Our horses are our partners. You bond with them to work together. If you put another person on them with different buttons, you can get yourself in a bind." She explained. 

"Never thought of it that way." 

"It's no different than military dogs," She shrugged. "You get used to a dog that's your partner in the field and expect them to be the same with another handler? No, they change completely because the energy is different. Same concept." She said, slowing the truck down to a stop outside her house. It too was one of class. It was a log cabin as well, but only one story. A pair of elk antlers hung above the front door and decorative lights lined the walkway. But what really caught his eye was the view of the snowcapped mountains from the back of the house. 

The interior smelled of leather and preserved wood. It was comforting, to say the least. And warm. God, he had been itching to get somewhere warm since the last mission on the ship, swearing he could still feel the water in his boots. He watched as she turned on the lights, seeing how well-lit the interior was. Everything was uniform and had a place. 

"I'll show you to your room." She said, watching him nod before following her. 

He was expecting a small room that was once used as storage. Something small and simple. No - this room looked like a master bedroom. A queen-sized bed, two side tables with lamps, a desk, a wardrobe, a television mounted on the wall, a longhorn cowhide separating his feet from the floor, and a joined bathroom. The room also smelled like warm apple cider, courtesy of the plug-in warmer. 

"Feel free to make yourself at home," She smiled. "I'm sure you're eager to get in bed." 

"I am," He nodded, setting his duffel bag aside. "Thank you, Officer, really. I-"

"It's Kiera, Simon," She corrected, catching eye contact with him. "We're off duty. We leave that behind us here. It's Kiera. When I'm home, I don't want to even think about my next job. I enjoy what I have before I have to leave it behind again. I suggest you do the same." 

She didn't have harsh intent with her words, but they struck him as one to have a point. He could see in her eyes that her job took a toll on her, which was something they both had in common, just she knew how to release herself from it whereas he didn't. 

Maybe I can learn a thing or two...

[ladyantiheroine]

In the Dead of Night

Summary: Julie and R find shelter in an old house, and Julie decides it's time to resolve the tension between them. Read on AO3.

Pairing: R x Julie Grigio

Warnings: Explicit sexual content.

Word Count: 6.5k words

Tags: speech and language therapy, shakespeare quotations, cute, fluff, short & sweet.

Author's Note: Rewrote this scene from the movie to give us the smut we deserved.

“Not much room for guests, huh?” Julie said.

She’d only been able to find one bedroom in the whole house. A modest room on the second floor with a window overlooking the street below. Whoever lived here before didn’t plan on having anyone spend the night. Although the fact that the bed was queen-sized implied whoever lived here did not live alone.

Julie approached the bed and pulled the duvet off. It was a bit dusty, with some signs of neglect here and there, but it still looked useable. There were no suspicious stains, no wet spots, nothing too off-putting. Besides, after a very long day, anything with a mattress looked inviting. Julie felt tempted to just clonk down on the pillow and fall asleep right then.

She glanced up towards the window. The only light in the room was the moonlight trickling through the white curtains. It was getting late.

Downstairs, Julie heard footsteps. She stiffened, held her breath, and her ears perked up, but she knew it was just R. She heard rusty springs as he slumped down on the living room couch. Julie exhaled and her heart returned to a normal rhythm. Living through an apocalypse will do that to you. It makes you paranoid, your default state becomes that of caution. Your ears and eyes are trained to sense danger if it gets anywhere near you. And even though Julie knew R was safe, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a possibility that more Corpses could be wandering around the neighborhood. Ones that did not have the same restraint as R. Ones that could hear her heartbeat and smell her blood.

Julie could sense R downstairs. The two of them had been poking around the house for a while, looking for rooms to settle in for the night, finding ways to barricade the doors and windows, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

Hours had passed since they found shelter. After what felt like forever of driving in the cold rain, they had stumbled across one of the last neighborhoods Julie’s dad had evacuated. They found a place to sleep in a deserted suburban house, filled with remnants of whatever life used to live there.

Julie turned her attention back to the bed. She’d checked both floors and searched every room. There were no other beds in the whole house. There was the downstairs couch, but it was the old, weathered kind where you could feel the rusty springs under the seat when you sat down. She didn’t want to sleep on that thing, and she’d feel terrible if she made R sleep there.

This left only one option.

And the thought of it made Julie’s face turn pink.

To say her relationship with R was strange and unexpected would be an understatement. Just weeks ago she’d only known Corpses to be mindless carnivores. While there was always part of her that wondered about their humanity—Corpses were living people at some point, after all—everything she knew about them came from her father. It had been the norm for so long to assume Corpses were beyond humanity that it still came as a surprise when she met R. A Corpse who had no interest in eating her, who had little trouble in resisting any part of himself that did. A Corpse who liked music, and had friends, and listened to her. A Corpse who was so far from what she expected that she had to change how she saw everything in a matter of days.

But it was more than that, and Julie knew it. She could wax poetic about her new discovery that Corpses were not who the Living thought they were, but that didn’t change one fundamental truth. Ever since those days they spent together in the airplane, ever since she came to trust him, know with certainty that he was not going to hurt her, something had grown between them. Whatever was between them had passed from fear to resistance to trust to friendship and now…

Julie felt her heartbeat pick up again, but now for very different reasons that had nothing to do with fear and paranoia. She became hyper-aware of R downstairs, who had a strong physical presence in the house. She hadn’t been alone with a boy since Perry and, well, that didn’t exactly work out.

She knew deep down that R had been the one to eat Perry. She always suspected it a little. Maybe that was why R chose to save her. He felt sorry for taking Perry from her, so he decided to repay by helping her out. She missed Perry, but in the way one might miss someone after a breakup. If R hadn’t eaten Perry, another Corpse probably would have. She couldn’t find it in her to be mad at him about it. Perry had lost his hope for a better future long ago. He’d lost everyone else he ever cared about. Their relationship had long been on its way out.

Now, what Julie cared about was how much longer she had to live, and how much time she had left with R. She wanted to go home, but she also knew going home meant leaving R behind. No way in hell her father would ever let a Corpse past the wall, no matter how different he was. He’d shoot R in the head on sight.

This was possibly the last night Julie would have with R. The thought gave her a sinking feeling inside her. And then she couldn’t help but chuckle. God, had she really gone and fallen for a Corpse? She could only imagine what Nora would say. And she could very easily imagine what her father would say.

Julie approached the bedroom door, then turned and looked back at the bed. If there’s anything the apocalypse taught her, it’s that any moment could be your last. And so, you had to make every moment count. There was little time to think and ponder on decisions. You did what your gut told you, and you accepted what came after.

And right now, Julie’s gut was telling her one thing.

~

Julie descended the stairs towards the first floor. She stopped when the living room to her left was in view. R was seated on the couch, flipping through a celebrity gossip magazine that had been lying on the coffee table. The television didn’t work, and there wasn’t much reading material, so the only entertainment either of them had to keep them distracted was tabloids about the Kardashians. There was no working electricity in the house, so the only light they had was two candles on the coffee table lit from some matches R found in a kitchen drawer. 

Julie stood on the steps and watched him for several minutes. He was unaware of her presence. Her body was flushed and warm, enough that she could feel sweat starting to percolate on her back, and her heart was tapping in her ear.

Now or never, her brain whispered to her.

She stumbled down a few more steps, and R glanced up from the magazine. It took a second for Julie to speak.

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “The bed upstairs isn’t too rotten.” She gestured up the stairs. “So I’m gonna go to sleep.”

She felt a slight flush rush to her face. There was no way to say that without sounding suggestive, was there? She looked to R’s face for a reaction. He just looked at her with those big blue eyes.

Julie pursed her lips.

“Good night,” she said.

She started making her way up the stairs, aware of R’s eyes still following her. A few steps up, she paused, then stepped back down.

“Umm..” she said. She pursed her lips, trying to find the right words. “R?”

His eyes were locked on her, his chin tilted up in full attention.

“Y-yeah?” he said.

Julie felt a nervous titter in her stomach. What she wanted to ask wasn’t that crude, and yet she felt hesitant to ask it.

“I was…” she started. “I was thinking…” she paused. “You know, you could sleep in there if you want.” 

As soon as the words were out, she felt a lurch in her stomach. R was still looking at her, his expression as difficult to read as ever. 

“On the floor,” she quickly added.

This was a bad idea. She shouldn’t have brought it up. Now things were awkward. Still, she said it, and besides, it would be rude of her to hog the one bedroom in the house.

“These houses creep me out, so…” she said. “Okay.”

She quickly turned and hurried up the stairs. She thought maybe he’d stay on the couch, maybe forget that the whole interaction happened. But she just made it to the upstairs hallway when she heard footsteps in the living room. She heard her undead companion following her lead upstairs.

Once they were both in the bedroom, Julie shut and locked the door. For extra measure, she pushed a heavy dresser in front of the door. They hadn’t seen anyone or anything in the neighborhood since they got there. Still, packs of Corpses and Boneys were wandering everywhere, so it never hurt to be careful.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Julie said then turned back to R. “Let’s hope we can catch some sleep until then.”

She chuckled, but R was still staring at her with a strange look. It was hard to read R’s face sometimes. Being dead didn’t make one very expressive.

“Tomorrow…morning…?” he asked.

Julie figured, but part of her didn’t want to go that early. They still had a long way to travel, they should let themselves sleep in a bit, right? Maybe they could have breakfast first. Find some leftover food in this house or any of the surrounding ones. 

Just then, Julie heard a sound from outside. She and R looked at each other, then towards the window. Julie slowly approached the curtains and peaked outside.

Just on the asphalt road below, military vehicles and trucks were rolling past the house. Headlights flickered in the dark with the sound of engines and crunching gravel. There were people walking by too—familiar people loaded with shotguns and ammo.

And among them, was Colonel Grigio.

“Holy shit, that’s my dad,” Julie said.

R stood behind her glancing out the window. Even with his cryptic face, Julie could tell he was scared. A light from one of the patrollers flashed past their window. 

“Get back,” she said.

R stepped back further out of view from the window, but kept his eyes aimed at the street below. Julie watched and waited as the patrol cars disappeared down the road.

“He would have killed you,” Julie said. She turned to R. “If he saw you, he would have just shot you in the head.” Her voice softened. “And you���d just be gone.”

Julie didn’t like being this blunt, but she had to. Her father was not as lenient towards Corpses as she was, especially not ones that had inadvertently taken his daughter away. She knew if her father saw R, he would put a bullet in him on sight.

R gave her a long look. She tried to read his expression, find something in those glassy eyes of his. R wasn’t the best with words. Being a Corpse didn’t help. But she could catch traces of fear. Everyone was afraid of the dead. No one ever wondered if the dead were afraid of the living.

The two hunched down on the floor by the window. They waited until the sounds of people and vehicles disappeared. Julie grabbed R’s wrist and held him still long after it had gone quiet outside. After what felt like an hour, they both finally stood up. Julie peeked out the window and down the street. Nothing but crickets. 

“They must be looking for me,” Julie said. She shut the curtains completely and stepped away from the window. “Looks like we’ll be leaving early tomorrow anyway.”

R nodded, his eyes drooping to the ground.

‘We...need…sleep…” he said.

Julie thought she sensed something cross R’s eyes. He promised to stay with her until she made it home, but he didn’t seem keen on the idea of her leaving so soon.

R found a spot on the floor a few respectful feet away from the bed. Julie crawled under the covers. Once again, she felt terrible for telling him to sleep on the floor. He didn’t seem to mind. He slept in an airplane most of the time, and something about being dead meant your body didn’t require much cushion.

Julie closed her eyes and tried her best to sleep. Back at the compound, she could sleep mostly easily. It was safe, even if the threat of the emergency alarms waking her up in the dead of night was always there. But now she was far from home, far from the compound, far from her family and friends in a stranger’s house only a few feet away from a—

Julie's eyes snapped open and she stared at the ceiling. She could sense R on the floor close to her. Despite him being one of the Dead, she felt safe with him nearby. It was nice to have an ally. It was nice to know that despite the fact that R could just kill her, he actively, consciously, chose not to. Which for a flesh-craving Corpse, that meant something.

She didn’t want to leave R. She could feel the minutes creeping by until the moment she would have to leave him forever.

And there was one more thing she wanted to do.

It was insane, almost unthinkable, but she wondered if she could. And she had to decide quickly.

A cold breeze brushed through the room and Julie shivered. She turned on her side and felt a wet stain on her sleeve pressing the cold deeper into her arm. She turned on her other side, in R’s direction, and tried to ignore it. But the water in her clothes and the cold breeze wafting inside made her shiver.

“These clothes are soaking still,” she grumbled. “I’m gonna lay them out to dry.”

R looked at her from the floor, his eyes wide and his chin tilted in her direction.

“Oh, relax,” she said. She had no idea what R’s life was like before he died, but surely she wasn’t the only girl he’d been alone with before, right?

Honestly, she wasn’t sure.

Either way, she didn’t want to spend a second longer in this damp shirt.

Julie swung her legs over the side of the bed. She started by removing her flannel shirt, which felt like a dish rag with how cold and wet it was. She felt the hair on the back of her bare shoulders rise. She was being watched.

Julie glanced over her shoulder. Two blue eyes watched her from the floor.

“Don’t look,” she said.

R’s response was one word.

“Okay,” he said.

Julie wasn’t stupid. She knew R was watching. She lifted her shirt over her head, and as her head came out the other side, she shot another quick look over her shoulder. Yep, R was watching her. He lifted his head off the floor with a look on his face like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Made sense. Julie couldn’t quite believe what she was doing either.

She lifted her butt off the bed to slip her jeans off. She was down to her bra and underwear, and she was shivering cold, but at least she was drier. She tossed her clothes aside on the window sill. 

Julie felt her flesh flushing hot, hyper-aware of R just behind her, his eyes unable to leave her. She genuinely wanted to get out of those wet clothes. But she also knew of an opportunity when she saw it.

She wasn’t super experienced with sex. The only boy she’d made love to was Perry, and that had been a while ago. She initiated most do their interactions, and she knew she’d have to do the same with R. She wanted to. You needed to be in control when you were trying to get with someone who craved your flesh in a very different way.

Julie turned around and looked at him. R quickly averted his gaze, pointing his eyes right at the ceiling, looking a tad guilty he’d been caught. He was sweet.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” Julie asked. She curled up on the bed and pulled the duvet up to her stomach, but kept part of herself exposed. “Do Corpses ever like…date or anything?”

R made a grunting sound that sounded like, “huh?” He still wouldn’t look at her.

“I mean…you can kind of communicate with each other. You and M are friends, so you’re capable of forming bonds with each other. Do Corpses ever…I don’t know, like each other that way?”

R paused for a moment to consider it, then shrugged.

“Never…seen it…” he said. “Maybe…”

Julie watched him watching the ceiling for a few moments.

“You can look at me,” she said. “I know what I said a minute ago but…it’s fine, I promise.”

R hesitated for a second, then rolled his eyes and head in her direction. His eyes lingered on her face, but they flickered down her bra, which Julie didn’t bother covering with the blanket. She still didn’t exactly understand how Corpses’ brains and bodies work, but clearly R was still human in that regard.

R looked right at her.

“Julie…”

“Are you sure you’re fine sleeping on the floor?” she quickly asked. “I know Corpse bodies are not…prone to discomfort the way Living bodies are. But…I feel bad hogging the bed while you’re just on the carpet.”

R gave her a long look, and Julie knew if he still had blood in his body it would be rushing to his face.

“I…” R began, but then trailed off. “You…”

He was struggling for words, even by Corpse standards. Julie sighed. She hated the anticipation. She was done beating around the bush.

“I was just thinking,” she said. “There’s a chance we may never see each other again after tomorrow. And…I’ve actually liked being around you. I know it’s weird, but I…” Julie looked him in the eye. “I like you, R. More than I ever thought I would.”

She tried to read his face. R was looking at her with a nearly unreadable expression. Julie’s face flushed pink and she turned to lay on her other side, pulling the duvet up to her neck.

“Nevermind,” she said. “Forget I said anything.”

She felt so embarrassed. What was she doing? Had all the chaos gotten to her? Had losing Perry made her so lonely and desperate that she was actually considering getting into bed with a Corpse?

And then she heard a sound behind her. She could sense R rise to his feet, and take a few tentative steps towards the bed. Julie turned on her back and glanced up. R stood right next to the bed, looking down into her eyes.

Julie slowly lifted her head from the pillow. She rose up until she was seated up, her knees on the mattress. Atop the bed she was at R’s height, her eyes right at his level. Her face was so close to his that if he had a breath she could feel it from his lips.

“Julie…” he said

R stood there awkwardly, his gaze tossed to the side, like he was ashamed to look at her. The awkwardness of not knowing what to do with his eyes, with his hands. Dead or not, R was still a young man, stumbling over himself in the presence of a pretty girl.

“R,” Julie said softly. “Have you ever…”

R shrugged.

“Don’t…remember…” he said. He pointed to himself. “Not…like this…”

Julie’s eyes hovered down to where his finger pointed. Her eyes traced the neckline of his shirt. His skin was deathly pale, but despite being a Corpse his body was mostly intact, with only mild signs of decay. He could have maybe passed for Living, if not for how cold he was to the touch. No blood, no flush, just skin that felt like snow.

And yet, the prospect of cold flesh did not repulse Julie. In fact, a part of her mind wandered to how it would feel to wrap him in her warm, living arms.

Julie brought her eyes back to R’s. He was staring at her with a kind of patient anticipation. He couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking, but he waited for whatever it could be.

Julie lifted a hand to R’s face, cradling his icy cheek to her palm. R pressed his face into her touch. His voice stumbled out in a breathless whisper.

“So…warm…” he said.

Julie certainly felt that way. She felt her whole body flush. Her heartbeat quickened, her blood rushing through her veins, her skin turning a glowing, vibrant pink. Her body was a bright, breathing, living thing in contrast to R who was cold as death.

Julie leaned close and pressed her lips to R’s. He froze for a second, his body going stiff, but then relaxed and leaned into her. His lips were frosty to the touch, but it only made Julie press closer, wanting to feel the warmth flush into her face and sink into his.

She moved closer so her body was pressed against his. She smoothed a hand up the back of his neck and into his inky hair, holding his head close to hers. He reached an arm around her waist. His hand smoothed up and down her back, over her bra, sending goosebumps along her spine. 

Julie grabbed the folds of his red hoodie, then pushed it off his shoulders. The hoodie fell from his body onto the floor. R’s body shifted as he stepped out of his shoes, his lips still firmly pressed to Julie’s.

Beneath the dirty, white fabric of R’s shirt, Julie swore she felt something. A flicker, a vibration of something. Was that… a heartbeat?

She didn’t have time to contemplate it, because R’s hand smoothed up her back into her hair. His cold fingers weave through her golden locks. Such a cold touch against her flustered head made her shiver all over.

“Julie…” R mumbled into her mouth.

Their mouths parted for a moment and Julie pressed her forehead to his. She was hot and flustered all over, her body begging her to just take it already, take what she clearly wanted. Her eyes lifted to R’s and she pressed a hand to his chest.

“I…” he whispered. “I don’t know if I…”

Julie paused. 

“Oh,” she said. “Right, I…I didn’t think about…” She felt foolish, even a little selfish, for not thinking of this first. She could feel the way her body reacted to him, how it felt, how it ached to touch and be touched. She never stopped to consider whether a Corpse’s body could do the same. 

She looked at R’s face. Despite his words, she could see and sense the same feelings in him. This was a boy who had not been alive for a long time, whose own body had changed and deadened. But she would feel that vibration in his chest, that look in his eye. No, this boy was not far gone yet. And Julie was not about to let him go before she had a chance to sink her teeth into him.

She moved her hands to hold his face.

“Maybe we can try,” she said. “And find out together.”

She gave R a soft look, and he nodded. She pressed her lips to his again. Now the kiss was deeper, gruffer, less restrained now. They were doing this and damn what the rest of the world thought.

Julie smoothed her hand down his neck from his head to his chest. She grasped the front of his shirt and pulled him down onto the bed. R let her drag him down onto the mattress. They kept their lips pressed together, neither of them able to separate.

As Julie pulled R on top of her, his mouth nibbling at hers, she remained aware of just how dangerous this was. R’s mouth, his lips, his teeth, were made to consume. He was a Corpse. Consumption of the living came as naturally to him as breathing came to her. Any moment he could sink his teeth into her lower lip and tear it off, a bloody feast that would leave her a cadaver or just crimson remains in his stomach.

But R’s hands in her hips were gentle and steady, and his lips were tender on hers, and all her mind could think was, more more please.

Julie wrapped her legs around R’s waist, and in one swift move turned them both over so she was on top. She straddled his waist with her knees at his hips and his body snuggled tightly between her legs. Already she could feel the heat rushing down her body, that hot, wet need to get someone inside her.

R looked up at her from the pillow. His eyes were wide and his face was perplexed, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Neither could she.

“Do you want me to stop?” Julie asked.

With a brief moment to catch her breath, Julie thought of what she was about to do. Doing… this with a Corpse was questionable enough. But knowing what the others at the compound would think…it was the ultimate taboo in this new world.

Julie expected R to push her away. She searched his face for a response. Instead, he shook his head then grabbed her hips, hard enough to leave indents in her skin.

With his touch spurring her on, Julie grabbed the hem of R’s shirt and pulled it up over his head. Then she reached down, shimmying out of her underwear. R groaned as she pulled down the front of his jeans. 

Julie had only a basic knowledge of Corpse anatomy. She knew their bodies were bloodless, no heartbeat, no heat. She didn’t know what to expect, but clearly R’s body wasn’t so far gone after all. He was as ready as she was.

“Well,” Julie said, taking him in her hand. “Looks like this’ll be easier than I thought.”

R moaned as Julie ran her hands along his length. This feeling was familiar to him, a residual memory from his living days, and now Julie had managed to summon it back. His body was doing things he hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever at all. Even stranger of all, he swore he could feel a flutter of a heartbeat in his ribcage.

She lifted herself up and slid herself down on top of him.

R let out a loud grunt and Julie hissed a moan between her teeth. It felt so strange to feel something hard and cold…down there. But after a few seconds of adjusting, she readied herself on top of him. Her legs clasped at his side and she pressed her hands to the mattress to support herself. Despite how cold he was, it felt so nice having him under her, between her legs…it just felt right.

“R…” Julie breathed as she started pushing forward. Her breath came out in heated huffs with each thrust of her hips. “Fuck…

Both of them tried to keep their voices down, to stifle any noise that could alert their location, but neither of them could keep quiet for long. Julie clasped her legs to R’s waist as she thrust her hips forward. Despite how cold the body beneath her was, she could feel hot waves of pleasure rushing up her body.

R moaned and grunted with every movement of Julie’s hips. Corpses were never very vocal, but even R couldn’t restrain himself. For a second, he got a taste of what having a Living body was like again. When everything became so focused, so heated, and you couldn’t think of anything else except the person pressed against you. Julie rolled her hips on top of him, right over his cock, making him feel— something. His hands gripped harder onto her waist, pushing her down on him. Her moans filled his ears, making his head buzz. He wanted to feel her everywhere. Kiss her. Touch her. Feel her nails scratch down his skin. Lick the heat from her body and listen to her voice. He had no idea what his Dead body was doing, after so long of feeling nothing. He just knew that he didn’t want to be anywhere else except under her.

“Fuck,” Julie grunted. Her hands gripped R’s shoulder, hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Julie felt it rising hot and quick up her body. She tossed her head back, her blonde hair spilling down her back. R moaned louder beneath her, his fingers tightening on her hips hard enough to leave marks. He rolled his head back, eyes closed, lips parted, as both of them rose higher and higher until…

“FUCK!”

It was hard and fast, like the shattering of glass. Julie cried out as her body shot into a climax, her nails digging crescent moons into R’s shoulders. She was hot and hungry and she felt invincible.

“Julie,” R’s voice shuttered out her name.

Julie slowed to a stop then paused to catch her breath. Her body was buzzing with heat all over and her heart drummed in her ear. She felt a drop of sweat slide down her chest into her bra.

“R,” she said.

She dropped her eyes down to her undead lover. R’s fingers were still burning holes in her hips, refusing to let her go even as they stopped. R had a foggy look in his eyes. She imagined if he had breath in his lungs, his chest would be heaving up and down. Instead, he was looking at her like she had descended from the clouds.

R’s hands moved up her hips to her waist.

“Julie,” he said.

In the dim light, Julie caught a small, playful smile on R’s face. She chuckled and lifted herself up off of him. As she leaned down to kiss him, R gripped her waist and pulled her down onto the bed beside him. Julie yelped, then laughed as she hit the mattress. She pressed her body close to R’s and brought her lips to his. The two melted into each other, giggling and a little delirious and not quite believing what they’d done.

Julie pulled away and held R’s face in her hands. His eyes were fixed on hers, his hands over hers, like if he took his eyes off of her for one moment she’d disappear. His flesh felt warmer under Julie’s touch, and she couldn’t tell if it was from her or if something was rumbling behind that skin of his.

Julie brought her eyes to R’s. She shifted her head closer to him on the pillow and gave him a teasing smile.

“So,” she said. “Has a Corpse girl ever done that to you before?”

R chuckled and dropped his eyes sheepishly. He shook his head.

“What about a Living girl?” Julie asked. “You know, before…before you died.”

R paused. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering away from hers.

“Can’t…remember…” he said.

Of course, faulty Corpse memory. Julie placed a finger under R’s chin and brought his eyes back to hers again.

“So…this could’ve been your first time,” Julie said.

R shrugged. He grabbed Julie’s wrist, then brought her hand up to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her palm and lifted his eyes to hers. R’s eyes were bright blue and seemed to glow in the evening light.

“Like…this…” he said. “Like this…with you…”

A smile broke out on Julie’s face. R was was far from eloquent, but his words warmed her nonetheless. R turned her hand over and kissed it on the other side. Any time before this, she would have expected him to take a big bite out of her wrist. But his hands were gentle and his lips were soft on her skin.

“You…?” he said.

Julie grinned.

“You think you’re the first person I’ve done this with?” she said. She shook her head. “No. Perry and I got up to a bunch of stuff. Even before the virus.” 

At that moment, R’s face sunk and he dropped his gaze down. Julie’s smile faded.

“What?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

R shifted up and reached for his jeans at the foot of the bed. Julie watched him pull something out of the front pocket. It was a flash of metal in the light. A wristwatch. Perry’s watch.

R held the watch before them. Julie took it in her hands, turning it over, the metal somehow even colder than R. Julie had seen this watch a million times. Perry wore it all the time. A gift from his father before the virus got him.

Julie looked between R and the watch. Slowly, the pieces started clicking together and something dark sunk into Julie’s chest.

“It was me,” R said.

The realization crept over Julie slowly. For several minutes, Julie could only stare at the watch, the way it glinted in the pale light.

“I mean, I…” she started. “I guess I kind of knew that.”

“You did?”

Julie pursed her lips and nodded.

“Yeah, I…I guess I hoped that you didn’t.” She hoped that he didn’t. But Julie knew from day one that R and Perry had been the last two standing after that attack, side from her and Nora. Nora had run away, Julie had been hiding, and no other Corpse was left standing. The only person who could have gotten Perry was R. Julie always suspected it. Now, she had confirmation in her hands.

Her mind was a dark swirl of emotions. She mourned Perry. Of course she did. He was her friend and her first love. But there was something much deeper than grief there. Perry had long since lost hope for a better future. He’d grown so distant from her, from everyone. His death had long felt like an inevitability. The culmination of something that had been long coming. If R hadn’t taken him out, someone else, or something else, would have.

Julie sighed and clutched her fingers over the cold, steely watch.

“I’m so…s-sorry…” R said. His voice was a shiver. He really meant. Julie lifted her eyes from the watch to R. Even with his usually unreadable expression, Julie could clearly see the emotion shifting over his eyes. Sorrow. Regret. Shame. Not just for eating Perry, but for what eating Perry represented. He was a Corpse. A monster. Something that wasn’t human. Something beyond humanity itself.

The words Julie’s father used to describe the Dead echoed in her head: It is uncaring. Unfeeling. Incapable of remorse. 

Julie looked R in his eyes, heard the guilt dripping from his voice, and her father’s words never rang more untrue. Incapable of remorse. Nothing about R right now suggested such a thing.

Julie took the watch and tossed it over her shoulder onto the floor. She turned back to her R and took his face in her hands. His eyes were wide and confused.

“None of that matters anymore,” she said. “If you hadn’t gotten him, someone else would have.” Her voice softened. “Perry lost hope a long time ago. He gave up the fight. He was probably easy to take down. I think he always knew his life would end that way at some point.”

Julie looked R right in the eye, defiance in her gaze.

“I’m not mad at you, R,” she said. “You didn’t know, and he was shooting at you, you were just doing what you thought you had to.” He pressed her forehead to his. “I’m over it. Or at least, I know I will be eventually.” She gave him a consoling smile. “All of that is the past now. What care about now is this, right now.”

R was looking at her, but he still didn’t seem entirely convinced. Julie brushed a strand of his inky hair that fell over his eyes.

“R,” she said. “Look at me.”

He did as she said, and lifted his eyes to hers.

“You could have kept your mouth shut,” she said. “You could have let me believe that someone else killed him. But you didn’t. You kept that watch. You told me the truth. You didn’t have to, but you did. A lot of humans aren’t even that honest.”

R slowly pursed his lips.

“Don’t…want to...hurt…anyone…” he said. “Don’t want…to hurt you…”

R didn’t expect Julie to forgive him. But she did. She saw people die all the time. She lived every day prepared to watch someone she cared about get killed. In a world like this, people came and went too fast that there was no time for grudges. She lost Perry long before he died. Now, she found someone she was hell-bent on keeping around.

“Hey,” she said. She lightened her tone. “I’ve taken down many Corpses, and you’ve never been mad at me for it. I can forgive you for taking down one member of the Living.”

Finally, R smiled and pressed his face to the top of her blonde head.

Outside, it started pouring rain again. The downpour pattered against the window glass and thunder rumbled in the distance. The two of them lay together, entangled together under the duvet, listening to the world beyond the house’s rickety walls. For several minutes, the outside world became a blurry place to Julie. There was no apocalypse, no plague, nothing to distinguish the Living and the Dead. It was only her and the cold, loving boy next to her.

“More…rain…” R mumbled.

“Yeah,” Julie said. She nuzzled closer to him and kissed his collarbone. “Maybe it’ll thunder and lightning for a hundred years. We’ll have no choice but to stay right here for the rest of our lives.” Julie paused. “Well, the rest of my life. And the rest of your…whatever this is.”

R let out a throaty sound Juliet identified as a Corpse’s laugh. His fingers brushed along her back, sending goosebumps up her warm flesh.

Tomorrow was more traveling. Tomorrow, she would return to the compound, to the world behind the walls, to the land of the Living. To a place where R wouldn’t be able to go, where she would have to leave him in the world beyond.

The thought made Julie’s heart sink. Right next to her in bed, R let out a soft sound from deep in his throat, then pressed a cold kiss to her forehead. Julie felt her body grow light, lighter than it had ever been in the presence of a Corpse. She sunk into the bed, sunk into R, as he circled his arms around her.

Tomorrow could wait. The Living could wait. Tonight, her heart belonged with the Dead.

[finelinevogue]

Can you do an Instagram post with y/n posting that Harry’s sick and she’s taking care of him?! Thank youuu!!

anon: What about something where y/n is super concerned that Harry is gonna get sick because it was so cold during big weekend and is like I’m fine and she just wants to baby him

anon: Don’t know if this counts as hh but what about a big weekend blurb where y/n is super concerned with Harry getting sick cause he was cold.

thought it was time for another insta blurb so i thought i’d combine all these together (although im pretty sure they’re all from the same person lol!!!)

May 29th 2022

liked by harryfan1 and 11,826 others

HSUpdates Harry spotted out around Coventry ahead of BBC1s Big Weekend (29/5/22)

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harryfan2 he’s been looking extra good recently

harryfan3 but he’s soooooo tall wow

y/nfan1 can’t believe only y/n gets all of him

yourinstagram @/y/nfan1 i can’t believe it either😫

harryfan4 oh to be those fans aahhh

liked by harrystyles and 108,877 others

harry_lambert Since everyone was freaking out over what H’s necklace said today, here it is!💗 Y/N made it a few years ago now and it’s H’s favourite in his collection.

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y/nfan1 AM I A JOKE TO YOU?!?!???????

harryfan1 y/n made it? can y/n make me one too?

yourinstagram @/harryfan1 starting an etsy business just for you bestie

harryfan2 harry is so loved though and i hope he knows it💖💖💖💖

harrystyles liked this comment

annetwist One of Y/Ns greatest creations!🥰

liked by gemmastyles and 88,097 others

yourinstagram on route with my book for every situation personality 🧚🏽‍♂️✨

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y/nbff omg is that song any good?

yourinstagram @/y/nbff yh it’s by some underground indie artist 😗

harryfan1 y/n is so real…. like literally me…

harrystyles Less reading more cuddling….

yourinstagram @/harrystyles 🥺💖

liked by yourinstagram and 36,827 others

YNUpdates Y/N gifting Harry flowers before he goes into rehearsals this afternoon. Sources said Harry looked upset (29/5/22)

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y/nfan1 omg hope everything is okay???

harryfan1 maybe he finally broke up with that biiiitch

y/nfan2 @/harryfan1 how can you call yourself a fan of harry when you’re shitting on the person he loved most in the world?

harrystyles liked this comment

yourinstagram he’s okay besties, just feeling a little under the weather <33💗

liked by yourinstagram and 1,532 others

y/nbff watching my bestie’s bestie with my besties 🍻⚡️🌙🌻

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y/nfan1 oooh this is such a pretty photo!!!!!!

y/nfan2 that’s a lot of besties bestie

y/nbff liked this comment

yourinstagram send me these photos pls <333

y/nbff @/yourinstagram i’ll send you the ones of you and h too🤍

liked by annetwist and 584,355 others

harryflorals its Harry Styles world and we’re just living in it tbh

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harryfan1 beautiful world🥺

harryfan2 BESTIES HARRY REPOSTED ON HIS IG STORIES ASSKAKAKSJSHS

y/nfan1 he owns the fucking world at this point

yourinstagram proud is an understatement 🙁

harrystyles liked this comment

liked by jefezoff and 101,722 others

BBCRadio1 Thank you for saying goodnight to us Harry!🥳💜

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y/nfan1 how does y/n cope knowing he exists? do u know what i mean?

harryfan1 hoooooooly fuck

harryfan2 he should be mine grrr

yourinstagram the pits. the nose. the scruff. the fingers. the fit. the tats….

BBCRadio1 liked this comment

y/nfan2 y/n is broken besties😭😭😭

liked by mommaL/N and 148,877 others

yourinstagram proud moment </3 even though you weren’t feeling your best you still performed like the stage was built for you and your guitar🤍 the show was amazing, but now you can sleep and eat all you want x

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harryfan1 y/n wins best wifey award tbh

harryfan2 i love when y/n does these post-show ‘proud moments’, like it just shows how supportive they are for one another🥺🤍

y/nbff he was pretty awesome 😌

annetwist Good job H! x

harrystyles I love you, now let’s sleep x

[husbandohunter]

What they love about you (part 2)[Genshin Impact]

Synopsis: It was as if the universe had changed when they saw you.

Characters: Zhongli, Childe, Albedo, Kazuha. Part 1 here

Genre: fluff

"Poetry for my hopeless romantic heart 🥺 and Kazuha, he was the perfect candidate for this. I decided to put Zhongli first of course, he deserves it after saving my ass in Baal's fight."

=================================

Spirit flows through the Immovable rock (Zhongli)

Nations fall, truths be told, iron rusts and earth erode

Through six centuries these were stories he watched unfold.

He sees you and the archon knew that you shall too grow old

But despite it all, he loves you for your existence, as nothing can compare to your intransient soul.

The purpose of contracts were made to ensure there had been a fair trade between two parties. Like merchants striking business deals for a favourable outcome, like mother nature maintaing the balance between life and death, like how you and your beloved said your vows and whispered promises to one another as evening bids farewell by the warm welcome of the moon's gentle glow. Those days were the most treasured that you couldn't help remisicing them-- when Zhongli appeared in your life. Your mortal life. How time can fly so fast.

Perhaps this had been a common notion among human standards. That to be connected, both sides must share the same factors in order to proceed the contract. Clearly your placement proved to be mismatched. Unlike Zhongli there could be a day when your legs gave up and you can no longer walk. He will go on without you, continuing to drift in places where you cannot reach, where time was out of the question, further and further away until the mist begins to seize your field of vision and soon your eyes were too old to see.

The difference in age can truly make someone feel alone and Zhongli knew it well. Thus he smiled softly like he always does and held you close, speaking with so much kindness:

My dearest.

Your soul existed like an evergreen tree blooming through all four seasons, unwithered and everlasting, even against the cold storm of white. And it could be as soft as the sunbeam cascading through the mountain peaks while they dust the land with their ethereal hues and emitting the warmth that breaths absolute serenity. If artifacts were a piece of what someone left behind then maybe everything you made was considered an artifact-- a treasure. A piece of you in those handwritten letters, the beauty in your fingertips after knitting him a scarf which caused scars to mar them, and because of how heavy your spirit weighs through everything you did, it became evident that the one he had fallen for was not your skin nor your body but the person who resides in it.

And sometimes he wonders if he had met you once upon a dream. What else could explain the mysterious feeling that made you seem so familiar, even when he only saw you for the first time? Or perhaps you were an old friend from the long long past, someone he stargazed with upon the infinite mounds of grass and glaze lilies, someone whom he shared the taste of osmanthus wine, someone he came to cherished just like how he cherished his own nation. Regardless, whether you were that someone or not, he wouldn't hesitate to relive those times all over again.

If there was a day when the world around you decided to cave in, where time inevitably caught up and you succumbed to change, he would still be yours. After all, the immovable stone was meant to be the symbol of constancy. He already sworn to you that his devotion and affection will never waver, they were solely held towards your essence for you had touched him through the things he could not touch, and left a mark that would last longer than his ancient self can last. Zhongli may have lived through many lifetimes but meeting you was the beginning of everything. You were a mortal immortalized in the world his heart, etched so deep that it stirs him apart, there was no room for anyone else.

~xx~

Drowning in the ocean flames (Tartaglia)

There was a man who fell deeply in love with war

They raged inside of him like the spontaneous battlefields he came to adore.

Consumed by desire, pain became an addiciton

And he eventually surrenders to the heat of your passion.

While many fear death, Childe learned to dance with it.

He revels in the way his heart pounds endlessly, as if new life had been born from the inside and then bursted like thunder, sending trembling sensations through his veins, bringing him to the peak of euphoria. The feeling was a drug in which Childe hesitates no more when he confronts it, rather he deliberately seeks it. He seeks thrill in the most dangerous situations since they were the moments that made him feel so alive.

Henceforth the Harbinger sought you out. He inches closer and ever so close, those deep cerulean eyes trapped in your hypnotizing ones. Childe loves how you look at him like you were about to devour him, consume him as the flames in hell would, perhaps destroy him completely to the point there was no turning back and yet...he would not mind.

Childe had been so drawn to you like a moth to a light. No. Rather, Adam and the devil, tempting him to sin because the things he would do for you were undeniably impetuous. It was too late. It was too late when you told him you wanted to stay. Too late when you pulled him down, with arms around his neck, stealing away his breath in one swift manner as well as a kiss. Curse you for having so much power over him, from then and there he was no longer the mighty harbinger everyone knew but a man foolish in love. Take him higher. Higher. Take him far. To say you were alluring would be an understatement. The scent of you brings all his senses to disarray and the taste of you-- by the archons-- had never made him feel so starved. All he thought of was mindlessly running his hands over your small back, reveling in the shape of you, exploring every inch and curve in attempt to make you completely his.

This was the reason why he grew accustomed to dancing with death. Because it was you. You were going to be the cause of his downfall and you were the cause of this insanity. Even though you constantly reminded him how risky the situation was due to being a wanted criminal in his homeland's eyes, Childe pays no mind. Didn't he already tell you to trust him? Anyone who threatens you would be an enemy of his, much to their misfortune. Whether it'd be conquering the world and laying it beneath your feet or walking through the depths of the abyss all over again, he'll make sure to have it all and no one can say otherwise.

~xx~

Shelter (Albedo)

Your warmth was his hearth

Like stars falling onto the earth

Gracing the plains in an empereal bliss

As they trembled under the touch of heaven's kiss

Closing his eyes, you are the first person he sees.

The sound of snow chasing the wind fills the silent night once again while it's whispered blows continued to echo just by the cave's entrance. Albedo had planned to take you back to Monstadt that day but Dragonspine was not the place to be merciful with the weather. No one else except the two of you occupied the abandoned space and a singular camp fire to serve as a source of warmth. You place your hand on your lover's forehead, brushing away his ash coloured strands while he seeps into slumber. Albedo sighs contentedly. Despite the world being engulfed in sheer cold, here he felt safe and sound.

Before meeting you Albedo never really had that. People regularly held him on a high regard and had a hard time matching his pace. He was a born genius to the point that he practically stood out like a swan out of the ducklings' crowd as they admired his brilliance. Truly Albedo was a perfect human being. But when turns around to see the rest he noticed how distant everything seemed. He was so focused on his pursuit towards the universal truth that he hadn't given the time to consider; where is he going with this? And what for? Everyone else looked so happy living in their mundane routines and Albedo soon grew curious about such thoughts. Out of all the places in Monstadt, exactly where does he belong?

Opening his eyes, you are the first person he looks for.

"Welcome home, Albedo!"

The answer was obvious. Home was the sound of his name on your lips. When you were side by side with him while he sketched the landscape from the far distance. In places where the lights were on as he entered the room, knowing you were inside. This feeling couldn't be describe with just a word. Home was not a nation nor was it a destination. Home was in your touch where he felt the most protected.

I'm home.

A sky filled with stars and he only saw one; his Starlight. Your warmth held the emotion similar to the kind where there had only been one cande lit amidst an infinite stretch of darkness. But it also brought the joy of flowers blossoming into the vivid future of new spring. There was no place he'd rather be than the shelter of your arms because with you, Albedo believed he truly found where he belonged.

~xx~

Pirr against the Scarlet Leaves (Kazuha)

Silencing the world

My heart begins to find peace

Soothed by your presence

- For my beloved, (Y/n)

I remember how the first petal of spring drifted by as it had flown into the crossroads of our path. Subconciously my entire being began to still. This particular flower... it must have come far and wide for the wind to carry such a pleasant scent. Although I had intended to continue my venture onwards but the air ceased to sound and I knew that this way was true. And so nature beckons me to the shore where the waves lulled back and forth under the moonlight's entrance, only then I began to sharpen my vision to see what was before me. You stood there on a rock with your face looking into the sparkling sky, singing a tune that drew me near. Just the mere sight was enough to stir my heart alone.

My beloved, do you know why I named this poem 'Pirr against the Scarlet Leaves?'

Watching you was like witnessing the ephmereal birth of a flower sprouting amongst the slums of an abandoned nation. A fleeting miracle where snow falls from the summer sky. I am compelled to capture these feelings in this poem yet there are moments where my thoughts scatter as if the autumn wind had whisked them away and out of my grasp until a singular leaf is only what was left. Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary for me to keep a notebook of ways I can describe your presence, instead a few simple sentences would suffice. Nevertheless, I only wish to express my feelings for you.

When you're with me it seems I have nothing to think about. The aura around you can silence the world alone, speaking louder than thunder cries, weighing heavily to those around you in ways it would feel empty if you're not here. Yet I could breath as if alleviated from the burdens of my past. This had me realize that this must have been the will of the wind. You were the greatest gift to have ever bestowed upon me and I confess, sometimes my chest aches because of how much I cherish you, it pierces me like a sharp blade but even if my heart bleeds it will continue to bleed only for your sake.

So wherever you are, wherever you may be, I can feel you in the breeze. Return soon my beloved, I'll be here, waiting.

[babylooneytoonz]

the Other Lane.

pairing : Clark Kent x Reader

requested by: @dashingcavill [Hope you like this! 💛]

warnings: Angst with a happy ending, and a lot of fluff in the end.

A/N: Ah, I'm really sorry I couldn't help but put some major angst in here, but I swear the ending is happy and I added the right amount of feels and fluff to make it hurt less. 💛

[The Masterlist]

You often wondered if you were born to your parents only to become a commodity that could be compared to your sister, Lois , at all times. Yes, the two of you were different, she had glamourous blonde hair and sparkling blue irises that made her strike out, while you had sombre [Y/H/C] hair and dull [Y/E/C] eyes that peeked out from the tint of your glasses. If the glasses weren't enough to fit you perfectly into the category that was termed as 'nerds', the fact that you loved to bury yourself into mounds and mounds of books, and literature was sure to fit you into that bill. All that comparison, but that didn't lessen the bond that you shared with Lois though.

However, things slowly started changing, the dynamics messing up when Clark Kent came into your life, as a friend and as a colleague.

Lois worked as a reporter for Daily Planet, and you, well you were mostly working in the background, struggling to make a run with your tiny little column on relationship advises. It wasn't like you were any less intelligent, but maybe you just were okay with how everything was going.

It didn't mean that there weren't times at all when Lois made you secretly jealous. To be fair, it didn't bother you when you heard stories of how Lois got herself into trouble yet again, with none other than the Superman came to her rescue. You could still take that, considering the fact that Superman took his duty towards the civilians as his topmost priority, but when you began noticing obvious changes in your sister's behaviour when she talked to Clark, his alter ego; your colleague at work, you couldn't help but start feeling the little pangs of jealousy.

It all began subtly— starting from lingering glances at the workplace, to hands brushing with each other's, almost innocently, yet the two of them had a sparkle in their eyes when it did. At first, you decided to ignore them at work, trying your best to not run into Clark Kent while you were in your office building. The reason for this was still inexplicably strange for you. You didn't even know the man that well, yet you could do nothing in your control to keep your budding feelings for him under check. It was like, the more you avoided Clark Kent, the more you began aching to get a glimpse of him.

As the days passed, you realized that your crush on Clark was slowly getting more prominent, and you started feeling scared, dreading if there ever came a day that your secret crush on him with finally be out. To top it up a notch, you wondered how Lois will react, knowing well aware that there was something blooming between the two of them, although she had never admitted this to you herself. Also, you kept hoping that whatever this was, between Clark and Lois, it was maybe all in your head and that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't even true, and you hoped it wasn't.

Soon, days grew into weeks and weeks flew by as long months, and you realized that what you felt for Clark wasn't just a silly crush, but you were actually falling in love with the man. It was the littlest things that he did that made your heart melt. You would, sometimes, run into him in the cafeteria, where he would be filling up his mug of coffee. He was a gentleman, he would smile and greet you warmly, your eyes meeting his sparkling bright ones as he would move out of the way and insist that you went ahead first. You would often end up taking elevator rides with him, and he would make sweet small talks with you, talking to you about everything, ranging from the weather to a possible alien invasion.

The plan that you had cooked up to avoid Clark Kent went down the drain from those days onwards. Instead, you almost began running into Clark almost everyday. The gossips about Clark and Lois had, by then, died down and you couldn't help but feel relieved, relieved that maybe you had just been dreaming, and there was nothing between Lois and Clark.

"Hey [Y/N], can I borrow your turtleneck? I can't seem to find mine?"

You looked up from the book that you had been binge reading on, flustered and embarassed, as you immediately tossed the book unceremoniously into your blanket. Of course, you couldn't let your sister in on the fact that you were secretly reading the fifty shades series. She would tease the living hell out of you. And then there was the fact that you felt ashamed of the fact that you could practically imagine Clark Kent in your mind as Christian Grey, and it was making you all heated up and bothered.

Lois raised an eyebrow when she saw you red you had turned, "Are you okay? You look like a massive human sized tomato."

"Gee, Lois, thanks?" You mumbled, still reeling from the way she had suddenly barged into your bedroom, as you pushed your glasses over the bridge of your nose, "couldn't bother to knock?"

"Since when do we do these formalities?" She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically, and dashed towards your closet, throwing it open as her fingers began working through the hangers, looking for what she was looking for. She was practically messing up your closet, so you sighed and decided to give her a helping hand. Abruptly, you slid out of the covers, forgetting about the novel that you had hidden underneath and the novel suddenly slipped off the side of the bed and fell to the floor, it's covering full on display.

You facepalmed, burying your face into your hands as Lois walked up to the book and picked it up, smirking obviously as she read out the title out loud just to tease you.

"Looks like my baby sister is finally growing her wings."

"Stop it, Lois. Don't embarass me," you grumbled, looking away. Instead, you dashed up to your closet and pushed her to the side, roughly pulling out your turtleneck as you handed it to her.

"Come on, [Y/N]" she laughed, shaking her head, messing up her perfectly styled blonde waves as she ran a hand through them, "We all have done this. You're not the only one. Nothing to be embarassed about. It's not like you're watching porn."

"It is technically still porn if I'm reading it," you whispered, watching her as she examined the turtleneck and smiled, as though she had pictured just the best trousers to go with it in the back of her mind as she absentmindedly replied back, "Again, sis, we all have done it."

You noticed the way she kept glancing at her phone, with a smile threatening to spill across her features. You raised your eyebrows and smacked your lips together, blinking curiously. She finally looked up and saw that you were staring at her so she grinned, "Guess who has a date tonight?"

"A date?" You asked, absentmindedly.

"Clark asked me out, [Y/N]. He is taking me to this really good Thai place that opened up in the suburbs and I just couldn't decide on what to wear!! This will just go perfectly with my jeans."

It happened so suddenly, but it still did. You felt like someone had just ripped your gut out with bare hands. You suddenly felt empty, was an understatement. You suddenly felt strange and cut off, and everything around you suddenly felt cold and distant and gloomy. You looked up at her, your earlier warmth having dissipated into a cold, dark look and you gave her a smile, biting your lip, "That's great, Lois. Have fun."

Lois noticed the way your face fell, but she couldn't understand or take the hint. She kept watching as you moved away, turning your back towards her and didn't utter another word. She parted her lips, wanting to ask her what had gone wrong suddenly, but decided not to, or rather, keep the discussion for another time. She didn't want Clark to reach before she had even gotten ready. You didn't step out of your bedroom, that night when Lois returned from her date with Clark, and Lois frowned when she saw that the lights to your bedroom were already switched off. You were a late sleeper.

Two months later,

Lois looked up from the article that she had been reading to find you enter the dining room with a breakfast plate in your hand.

"Mornin'," you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you sat down on a chair in front of her, next to your father, Sam Lane. Your father looked up from the newspaper that he was reading, and glanced at Lois who shrugged her shoulders in response and he cleared the throat.

"Honey, don't you think you've been locking yourself up in your room for long now? When was the last time you actually did something that didn't involve either the bed, or your office desk?" The cutting crispness in his voice was enough to slice through your heart, but weirdly, you felt nothing, ecen when you heard Lois gasp and mumble something to her father in protest.

"What do you want me to do, dad?" You asked, sipping your juice, your eyes fixed to your plate.

Ignoring you, Sam turned towards his elder daughter as he narrowed his eyes at her, his loud, booming voice echoing through your house, "Lois, what the hell happened at work? She just quit? And didn't even give a damn valid reason as to what on earth happened?"

"I don't know, dad. She hardly talks to me anymore," Lois replied.

You chuckled dryly to yourself, wondering when you had become so invisible to the world. You were right there with them and yet they regarded you like you weren't even there.

"It was difficult to get you job at the Daily Planet and look at you, throwing it away for whatever the hell the reason was." Your dad barked.

Your fingers clenched into a fist and Lois visibly tensed. Hurriedly, she stood up and announced that she was leaving. You stood up too, but not for work, but rather to go back to the place that you had locked yourself in for the past two months. When you reached the door, you turned around and regarded your father, mumbling, "Why would you care anyway? You never really did before."

You kicked open your room door and slammed it back shut again as you ran straight for your bed. You were trembling like a leaf trying to detach itself from the tree when you buried your face into the pillow and screamed as loudly as you could into it. You were a mess, a walking , talking, living, breathing mess.

You cried, for almost thirty minutes, until you were out of tears. You then sat up and rubbed your eye sockets, finally taking a deep breath. You were letting Clark and Lois affect you so much, you had forgotten what it was like to live normally. How were you supposed to go on like this? If you wouldn't take a command of your own life again, then how would learn to get back up on your feet? When would you learn to accept that you would never get Clark? He wasn't the one for you.

Feelings are so transient, it's like you can feel them slicing through your insides one minute, and then the other minute, you feel unrealistically numb.

With those sorts of destructive thoughts in your mind, you sneaked a bottle of whiskey that night from your father's liquor cabinet at two am at night. You rolled the window pane and snuck out onto the fire escape until you were climbing up towards the roof the building of your apartment, the bottle in tow.

You fixed yourself on the ledge, using your teeth to twist the bottle cap as you took a swig of it, feeling the warm liquid burn your relentless thirst for relief. Sip after sip, you kept staring at the starless sky, mediating your gaze from the sky down to the glittery buildings.

"Will I ever forget you, Clark Kent?" You whispered, into the thin air, laughing bitterly at yourself as you took the last sip from the bottle before it rolled away. The way the lights glimmered in front of you, and one of two cars drove past your building, looking like tiny little blinking lights from the height you were at, you realized one thing. No matter how bad your heart is broken, the world doesn’t stop for your grief.

You were lost in a turbulence of your own thoughts, so entangled into them, you didn't hear the soft thud somewhere behind you, neither the sound of the faintest footsteps that got closer to you, with every passing second. You took a sharp breath, and slowly stepped over the ledge, feeling shudders all over your frame as the winds hit you all over you. You footing, however, slipped, a sharp scream erupting from your lips as you fell backwards against gravity, your heart almost stopping.

Someone suddenly reached out towards you, gripping your wrist, leaving you hanging from the ledge, your body flailing in the air.

He pulled you with a jerk towards you, and your body hit his front, your hair falling all over your face partially covering it. You felt intoxicated, so much, that you had almost died by falling off the building but you didn't feel the scare, the only thing you felt was a sudden surge of adrenaline.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" Superman growled, through gritted teeth, his eyes sparkling as you jerked you by your shoulders.

"Clark? Is -- that you?!" You slurred, holding on to his cape tight to hold you in place. You were in a weird state of mind, you could see that it was him, but you couldn't figure out if it really was him, or if it was your mind that was playing an illusion on you.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" Clark fumed, still holding on to you by the low of your back. He suddenly jumped off the ledge, with you in tow, away from the edge, so the two of you were in the middle of the roof now.

"K-Kill myself? No, I.. I.." You stammered, struggling for the right words but your brain felt frozen.

"Two months, and you don't show yourself. And when I finally see you, you're trying to jump off a fucking building?!" His eyes just then fell on the empty whiskey bottle. He growled, clenching his fists tight as he let go off you and walked up to the where the bottle lay, his cape flying behind him. He bent, lifting it up as he examined it, noticing how the neck of the bottle had your lipstick imprints on it. "And you're drunk. To top it up a notch."

Your nostrils flared in an anger you hadn't experienced ever before, your secret feelings finally crushing you completely, mixed with the alcohol that was rushing through your blood. You growled, like a cornered animal, that was wounded yet didn't want to back down. You pushed him, once, twice, throwing out all your pent up anger and frustration into his steely body like he felt no hurt. You screamed, you lashed, you scratched and you cried, finally coming undone, like beads of a rosary coming apart and scattering all over the floor.

Clark's heart broke at the sight of you. He had always seen you as a strong, happy woman, always smiling for him whenever he saw you at work. And this woman, that stood in front of his eyes right now, was far from it.

"I am not weak! I wouldn't kill myself! You give yourself too much importance, to think that someone would give their life for you!" You lashed out.

You were tired of hitting him like a punching bag. He grabbed you by your wrists, holding them together in front of you, pressed against his chest. He slowly moved, so he was towering over you, his back shielding you from unwanted, prying eyes as he gazed into your eyes, trying to find the answer to where all of this was coming from.

"You don't know what you're talking about. Come on, Lois is worried about you."

You couldn't stop yourself when your hand jerked itself free from his hold, and your palm struck his cheek. There was a crackling noise, of skin against skin, and tears formed in your eyes when the realisation hit you, all the intoxication washing off of you. You had just slapped Superman, a man that could snap your neck by grabbing your throat. Yet, he just stood there, too shocked to even register that you had slapped him right across his face and what was worse, he couldn't understand the reason you had done that. Anger was surfing through his veins, but worse than the anger that he was feeling, he was feeling like someone had pulled his heart out, ripping it to shreds right in front of his eyes.

"Why?" He let go off your other hand, his own palm coming to rest against his cheek as you gave you a look full of hurt.

"Why did you even save me, Clark? You should have let me fall. Atleast, it would have spared me the pain of listening to her name flow out of your lips again."

"Why do you hate her so much? She is your sister, [Y/N] and she cares for you. She worries that you're killing yourself and she doesn't know the reason why--" Clark was losing his temper, slowly but surely. He didn't understand you and that was eating him up.

"The reason why? WHY??! Oh Clark can you stop? And listen to yourself. I love Lois, but she needs to stop trying to govern my life. I'm allowed to feel sad, I'm allowed to feel a fucking heartbreak--" You didn't realise, but your lips were trembling now, your eyes leaking salty tears. You shivered when you felt Clark hold you by your shoulders but you didn't push his arms away.

"Who broke your heart?" He whispered, his voice cracking.

"You're fucking daft for a man who saves the world--" Hissing bitterly , you pushed yourself away from Clark's grip and turned towards the ledge but this time, you didn't try anything that would risk your life. You simply revelled in the cold feeling of the wind striking your tear stained face as you took a punctured breath, feeling Clark's breath on the side of your neck.

"Who broke your heart?" He asked again, but this time it was much softer, and it made you bite down on your lip to hold yourself from breaking into a hysterical crying.

"You did, Clark. You broke my heart." You finally whispered, staring into the abyss in front of you, your eyes cloudy and your throat parched as you continued, your lips trembling, "I loved you. Always did, but you never looked at me. It was always Lois. And it killed me, watching you love her, knowing that you will never love me the way you love her--" Clark let you speak, he wanted to listen to you, for you to let it all out, all those bitter things that you had locked up inside your mind, that was slowly eating you up and killing you from the inside. "I am tired of everyone, for you, for my father and for the world to see me as the Other Lane, as Lois Lane's little sister. My name is [Y/N]. I like to draw although I am shit at it, I can sing in the showers and I hate partying. That is me. I want a normal relationship too, but it seems that the world is against me. I fell in love with one man, and turns out, he isn't even human, he is a freaking superhero from Krypton?"

Clark let out a gruff sounding snort, as he looked down at you. Reluctantly, he reached for a strand of hair that was sticking to your tear coated cheek, removing it and gently tucking it behind your ear. He felt a shudder run down your spine, with just a gentle touch of his hand and he smiled, biting his lip. How was he supposed to tell you what the truth was?

"You remember how we met at the cafeteria every morning ? And I let you take the coffee?"

You nodded, listening to him, trying to control the crying that had now turned to sniffles, as Clark kept speaking.

"And the countless times I ran into that elevator with you and me stuck inside for just two floors?"

"You must have been thinking how weird I was. How unlike Lois--" You began, but you were cut off by Clark's voice.

"I used to wonder if there was anything I could do to make the elevators stop working, so I'd get to spend more time with you. Wretched elevators, not once did anything go according to what I wanted." He mumbled, but he had a small smile playing on his lips, while you just looked on, staring at him in disbelief, wondering if your mind was playing jokes with you once again.

"I thought I would take Lois' help, to you know, figure out if you felt the same way, but you never said anything to her."

"What about the date? Lois and you went on?" You asked.

"Well, I --" he shrug, looking down at his feet, sheepishly, " Lois thought you would confess how you felt for me if we pretended to--"

You were too numb to react; so you just blinked in retaliation. Your blood ran cold, and you suddenly felt light headed. All this while, while you had secretly been pining for Clark Kent to love you back, was it actually the other way round? Was Clark going through the same thing wondering if you felt the same for him?

"That was cowardly." You hissed, through pursed lips, "Trying to pretend to be in love with my sister."

"I was in love with the other Lane," he bit his lip, his face slightly inclined towards you, so he was looking down at you, and you up at him, "I think you are amazing. You are intelligent, and smart. And you're unique. There are these little things I adore about you. The way you greeted everyone whenever I was around-- ranging from the security guard, to the building keepers at the Daily Planet.. the way you forgot to wipe your lips after drinking coffee, and you had this froth all over your upper lip giving you a faint moustache?" He chuckled because you literally let out a gasp, suddenly embarassed.

"Then there were those days you had a bad day and you locked yourself up in your cabin, working all day. I wondered if I should just knock, but I was scared you will tell me off--" he continued, his blues peeking into yours. Your stomach fluttering, you couldn't help but laugh, as though a weight had been lifted off your chest suddenly and held him steady with your hand on his arm. Finally mustering enough courage, you pushed yourself on your toes, and reached up, letting your palm graze delicately over his cheek, caressing his cheekbone with your thumb, "I would have never told you off, Clark. Though that's not what is bothering me right now."

"What is ?" He asked, innocently, relaxing under the touch of your thumb.

"You said you're in love with the other Lane, Clark."

His lips creased, slowly tugging upwards into a smile that was enough to make you feel giddy. Superman wrapped a sturdy arm around you and felt yourself being lifted off, until he was practically holding you in his arms, "Mhm, yep? You got a problem, Miss Lane? Or do Kryptonians don't fit the bill ?"

"Oh, hush, Clark. You're such a dork. But will you be.. my dork?" You bit your lip, holding on to him as though your life depended on it.

"I thought... you'd never ask?" He began, unsure of how to properly weave the complexity of his feelings , churn them into words, something only Clark Kent was good at , and not his alter ego, but found himself halted by the soft press of your index finger against his lips and the sweet whisper of your voice against his ears as he held you close.

“I know, neither did I.” You whispered as he clasped your face in his massive hands and gently touched his lips to yours.

Three years later,

This had probably been the longest that Clark Kent had been away from you, his lover, his best friend, his wife-- four months to be exact. Needless to say, he was excited to be able to see you again, to hold you again.

The familiar silhouette of the cottage on top of the hill came into his view, flowers hanging into tiny earthen pots hanging out on the front porch. The freshly painted white picket fence looked beautiful, and inviting as Lois stood with Martha by the gate, both the ladies sipping tea from their respective cups and saucers. They couldn't contain their smiles when they saw Clark, even though he was covered in what looked like grime and blown up alien intestines?

"I don't even want to know what happened," Lois chuckled, while Martha hugged her son and he kissed the side of her cheek before she scrunched up her nose in disgust at how awful he smelled.

"Well, I guess I'll draw you a bath, you two can talk out here until the baths ready." Both Clark and Lois watched as Martha Kent disappeared into the home and he smiled, when Lois spoke again.

"FYI, she is at the orchard, harvesting the apples for an apple pie," Lois gave him a smug look, fluttering her lashes, "Oh don't pretend you don't want to see her. I can see your eyes darting around, trying to find her. I'll be inside, both of you, just come back in for supper."

He nodded, watching Lois leave and slowly, his fists clenched on either of his sides, he found his way into the tiny orchard that his lovely wife loved to spend most of her time at. He fixed himself by the wooden gate, his eyes admiring you from afar, as you stood on your tiptoes and picked out apples, tossing them into the basket that you held in your arm.

"Need help, Mrs. Kent?"

The basket dropped from your hand as you turned towards the source of the voice, your lips parted in shock. Clark's eyes travelled from you down to your beautiful swollen bump that your loose maternity dress was doing nothing to hide. He chuckled at your response as he walked towards you with longer, faster steps while you simply waddled towards him.

"Jesus, Clark-- I thought you'd miss the birth," you cupped your husband's cheeks in between your swollen fingers as he nuzzled his nose against yours, before kissing you.

"How is my monkey?" He brought his palm to rest against your nine month old baby bump, stroking over the fabric as he whispered against your lips.

"Moving around, not letting me get an ounce of sleep," you smiled, letting your fingers rest over his hand that rested against your stomach, "but I cant really complain now, can I? After all the little nugget's got Kryptonian blood running through their veins."

Clark chuckled, his blue eyes crinkling slightly as he knelt down in front of you, his face in line with the base of your bump as he planted a kiss on the curve of it.

"Come on, Kal Jr, will you stop bothering your mom? She needs all the sleep she can before you push your way into the world and steal our goodnight sleeps for a while," you smiled warmly, as you peered down at him, running your fingers through his hair and he looked up at you, planting another kiss against your bump.

You suddenly frowned and looked at the brown mess on your fingers that stank.

"God, Clark? What the hell? Did you seriously take a dive in a shit pool?"

He chuckled as he pulled himself up again and his hand once again found the base of your stomach to lay his hand protectively upon.

"Alien blood. You should have seen the intestines that covered me. It looked like noddles dipped in black bean sauce and meatballs--" You smacked him hard against the chest to shut him up, but instead he began laughing, his laughter rumbling out of his stomach as you began dragging him inside with his stained cape.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 16 - Stage Two.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're good people.

They're your friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------

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

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

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

Alya...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evidently, Valus disagrees.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are the others?” Death presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Not. One. Step. Deeper.'

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

Nothing more. Nothing less.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------

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

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

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

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

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

Click! You try again....

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

Click! Again...

'We're sorry-'

“Y/N!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His intent immediately becomes clear.

He's going after it.

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

The Nephilim doesn't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bewildered, you silently watch him disappear after the Horseman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fleshling?”

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

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

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

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

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

You just can't stop yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two familiar, button eyes peer back at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you? 

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

Huh... Is this your fault?

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

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

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

Evidently, he's overestimated the intelligence of humans. 

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

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

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

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

......

Sadly, his efforts prove to be in vain.

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

---------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it's too late.

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

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

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

This can't be happening.

This cannot be happening!

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

Not him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He's alive!?” you croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face... It's a mess.

Worse than even Thane's had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet...

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seconds later, you get your answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shadow bombs,” you breathe.

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Death! Please, get up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know precisely how you can pin the construct down.

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

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

Three cartridges left.

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

One for the demon in the graveyard...

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

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

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

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

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

There's always another way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“- I AM TRYING TO BE!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---------

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

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

Seconds later, Death realises its intent.

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

And Death has just galloped directly into the firing line.

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

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

You can hardly bear to watch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The great beast flares the plates around its neck and a low, rumbling growl trickles from its throat and travels all the way down into the ground, causing Death's teeth to rattle in his head.

Dimly, his eyes rove up to the hammer, now raised once more into the sky high above the construct's head.

“Damn you,” he hisses at it through a clenched jaw.

If he hadn't banished Despair when he had, the horse may well have had its hind legs crushed. He'd felt his steed's rage once it realised what he planned to do, but frankly, he'd rather deal with an angry Despair than see the stubborn beast get hurt.

He's in the midst of heaving himself up onto one knee when all of a sudden, from across the valley, there comes a familiar cry that would have turned his blood to ice, should his veins carry any.

“Death!”

The Horseman jerks his head over one shoulder, eyes widening when he sees you haring across the valley towards him. “No,” he growls, voice rising into a ragged shout, “NO! Stay back, you fool!”

However, rather than heed his warning, you very nearly end up crashing into him as you hit the brakes and skid to a halt in the sodden grass just in time to avoid a collision. 

Somewhere unbeknownst to the Horseman, a wild and familiar presence rears its sleepy head.

Meanwhile, with all the grace of a bungling drunk, you wrestle your pistol from your skirt's hem and aim it at the clustered web of corruption that stretches across the construct's raised forearm.

The Guardian is so vast, each movement carries with it the illusion that time has slowed right down to a crawl.

Gripping the handle of your gun between two, quivering hands, you don't even spare a second to think or to worry about what'll happen if you don't make this shot.

You only have this chance. There will not be another.

There's a storm raging around you, a giant hammer rising above you, Death's incoherent bellow rings in your head and Eideard's distressed calls tug at your heartstrings.

You've never been more terrified in all your life.

But you still take aim.

And with blood and wind howling in your ears, you draw in one, deep breath...

… and pull the trigger.

It's strange, you realise with a blink, that until now, you've never really put much thought into whether the dice of life rolls in your favour. You wouldn't say that you're especially lucky, nor would you claim to be naturally unlucky either.

At this moment however, when the tiny bullet from your pistol sails straight and true towards its target, you finally begin to consider the scope of your luck. Then, the bullet hits its mark and you feel like the heavens have just aligned in your favour.

The shadow bomb explodes, setting off a chain reaction among the other bombs embedded in the webbing. Each of them erupts in rapid succession of the one before it, and the Guardian is instantly thrown off balance by the ricochets, roaring in pain and staggering back a step as its entire arm is quite suddenly blown sideways and asunder.

Whatever elation you might have garnered from the success is short-lived though, because Death is abruptly towering over you and snatching you up by the arms, holding you so that your feet dangle several inches from the ground.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?” he bellows, shaking you for good measure.

You open your mouth to reply, but just then, a dark shadow falls across Death's mask, prompting you both to whip your heads back and look to the sky.

It appears that while the explosion has blown the Guardian's arm to smithereens, some of those 'smithereens' are still absolutely enormous and haven't been blasted quite far enough to render you safe should they come crashing down to the ground.

Which is, of course, precisely what they do.

The familiar presence that had awoken deep inside the Horseman's psyche suddenly starts to go bezerk.

Barrelling down towards you at a rate of knots is a stone slab the size of a bus.

Instinctively, you fling your arms over your head and slam your eyes tight shut, hardly caring when Death drops you onto your backside and you topple over, your skull cushioned by the wet earth.

Pressed your spine into the grass, you brace yourself for impact and spare the last second of existence cursing at how bitterly unfair it is that you can do something right and still have everything go so wrong.

The slab falls, the air grows cold and still. And then...

WHAM!

The sound is loud enough to blow out your eardrums and smack your heart up against your sternum. It's deafening, it's terrifying... But it isn't painful.

'Why isn't it painful?.... Am I dead?' The rain seems to have stopped falling on you, at least.

Bewildered, you peel open an eye and tentatively lower your arms a little to peer up at a dark, shadowy mass looming over you.

Two, empty eye sockets stare right back at you, pinpricks of light sitting at the centre of each as a rattling breath as cold as winter washes over your face.

“Death?” you utter in a tremulous whisper.

The monstrous form of the Reaper towers above you, its exposed ribcage heaving up and down in the face of its agitation. Long, skeletal arms are raised above its head and when you roll your eyes past the indigo hood, you let out a gasp to find that the creature is holding the gigantic, stone slab aloft, keeping it from crushing you flat.

How a beast with no visible muscle can be so strong is utterly beyond you.

The Reaper stares down at you for a moment longer with an unreadable expression before its arms suddenly flex and it lets out a soft wheeze as it hurls the enormous slab sideways and out of the way.

The stone hasn't even rolled to a stop before the gigantic skull is lowering down towards you.

Sprawled out on your rear and immensely mindful of the beast's fangs, you lift your arms up and hold them out in front of its approaching face.

“Woah – wait a second! I – I know you're mad, but I just!-”

You're interrupted when the Reaper's nose bumps into your palm and continues to advance, despite the meagre resistance you try to put up. For one, horrible second, you grow sick at the thought that the beast's teeth are so close to your vulnerable hands.

But then, with a gentleness that contradicts its size, the skeleton forces its skull through your raised arms and, to your astonishment, pushes its nasal bone firmly into your chest and stomach – as though it isn't supposed to be a monstrous reflection of the fabled Grim Reaper, as though there isn't a stone giant gathering its wits behind it.

Too startled to react, you close your eyes and raise your chin away from the beast, unable to swallow a whimper as it nuzzles gently into your torso with a warbling croon.

'It's only Death,' you have to remind yourself, 'Death won't hurt me.'

Your fingers twitch and you gulp, hesitating for another second before you finally gather the nerve to press your palms flat against the skull's cheekbones, earning a gush of frigid air against your belly in response. Cracking an eye open, you find yourself blinking straight into one of the Reaper's softly glowing pupils. It surprises you with a sudden, insistent nudge to the stomach, like it's trying to push a sound out of you. Hardly daring to disappoint, you swallow around your dry tongue and breathlessly stammer out, “Hah, yeah, I'm... I'm all right.”

The vertebrae on the beast's neck clack together when a croak rattles up from somewhere deep inside its chest.

It almost sounds relieved.

A little more boldly, you sweep your trembling fingers underneath the curve of its cheekbones and try not to ponder on how utterly absurd it is that you're talking to a creature that wasn't even supposed to exist this time last week. Regardless, it's a hard truth to deny when said creature currently has its skull pressed up against you.

After another moment, it gives you a second bunt to the stomach, this one short and sharp and accompanied by a whuff of air through its nasal cavity as the malleable bone above its eye sockets draw together to resemble something vaguely displeased. You're beginning to recognise more and more of Death in its expressions.

The Horseman is still in there somewhere, and it takes you a moment to register that your plan, as foolish and risky as it was, had actually worked. You don't even care that an angry monstrosity's fangs are sitting flushed to your abdomen.

“Hey. I'm glad you're okay too,” you mutter weakly, trailing your fingers down a sturdy mandible.

It's ensuing rumble of contentment is interrupted by a sudden, booming roar that rips the sky apart and you jump, feeling the Reaper's teeth scrape against your belly as it lets out a furious growl and draws back at the sound.

Using one hand to shield your eyes from the rain, you squint up at the Guardian.

It would appear the the colossal juggernaut has already mourned the loss of its arm and is now raring for vengeance.

It tears its gaze off the rubble scattered around its feet and aims a furious growl down at you and the Reaper, the promise of retribution evident in the corrupted tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, whilst its heart stones shine through the gloom like terrible beacons of fetid yellow.

“Wait.. .The heart stones!” you realise aloud.

Skeletal fingers suddenly cut you off as they snatch you up by the collar and hoist you onto your feet, and then you're rudely shoved in the direction of Tri Stone by a snarling Reaper.

Stumbling backwards, you stare after it as it whips around and puts its back to you, flapping its bony wings menacingly up at the Guardian - as if anything it does could deter a construct that size.

The corrupted behemoth takes a threatening step forwards, bringing it far too close for comfort. In response, the Reaper's wings flare even wider across its back and it issues another hiss.

“Death! The Heart Stones!” you cry out again, “We have to destroy them now!”

Your gaze travels to what's left of its shattered arm that lays in the grass like the ruins of an ancient building. There, sitting unassumingly amongst the debris, is a familiar, pulsing glow.

Your hand curls around the grip of your sword.

Without wasting another second, you burst into a break-neck sprint and hurtle towards the first heart stone, immediately hearing the alarmed hiss of the Reaper behind you. Throwing your head over one shoulder, you point frantically at the Guardian's head and shout, “I'll try and deal with the one on the ground! You have to deal with the other two!”

The Reaper's half-buried instinct to snatch you up out of danger and bundle you away somewhere quiet and safe is almost overpowering, but there's just enough of Death lingering below the wild and primal nature of the beast that it recognises the sense in your words.

Eliminate the heart stones, eliminate the Guardian, eliminate the threat.

...Threat.

The Reaper snarls, its spinal column quivering as it finally cuts through the haze of protective anger and focuses on the solution. 

Eliminate the Guardian, and you'll be safe.

The goal is clear.

Teeth snap together in a warning and the Reaper gives its wings a tremendous beat, soaring into the storm-choked sky and making a bee line for the Guardian's left shoulder where the second heart stone lays in wait.

Responding instantly, the construct roars its defiance with the force and volume of a thunderclap as it raises its remaining arm, aiming to swat the Reaper out of the air like a bothersome gnat.

But whilst the Guardian's size might have leant to its advantage on the ground, it proves a hinderance to a creature as adept at flying as Death's spectral counterpart.

Swift and nebulous like a shadow, the Reaper flits higher and higher, skirting close to the construct's arm and either diving or spinning easily out of the way if it swings too close for comfort. By the time it reaches the heart stone, you've slid to a halt beside the one on the ground.

Whipping your sword from its scabbard, you barely hesitate to catch your breath before ramming the tip of the blade underneath the stone's edge.

“Oh, I hope this sword is stronger than I am!” you worry aloud, taking a firm hold of the weapon's grip and heaving backwards with all your might, your feet slipping in the mud underneath you. Something gives and the blade sinks a little deeper, and you're struck by a renewed burst of desperate urgency. “Come on!” you gasp, shaking rainwater from your eyes and readjusting your grip before throwing yourself backwards again, and again, and again, each time levering the sword a little further underneath the stone.

You're only lucky that the heart stone had fallen at the angle it had: tipped forwards towards the ground. There's no chance you'd be able to dislodge a stone so large without a lot of help from gravity.

The relentless downpour causes your feet to nearly slide out from under you, but step by agonising step, you manage to haul yourself backwards, never once giving back an inch of what you take in the way of progress.

Overhead, the Reaper hovers just above the second heart stone.

A flash of lightening illuminates the sky behind it so that for just a second, a gigantic shadow is projected onto the Guardian's body, ominous and foreboding, a billowing cloak and skeletal wings contrasted in black against the pale, sandy stone.

Then, the spectre draws its scythe.

The curved blade gleams as it's raised over the Reaper's shoulder, and with a startling ferocity, it brings the weapon down hard, driving the pointed end deep into the stone like a knife through butter before heaving its scythe back again, wrenching the stone from its place in the Guardian's shoulder and allowing it to fall into the mud far below with a wet, unpleasant 'thwump!'

You miss it hitting the ground, because right as it does, you throw yourself at your sword's hilt with everything you've got, one, final time. There's a moment of resistance, and then suddenly, you're toppling face-first into the mud as well when the heart stone finally comes loose and thumps down just inches away from where you’d been standing.

There's no time to celebrate though.

Scrabbling up onto your feet again, you immediately have to clap both hands over your ears when the construct throws its head back and howls, the terrible cacophony of noise mingling with Corruption's wretched screeching.

The inky substance, separated from its source of power, withdraws like an octopus whose tentacles have been burned by fire. The tendrils tear themselves away from the construct’s stone body and in doing so, they leave every slab without an adhesive to keep it all together.

The resulting carnage isn't unlike witnessing a building being demolished.

First, the hammer is dropped to the ground as its fingers fall apart one after the other, followed swiftly by its entire hand and before long, both of the Guardian's arms are laying strewn about in pieces on the ground, the heavier pieces sinking into slick mud.

All that remains now, is the third and final heart stone.

High over your head, the Reaper rolls its shoulders in satisfaction and turns in the air, scanning the ground below for any sign of the human. It finds you soon enough, a speck of colour almost hidden amongst the rubble, waving your arms madly at something behind it. Cocking its head to one side, the Reaper spins about again and looks up, its eye sockets growing wide.

With two heart stones down, the Corruption's hold over its colossal host has weakened significantly. One leg tries to take a step forwards, but with nothing to keep its stones adhered to one another, the entire construct begins to collapse underneath its own weight, its legs buckling and breaking and its enormous torso teetering forwards...

… It's only once the sky above you is blocked out by falling debris that the Reaper realises why the construct's collapse is not necessarily a good thing.

You're standing directly underneath it.

It seems to register your predicament at the same time as you do, and the valley is suddenly ringing with the sound of its feral shriek.

Angling itself straight down in your direction, the Reaper raises its wings and is just about to break the sound barrier with a single flap, when all of a sudden, a dome of familiar, azure light arches over you like a cresting wave.

In the throes of alarm, it had clean forgotten that there is another in the valley who's protective instincts are just as strong as its own.

You yelp, not even noticing that there's a shimmering barrier that has appeared over your head.

Throwing yourself forwards into the mud again, you curl into a ball and shake as the Guardian's detritus slams down all around you. The din is ear-splitting, drowning out your screams.

Hours seem to pass before the noise finally dies down.

It takes you longer than you'd care to admit to realise you haven't become a stain on the valley floor.

It feels as though you need a crowbar to pry your arms from their position over your head, yet somehow, you manage without and push yourself up onto your rear, mouth dropping open once you spot the destruction all around you. Small stones and dust skitter down the side of an invisible force arching over your head, washed away by the pouring rain as you twist yourself about in a daze.

Suddenly, your eyes land on a familiar figure standing just beyond the Guardian's remains.

“E-Eideard?” you cough.

Blood trickles in a steady stream from the maker's nose and his mighty chest rises and falls with every, spasmodic breath he takes. Rolling your eyes up, you notice the crackling staff that's pointed in your direction and then the hazy wall of shimmering, blue light that stands between you and him, and at last, the pieces click together in your brain.

The old maker had just saved your life.

Only when he sees you moving does he exhale the rigidity from his spine and lower his staff, effectively dispelling the magical barrier from over your head. Deep in his chest, the maker's heart finally stops thrashing like a wild beast.

You're still alive.

He meant what he'd said in the tunnels. He won't lose you, not so long as there's still life in his old bones.

But what relief Eideard feels is abruptly superseded by dread when the rubble before him starts to shudder.

His gaze snaps up, travelling past you and zeroing in on the Guardian's head that has landed in the grass just metres away from you, and he blanches when swirling, yellow light bursts to life in its eye sockets.

A gust of rancid air nearly bowls you over and invades your nostrils, threatening to drown you under the stench of sulphur and decaying flesh.

Whirling your head around, you let out a cry and try to slide backwards through the mud when, from the Guardian's mouth, a writhing, squealing mass of tentacles spews forth, each one as black as night and all flailing wildly for just a moment before they whip out in every direction and begin to snatch up the fallen pieces of their host's body.

Every tendril, that is, except for one.

A single appendage remains poised above your head whilst you stare up at it, incapable of tearing your eyes away as it sways hypnotically from side to side, like a snake waiting to strike.

Behind you, Eideard hurries to raise his staff again.

But it's too late.

The Corrupted tendril snaps forwards, lightening flashes in the sky and renders you momentarily blind, there's a loud, metalling 'shing!'...

… And suddenly, the Reaper is just... there, hovering between you and the Guardian like a protective wall of enraged bones and prickling wings. Peering around its cloak, you can make out a severed portion of the tentacle flopping around uselessly in the grass.

For a brief instant, everything is silent.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The Guardian's disembodied jaw splits open wide and Corruption screams its outrage for all the realm to hear.

Around you, all of the stones that had once made up the construct's body start to roll across the valley towards its head, drawn by whatever hateful power still exists within the last heart stone.

“It's trying to repair itself!” you cry, feeling your chest hitch when fear cups your heart in its icy fist.

At the sound of your voice, the Reaper snaps its skull to one side, focusing a soft, white pupil on your form, huddled on the ground, shivering, afraid.

Its enormous fingers tighten around Harvester until its grip is crushing.

Eliminate the threat. Keep you safe.

The mantra surges to the forefront of its mind and it squares its shoulders, returning its attention to the Guardian's head. The air is alive with dark, oppressive magic that spills from the heart stone like a physical current, and as if by invisible strings, the head is pulled up into the air like a marionette, its neck plates slotting back into place underneath its jaw.

All too soon, it's staring hatefully down at both you and your skeletal guard and emitting a low growl as it waits for the rest of its body to arrive.

With all the viciousness it can muster, the Reaper hurtles towards the heart stone and draws its weapon back, gliding effortlessly to a halt just before the construct's skull, scythe drawn high over its shoulders where, using the momentum of its flight, it hurls the blade forwards, and rams the tip straight into the centre of the stone.

Corruption's screeches turn to wails of terror.

It's a satisfying sound to the Reaper's nonexistent ears.

With a grip like iron on its weapon, the beast braces itself and lurches away, pulling the third and final stone from its casing.

The result is instantaneous.

A howl explodes from the Guardian's gaping maw, loud enough to rival the tempest raging all around you and causing the whole valley to shudder with the force of it.

Letting out a scream, you slap your hands over your ears and grit your teeth so they stop rattling inside your skull.

After several, long, deafening moments, the lights in the construct's eyes begin to flicker weakly until finally, they're extinguished altogether, and its parted jaw thuds shut, no longer pried open by corruption. Without a source through which to power their host, the flailing tendrils slip uselessly down through the construct's mouth until they fall to the grass below and start to sink, still squirming about in the slick mud like fat, overgrown worms.

Your eyes land on one that doesn't seem to be dissolving quite as rapidly as its brethren, and with a sudden rush of horror, you realise that it's wriggling its way towards you, as if it had a sinister goal in mind, as if it had a mind at all.

You try to scrabble backwards on your rear, kicking out, but find no traction in the mud, and instead, you're helpless except to look on in horror as the vile tentacle closes the distance in seconds, until there are only a few, pitiful metres between you and it. Trembling arms wrench the sword from your side and swing it up to point at your adversary.

You almost needn't have bothered. You should have known that with the Reaper nearby, Corruption would have a hard time getting at you.

The colossal spectre drops from the sky out of nowhere and hits the ground in front of you, wings hoisted high over its skull and its scythe gripped between two, bandage-wrapped hands.

At once, the tendril draws back and gives a violent shudder. Without a host, it is dying, fast, and the monster hovering over it menacingly is far from a suitable replacement. Too dead. Too cold. It longs for the tiny speck of warmth the lays sprawled out on the grass just a few, tantalising feet away. Perhaps, if it had been faster...

A low hiss crawls out of the Reaper's hood and it raises its weapon, braced to slice the last tangle of corruption asunder. But, if there ever was a master puppeteer driving the putrid tendril towards you, they must have decided to cut the strings, so to speak, as one might sever an infected limb. The tendril stiffens and goes utterly still, poised like a cobra on the verge of striking.

Cautious, the Reaper narrows it eye sockets at the tendril. Waiting...

Then, slowly, almost anticlimactically, it starts to... melt. Thick, oozing globules fall from its body, splattering to the ground and dissolving into nothing more than dark stains on the grass, and those too, are soon washed clean by the torrential downpour.

Only once every trace of the corruption is gone and all that remains are the pieces of construct that lay scattered about the valley, does the Reaper lower its scythe.

Resonant footsteps pound through the earth below the spot where you sit, and for a gut-wrenching moment, you're certain that the Guardian has once again started to pull itself together.

A hasty glance over your shoulder soon puts that fear to rest.

Emerging from the haze of mist and rain, steps a vast figure, neither his stilted gait nor his age detracting from the staggering power with which he lumbers towards you, pale eyes wide and swirling with agitation.

You can't tell which expression suits him worse – his current one, or the look of hurt he'd worn in the tunnel.

Worry or pain... Somehow, you'd managed to put both of them on his face.

You don't think you deserve his concern.

Twisting yourself about to face the maker properly, you begin pushing yourself up onto your feet.

But just when you get your trembling legs in order, a shadow falls over you and you're suddenly bowled onto your hands and knees again, splashing mud up into your face and cutting off a panicked bleat that makes its way up your throat.

Like a hulking, hissing shield, the Reaper all but throws itself on top of you and smashes its bony fists into the ground between you and Eideard, warding the maker off, its jaw dropped open in the most vicious snarl that such a rigid skull could possibly achieve.

Some, faded voice deep inside its head tells it that the maker is familiar. But in the wake of the Guardian's threat, there's a red mist that has descended over the Reaper's eyes, clouding its ability to reason and blinding it to everything except the little human nestled underneath its ribcage.

The Old one promptly stops in his tracks.

Peeling yourself up out of the sticky mud, you try to stand again, but the spectre is bent so low to the dirt, your head bumps into its sternum before you can even get onto your knees.

Its pupils are just a millimetre away from being nonexistent as it snaps at the maker and curls its phalanges loosely around you.

Horrified, you barely even register that you've reached up and grabbed a fistful of the billowing, indigo cloak, yanking on it sharply and crying out, “Death! Stop! It's Eideard!”

The Reaper's hood buffets against you, thrown by the thunderstorm that still howls through the valley.

Slowly, the maker ahead of you raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, whilst the other remains wrapped around his staff to maintain his balance. “Easy, Horseman,” he wheezes gently, blood trickling down into his mouth and staining his tusks red, “You've done well. The Guardian is destroyed. The girl is safe.”

As though it had just blinked, the colossal spectre's pupils flicker, softly blooming to larger pinpoints of light, though a low, continuous growl still rattles the bones above you.

Eideard doesn't miss the change, and he slowly bows his head to the Reaper, reassuring, deferring. “She is safe,” he repeats.

Gradually, a low hiss slips out of the phantom's hood and you can feel its pressure lift from your back, the suffocating aura receding until you're able to sit up properly without bashing into a heaving ribcage. As soon as it retreats, you whirl yourself over onto your backside and lock eyes with the beast, your heart pumping a mile a minute.

It's only once you're facing it that the Reaper takes in the state of you.

Muddy. Shaking.

Frightened?

It roves its gaze down to the deep furrows that it had clawed into the grass just metres in front of you. Had it... done that?

Its pupils dilate, and just like that, the rest mist lifts and it can suddenly think beyond its basest instincts.

Hesitant, it backs away a little further and feels it’s control of the ghastly form slipping as its Nephilim counterpart begins to press forward with an insistence that borders on desperate.

Then, right before your eyes, the Reaper's corporeal forms starts to collapse in on itself, indigo mist spilling from its eye-sockets, nasal cavity and parted jaw, a billowing smokescreen that swiftly conceals the enormous skeleton's bulk. In no time at all, you're staring up at the familiar, bone-white mask of Death.

With that amber gaze trained on you, his shoulders quiver once before he straightens up, his eyes trailing from your head all the way down to your toes and back up again.

It occurs to you that he's checking for injuries.

He must have found nothing too untoward however, for he soon averts his gaze and glares off at a piece of the construct's shoulder. “Are you... still in one piece?” he pants gruffly.

Uttering a scoff of disbelief, you reply, “I'm fine. It's Eideard you should be checking on.” You fling one hand up and out of the mud, gesturing wildly in the maker's direction. “I mean, look at him, Death! Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him!”

To the maker's credit, he doesn't take offence to your vague comment on his condition. You are correct, after all. He probably looks about as terrible as he currently feels. But neither you nor Death need to know that...

He catches the Nephilim's gaze and holds it, patient and calm. There isn't an ounce of blame in the old maker's face.

He knows not to expect an apology, which suits Death just fine.

The Horseman doesn't plan to offer one.

Grounding out a rough sigh, Eideard closes the distance to you and stops, taking a brief moment to watch with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as you attempt to pick yourself up off the ground once more, only to slip and collapse back into the mud with a 'splat,' utterly spent.

All too readily, the maker's exasperation draws back a little and he reaches down, circling your waist with his thumb and forefinger and lifting you back onto your feet.

“You, my young friend,” he begins with a huff, gently dusting you off with the pads of his fingers, “are getting far too bold for my heart to withstand. Reckless, I might even venture to say.” His piercing glare seems to bore straight through you like a diamond drill. “Of all things, a human running towards the Guardian at full-tilt, armed with nothing but a sword and a pistol! Why, that has to be one of the most harebrained things I think I've ever witnessed.”

Your throat bobs at his scolding and you drop your eyes to the ground, shame-faced.

All of a sudden though, you find yourself flinching when the rough pad of Eideard's forefinger slips beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, coaxing you to look at him again.

Startled, you blink into the maker's gentle face, noticing that his glare has softened to something far less disdainful and there's even a smile that pushes at the wrinkled corners around his eyes. “..And I could not be more proud of you if I tried.”

The valley, the remnants of the Guardian, even Death all fall away for the briefest few seconds as the weight of Eideard's words slugs you right in the chest.

He's proud of you?...

For what?!

For shouting at him? Disobeying him? For scaring him?

He should be angry, frustrated, annoyed. He should be outraged at worst and disappointed at best. He should be anything! But not proud!

Shamefully inelegant, you sputter, “Huh!? But.. but I-”

“-You were willing to face down the Guardian to protect your friend and save my home, and you’re both still alive,” he interrupts, smiling down at you with a tender gaze, “How could I be anything but proud?”

Baffled, you find it harder and harder to meet the sincerity radiating from his face, so you cast your eyes about instead like a coward, taking in the rubble surrounding you. “I.. I'm sorry -”

'Say it.'

“-a-about the Guardian,” you utter hastily, giving yourself a vicious, mental kick as punishment. There are so many things you want to say, but you don't quite know how to yet with Death lingering behind you watchfully. And you are sorry about the Guardian. In spite of the destruction it had wreaked across Tri Stone, it was undeniably a magnificent beast. But there are certain apologies that are meant for the maker's ears alone. You want to ask him about what he'd said in the tunnel, but more than that, you want to say you're sorry for what you'd done to provoke his admission in the first place, and then... 

God, you just don't know. How could you possibly begin to tell the giant that his words had inadvertently wrapped your heart up in warmth and safety and made you feel wanted again, even after you'd been so cantankerous with him?

Right then and there, standing in the rain before the remnants of his greatest creation, you make a silent promise to the maker that you will tell him, just as soon as this whole ordeal is over and you're all safely back in Tri Stone.

Forcing yourself to meet Eideard's gaze, you stiffen your upper lip and try your best to convey the intent of that promise in just a look, hoping that he'll glean an understanding from two, simple words uttered by a sheepish human. “I'm sorry,” you whisper again.

Perhaps it's only your imagination, but you almost think you see Eideard's gentle smile widen as he offers you an understanding nod. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Somehow, he gives you the impression that he's referring to more than just the Guardian.

Awkwardly, you start to fidget with your hands and twist yourself about to look back at the skull of the construct behind you. “So... what happens now?” The whole point of awakening the Guardian had been to let it destroy the Corrupted mass that guards the path to the Tree of Life. “Without the Guardian, how will Death get to that tree?”

Eideard is silent for several seconds, but his expression could not be broadcasting his intentions any louder. His pale eyes meet the Horseman's fiery gaze and he sighs tiredly, a sad smile forming underneath his moustache.

In your peripheral vision, you see Death stiffen.

“What?” you ask, turning your head between them, unable to catch either of their attention, “What is it?”

Wordlessly, the maker steps past you, moving closer to the Guardian's head where he stops just in front of it and raises a withered hand, placing his palm fondly against the construct's intact jaw. Then, turning slightly to peer at you over one shoulder, he answers, and his words send a jolt of panic up through your spine.

“I have no choice but to bring him back...”

A beat passes in silence.

Then, the soundlessness is broken as you blurt out, “What!?” whilst at the same time, Death scoffs, “How many times would you have me kill him?”

“Corruption fled from the heart stones,” the old one explains, peering down at his wrinkled hand and closing it into a fist, “But the makers' souls within should still be intact... I can put them back.”

“I-I don't understand, the Guardian's destroyed,” you pipe up as your hands knead firmly into the hem of your shirt, “How can you put them back if there's nowhere for them to... go...?”

Eideard turns a little to face you and tries to give you his most reassuring smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes.

You can see right through it.

It looks...

..sad.

At your side, Death's brows knit together beneath his mask and he scowls accusingly up at the maker. “You intend to rebuild it yourself.”

Silent, the Old one turns away, prompting the Horseman to growl, “You understand that's suicide, don't you?”

Deep in your stomach, a pit of dread opens up into a chasm and you feel your heart plummet straight down inside it. “What!?” you cry again.

“The restoration of a beast that size will consume more magic than he has,” Death explains, never once shifting his glare off the Old one, “Maker magic is inextricably bound to their hearts. The amount of power required will quite literally burn straight through his.”

Thinking hard, you clench your hands into such tight fists, the nails pierce the skin of your palms. “Well then. He... He just won't do it. Will you, Eideard?”

The maker still maintains his lonely silence, whilst overhead, the sky rumbles ominously.

“No.” You shake your head defiantly from side to side. “No! I mean, there's another way, right? We could...  we could go and get the other makers? They can help-”

“-When we built the Guardian,” Eideard interrupts, “construction was slow. Even with all our efforts, the process took nearly a year until it reached completion.”

“So we wait a year!” you blurt out. The idea sits wrongly in your gut, yet if it means Eideard doesn't have to do anything rash, you can be patient. Rationality has long since departed from your head.

Sighing, the maker heaves himself around to face you and Death. “We do not have the luxury of time, little one,” he rumbles with a patience that serves to infuriate rather than reassure you, “Every day, we lose more of our home to Corruption. I will not wait for it to claim another of my people. I-” He stops to take a shuddering breath and his knees begin to buckle, yet his grip on the staff remains strong, keeping him standing upright in spite of his old bones. When he looks to you again, his face is set but calm. Accepting.

It's that acceptance that frightens you the most.

“I cannot,” he utters softly.

Then, to your horror, he turns back to the Guardian's head and raises his voice to be heard over the storm. “Both of you, stay back!” To himself, he adds, “This will require more than a small effort.”

“Eideard!” you cry out, starting forwards.

Inevitably though, Death's long fingers curl into the back of your shirt and he roughly spins you away from the maker and into his torso, grasping one of your forearms with his free hand. Blunted fingernails dig into your skin as you try to wrench yourself unsuccessfully from his grip.

“Let. Me. Go!” Desperate, you beat your fists against his pale, broad chest and strain with all your might to reach Eideard, but you may as well be trying to shift an osmium statue. Not even redoubling your efforts causes Death to sway. Like a boulder in the wind, he remains utterly still and steadfast, looking over your head at the old maker.

Eideard's staff is raised high into the air and held between both hands, striking the very posture that bears an eerie resemblance to a headsman, poised to bring his axe down on the neck of his latest victim.

What cruel irony, the Horseman thinks with a bitter sneer to the Universe, that the victim is to be his own executioner.

With a strength that contradicts his gentler nature, Eideard hammers the pommel of his staff down on the ground, producing a tremor that must have rivalled even the Guardian's earth-shattering footsteps. From the point of contact, old magics explode outwards in a whirlwind of blinding, blue light that forces you to slam your eyes firmly shut, your retinas stinging against the onslaught. The air whips up all around the valley and crashes into you with enough force to send you staggering backwards until your skull connects with Death's broad chest. Wincing behind gritted teeth, you pry your eyes open, your free arm thrown up as a shield to help dull the brilliant intensity of Eideard's power and through squinted eyelids, you see the maker hold unsteady ground against his own magics as they erupt relentlessly from the ground to form a perfect circle of roaring, azure flames all around him.

You're suddenly alerted by movement to your right and you throw your head sideways, struggling to see through the coagulation of icy rain and biting wind that endeavour to force your eyes shut again. You probably shouldn't have worried about trying to see– there's no way in Hell you could missed the house-sized boulder that rolls past just metres from where you stand, making a clumsy bee-line for the Guardian's skull.

The grip on your shoulders suddenly tightens when an immense shadow cloaks both you and Death in an eerie darkness. Craning your neck back tentatively, you can't help but duck further underneath the shelter of Death's chest as the Guardian's detached hand sails over your head, raining dust and slops of mud down on top of you and the Horseman. Mouth agape, you watch on in awed horror as the gargantuan piece continues its journey through the air until it joins several other clusters of stone anatomy, all twisting about and slamming together like pieces of the realm's largest and most terrifying jigsaw puzzle.

And below it all, his head bowed against the storm, tusks bared and legs seconds away from giving out, stands Eideard.

With every part of the Guardian that fits back into place, his hands slip further down the staff, his shoulders drop another inch and every ounce of the powerful maker seems to disappear, replaced with someone desperately fighting to keep himself upright.

“Death! Help him!”you cry, whipping around to face the Horseman and meeting his glare at the same moment as a lightening bolt stabs a line across his blazing retinas,“You have to do something! Please!”

He glances down, peering at the tears that mingle perfectly with the rain streaming down your face.

You look downright terrified.

Ignoring the thunderous growl overhead, Death's brows start to draw together, his gaze staying firmly anchored to yours until he pauses, and then lowers his eyes to the ground at your feet.

It's a silent, solemn and damning admission.

There's nothing he can do.

Death's quiet confession hits you harder than a slap to the face. In fact, you almost wish he'd done the latter, it might have stung less.

“No...” You shake your head in disbelief. If not even Death can do anything, then...

With one wrist still clenched in the Horseman's hand, you can do little more than give it a sharp tug and hurl yourself away from him, stretching out your free arm towards the maker and pulling against Death's hold with all your might. “Eideard, NO!”

You don't expect him to react to you, weak as he is, blood clinging to his eyelashes and staining his teeth crimson. But he does. Somehow, he manages to turn his head over a shoulder to look you right in the eye, the corners of his own crinkling around their edges, and it takes you a moment to realise that he's smiling at you. 

It's that gentle smile of his that shows more through the eyes than the mouth, reassuring and comforting - the kind of smile that tries to convey without words that everything will be okay.

That you'll be okay.

But the old maker is wrong.

“STOP!” you beg through sobs, growing only more desperate when his eyes slip shut and he turns away, “NO-NO-NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!”

Still fiercely contesting his fate, you yell his name over the deafening collisions of stone limbs and ligaments fitting together, but your scream is stolen from you, cut short by a large, bandaged hand that suddenly appears in front of you and slides around the top of your face, so large that it covers both your eyes and nose. Startled, you shout in protest and try to push at the Horseman's wrist, only to find yourself spun about and yanked painfully into him, locked against his chest by two, sinewy arms.

The split halves of the last heart stone reach the apex of their height, hovering before their original home in the Guardian's skull. Eideard's pinched eyes burst open wide, wisps of blue magic swirling out of them like dancing smoke and he draws in a breath, focusing every last inch of willpower into the heart stone floating high above him.

The pieces shimmer with that familiar blue light, standing stark against the blackened sky.

With not a second to spare, Death curls himself over you and ducks his mask into your hair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The valley around you goes eerily quiet for little more than a beat of your clamouring heart.

Then, all of a sudden...

'W H U M PH!'

Even from behind Death's hand, the light that explodes from Eideard's staff is damn near blinding, searing across the vale as if the suns had just tumbled out of the sky. You feel the Horseman brace himself just milliseconds before a wall of air slams into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and sends both of you sliding several steps backwards through the mud. Were it not for Death's preternatural weight, you fear you might actually get blown right off your feet.

Then, as promptly as the squall had arrived, it just...

...stops.

The wind suddenly dies down to a far less suffocating strength and the rain no longer stings when it hits your skin.

Cautiously, Death cracks his eyes open and raises his head to look around, letting the hand around your face fall to his side once more. As soon as the Horseman's formidable presence no longer boxes you in, you fling your eyes open and this time, he allows you to pull yourself free from his grasp and turn towards Eideard.

Your searching gaze immediately lands upon the maker and your heart stills as though it were just a rock in your chest.

The colossal, old giant has collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving up and down like a vast ship bobbing lazily on a choppy sea.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wading over churned-up ground towards him.

It doesn't even occur to you to notice that the rain has let up somewhat as the storm that carried it here begins moving north.

Sticky mud clings to your boots and weighs you down, making each step feel as though it might be the one that saps the last of your strength and brings you to your knees, yet you keep going at an awkward and clumsy run, followed closely by Death, who seems to glide effortlessly over the destroyed terrain.

You all but collide with the maker's head when your foot slips out from underneath you and you're forced to catch yourself on his shoulder, all the while uttering, “No, no, please! No – fuck!”

Your rain-slicked hands hover over his face and you try to take in the extent of the damage, your eyes darting between the blood gushing from his nose and the milky white gaze that rolls towards you. Standing so close, you can make out the even paler pupils as they attempt to focus, eventually landing on you and dilating with recognition.

“Y/n...” Your name topples off his lips in a breathless whisper and if you weren't right beside him, you doubt you'd have even heard it.

“I'm here!” you tell him urgently, placing one hand on his cheek and sliding the other frantically underneath his heavy beard to the flesh of his neck in search of a pulse. You suddenly wish you'd asked Karn a bit about maker biology, because you have no idea whether you'll even find a pulse. You know they have hearts – you've heard those beat close enough to your head to be sure – so it stands to reason that the giants should have pulses.

….There!

It turns out to be rather difficult to miss. As you probe around underneath his jawline, your fingertips and rocked by a fluttering beat and you feel your own heart jump in response.

It's definitely a pulse, but oh so terrifyingly weak. Not at all one that should belong to a giant.

He's fading.

Fast.

The knowledge settles like a weight in your chest, as though someone has tied a cement block around your heart and it's dragging you down, threatening to pull you onto your knees unless you keep them locked tight.

“No!” you whisper. Then, clenching your jaw, you firmly repeat, “No.”

Eideard's misty eyes follow you as you pull away from his face and turn towards his shoulder instead, wasting no time in throwing your hands over the lip of the leather pauldron and hauling yourself up onto his shoulder.

Amidst the chaos, none of you notice that high overhead, the newly-rebuilt Guardian's eyes slowly flicker to life.

Behind you, Death gives a start and calls your name, but you ignore him, crawling onto Eideard's vast chest and bloodying his beard with your hands as you lean forwards over his face, your right knee resting directly above a fluttering heart.

Raindrops fall from the ends of your hair and splatter onto his lip, and every breath he exhales washes over you and warms the chill in your bones.

“You-you're gonna be okay!” you reaffirm, shuffling back and placing one hand on top of the other, linking your fingers together to press the heel of your palm over the giant's sternum. You've never performed CPR in your life, at least, not on anything that wasn't a crash-test dummy, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the method is never going to work on someone as large as a maker.

Death knows it too.

He knows that one human simply isn't strong enough to keep the blood flowing around Eideard's body, you'll never be able to do it fast enough or for long enough to get blood to his brain and keep it there....

But Creator, you plan on trying, don't you? Because in your addled state, you can't help but to fall back on what you know, even though you also know that this can't possibly work.

It's an awful contradiction, another facet of humanity, to try and change the unchangeable, to challenge an immutable fact. 'What's the point?' he wonders, 'of prolonging a lie, just because you're afraid to accept the truth?'

Eideard will die. No amount of human persistence will change that.

The old Reaper watches in silence, a mellow resignation haunting his gaze. Several raindrops gather at the bottom of his masks's eye socket before they eventually spill over the edge and trickle down his bone-white mask.

If you'd have chosen that moment to look at him, you might have done a double-take, thinking perhaps that it wasn't rain falling down the Horseman's mask at all.

But you don't look at him.

Your eyes are instead fixated on your own hands as they shove uselessly at Eideard's chest. “One! Two! Three!” Numbers fall from your lips in rhythmic succession. “One! Two! Thr-!”

But movement suddenly cuts you off as Eideard's enormous hand slides weakly up his side until his fingertips press into your ribcage ever-so gently. 

Blinded by tears, your gaze snaps to the hand, then to the maker's face and you squeeze your eyes open and shut several times, determined to see him clearly.

“It's all right,” he whispers in a gentle breath, as though it's taking everything in him just to summon his voice.

Gritting your teeth, you untangle your fingers from one another and slip them tightly around handfuls of the maker's robes, croaking, “No! No, it's not all right! You're-! You can't just-!”

You freeze when Eideard's arm shifts again and he raises his thumb towards your blotchy cheek.

There, with the utmost tenderness, he sweeps the digit beneath your streaming eye, a fruitless endeavour to brush away the tears rolling down your face. Blurting out a wet sob, you suddenly reach up with both arms and grab the maker's thumb, holding it against you even as the rest of his hand falls heavily against your back.

Makers, as a species, are seldom known to shed a tear, and those that do are careful to conceal it from their fellows, if only to avoid the inevitable gossip that would follow. If a maker is known to have cried, the general understanding would be that something utterly and immeasurably cataclysmic must have happened to them, and that's if their tears are ever witnessed.

Now, here you are, not only crying, but doing so openly, in front of an audience.

“You're crying...?” he breathes, awed. It breaks his ancient heart to realise that he's your cataclysmic event. Yet there's also something so, incredibly moving about it, that he means enough to you that you're willing to bare your heart so readily in front of both he and a Horseman.

Amidst frigid pellets of rain, he can still pick out the warmth of your tears against his clavicle.

He wonders if this is how humans let each other know that they're loved.

You cling to his thumb even harder, as if letting it go will be what kills him. “Of course I'm crying,” you choke, “look at you. Why did you do that! You're dying!”

But Eideard can't look at himself. And even if he could, he wouldn't, because you're here, so why in the world would he want to look anywhere else?

A blissful smile blooms across the maker's lips and he exhales, emptying his lungs of air even as his heart swells with affection and pride for the little human on his chest. From the edges of his vision, the valley around him begins to fade into brilliant, golden light, but he still gazes at you while it does, and in a single breath, he manages to utter, “A small price to pay... to protect my... family.”

For you, the valley remains dark and dour, a perfect reflection for the state of your sorry soul.

Something brushes past you... No... through you... something that you mistake for another of Eideard's warm and steady breaths.

Using the back of your arm, you make a vain attempt to scrub the frustrated tears out of your eyes. How can he even think that he's worth sacrificing? A very raw sort of ache claws at your throat and it only hurts more when you try to swallow past it. Sniffing hard, you shake your head, hands curling until your fingernails bite into the skin of your palms.

“Your life is not a small price to pay! You think the other makers would want this!? You can't just – just do something like this, Eideard! You sure as shit can't do this to them!” you plead with him, hitting a fist repeatedly against his chest, as if for a second you truly believe that such an ineffective force could somehow bully his stuttering heartbeat back to its former strength, “They're your family! You don't leave your family, Eideard! You don't offer them a home an-and then just.. just leave!”

The maker doesn't respond, and the rain on your eyelashes makes it hard to see his face as the thumb you're still clinging to begins falling from your grasp with the rest of his hand, sliding off your back and trying to fall to his side once more.

Realising that holding on will only drag you down with it, you reluctantly let it go and the appendage lands on the ground again with a dull, wet squelch.

He must be weaker than you realised.

“Everything will be fine, okay? You saved my life, now I'm gonna save yours! They need you, they need you.” Babbling deliriously to the maker, you're completely unaware of the Horseman calling out your name behind you.

Slowly, as though he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Death approaches Eideard, stopping next to the Old one's neck and reaching up towards you. “Come now, you're soaked through,” he murmurs, gentler than the usual gruff and surly timbre, “Let's -”

“Get away!” you bellow, reeling your arm back and whipping about to face him with a sudden ferocity that raises the Horseman's eyebrows, “He's just gonna leave them! It's not fair, Death! It's not fair, he can't leave me, not like everyone else has! He can't!”

“He already has.”

Death's detached reply cuts cold and swift as a blade across your chest.

“Wh..? No, he hasn't.” You shake your head, your voice so, unjustly small, barely audible.

The Horseman falls silent.

He doesn't need to say anything further. He can see the realisation sweeping across your face, wiping away any semblance of a human expression and replacing it with a blank-faced stare, as expressionless as his own mask. He knows that look all too well. You're trying to go numb. Perhaps in preparation for what you'll see as you slowly twist your neck back towards the old maker's face.

Eideard's gentle, white eyes peer straight through you, unblinking even though the wind tugs at his wispy eyelashes. His lips are parted and tilted at their corners ever so slightly, just enough that he could be smiling at you, and yet, though you wait in utter silence and stillness, not a trace of warmth slips between his tusks to chase away the cold on your skin.

Wordlessly, Death watches you inhale and let the breath out again slowly, never once looking away from Eideard's face.

Only when the silence grows heavier than stone, you utter, “Oh,” nodding once, pretending to acknowledge what you can't bring yourself to believe, “Oh, I... I didn't realise -”

From the ground, Death has a perfect view of your face when your jaw sets..

And then, sooner than he expects, he sees it utterly and completely crumble.

Your lips and brows twist up and you suck down a shaky breath that only catches in your throat.

“I think I forgot to say goodbye...,” you bleat, lifting your arms in a useless shrug before you look over at the Horseman and offer him a tragically delirious little laugh. Stoic, he watches you in silence as your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the rattled sob that works its way up your throat.

Behind trembling fingers, you wheeze, “Oh my god.. I didn't – I didn't even say.. I didn't say goodbye, Death! I didn't even say goodbye!”

… Just like you hadn't said goodbye to your mum and dad, or the rest of your family, nor to your friends.

You've never really thought about how important that one, simple word could be, as less of a statement, and more of a means to gain closure.

Looking back... had you even bade farewell to Father Michael?

It's happening all over again, but what's worse now is that you'd actually had the time and a chance to say goodbye to Eideard, but you just... hadn't. And now, some of the last words you said to him had been impatient and unkind, a fact which you know in your heart of hearts will haunt you for the rest of your sorry life.

Sitting back onto your haunches, you fight to keep your face neutral, but the seconds that tick by are interspersed with moments where you allow ugly, angry sounds to burst between your gritted teeth. Not quite sobs, not quite screams.

You're unaware that you've dropped your hands into your lap, fingers tightening around fistfuls of skirt as you're promptly struck by an urge to squeeze something so tightly that your arms begin to shake with the effort.

It feels...

...relieving, actually, to expend some of the pressure building behind your eyes and in your chest.

High overhead, through the clouds, a ray of sunlight bursts through and makes the valley glow marginally brighter. Somehow, that one ray of light feels so much like a betrayal. 'Where has the storm gone?' you wonder bleakly, 'It should still be raging? Eideard is dead! Why the fuck is the rain moving on!? The sky should be mourning!'

What you really want is for it all to stop, for the world and everything in it to just pause for a while, long enough for you to get yourself together and come to terms with grief until you're eventually ready to move forwards once more.

But sadly, the world is rarely so generous.

On the ground beside Eideard, Death kneels and leans over his head. Something comes over him, pushing him to lift his hand towards the maker's eyelids in the same way that he's seen humans do to one another in the past, on battlefields and in the wilderness when their clothes were crafted predominantly from the pelts of animals. He always thought it a strange thing to do, but now, he finds something inherently unsettling about seeing Eideard with his eyes open, staring up into nothingness. In a rare moment of indulgence, Death takes the time to pass his palm over each of the maker's eyes, sliding them shut before pulling away once more and heaving a sigh.

'You're getting soft,' someone tells him, perhaps the voice of one of his siblings, perhaps his own subconscious. But whether it's his or not, he's swift to vehemently tell it that it's wrong.

All of a sudden, a deafening cacophony of stone grinding against stone ruptures the air and Death is on his feet again in seconds, instinctively drawing his scythes and whipping about to face the gargantuan construct with a low growl.

He'll never admit to losing focus, not for all the riches in Heaven, but he can certainly reprimand himself with an internal barrage of curses that would make a demon blush. Amidst the shock of losing Eideard and witnessing the distress of his human charge, Death had entirely forgotten that the Guardian was even there.

Hidden beneath his mask, he peels his lips back and his hackles shoot up when it turns its baby-blue gaze onto you.

'Wait...' Pausing, he blinks and looks again. 'Blue!'

It's eye-sockets are indeed filled with a blessedly familiar, cerulean blue light, just like the light shining out of the three heart stones embedded within its shoulders and head. There's not a trace of yellow to be seen.

It's bending down slowly and – to Death's surprise – hesitantly, a far cry from how it was conducting itself only minutes ago. Tilting its head like a curious child, the beast continues to lower itself until one of its colossal knees hits the ground and sends a quake rumbling across the valley.

“Y/n,” he hisses at you through his teeth, flaring his scythes like terrible wings to his left and right. He isn't taking any chances. “Come down and get behind me. Now.”

You barely even raise your head to acknowledge his command.

The valley around you falls silent, and it's peaceful, in a way. Now that the storm has moved on, there's no sound save for the Guardian's stone joints that creak and groan as it bends its torso a little nearer to you and lets out a rumble that sends even more shockwaves out across the vale, felt more than heard. For a beast so vast, it exhibits a surprising degree of hesitancy as it shifts its arm and reaches out for you and Eideard, causing Death to plant one boot firmly in the mud, braced to launch himself towards you at a moment's notice.

He's not about to leave the makers with two corpses to mourn.

On some, unbidden instinct, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense and bulge before he registers with a jolt how absurd it is to try and appear larger to this particular threat, especially given that, as of right now, it hardly seems to pose much of a threat at all.

As the Guardian's hand draws closer and its shadow passes over Eideard's face, you finally lift your heavy head and roll your neck back to watch the gigantic appendage descend, not unlike witnessing a meteorite come barreling down on top of you.

And yet, for a reason that you're sure Eideard would gently admonish you for, you don't flinch, you don't even move. Wholly unafraid of whatever fate might befall you, you just sit there on the maker's chest, waiting until the appendage slows down and comes to rest just beside you and your old friend.

Even if you live to be a hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to explain where your terror of the beast had fled to, especially when it had been so prevalent before. Its hand, longer than a boxcar, hovers so close. A few hours ago, you'd probably have fainted on the spot. Now, you almost want to peer curiously inside your own soul to see if you can discover the whereabouts of any trepidation.

Using the very tip of one, enormous finger, the construct nudges the maker's shoulder, jostling you both slightly before it pulls its hand back and waits, staring down at its unresponsive creator with bright, expectant eyes.

You register a tug at your heart strings to see those eyes dim as the seconds tick by without a response.  

There's a sound that could have been a whine, or perhaps the simple passing of air through the gaps in its gargantuan jaw, and though its head doesn't move, you can feel the moment when its eyes rove from the elder to you, no doubt seeking some kind of explanation.

“I'm sorry,” you choke, throat too tight to produce a more substantial sound, “He's... He didn't make it.”

There's no doubt that it must understand you, because the slabs that make up its eyebrows shift and slide towards the centre of its forehead and it glances at the hammer clenched in its grasp. An agitated groan rolls across the valley and suddenly, the construct's gaze darts to you once more, its features squeezed together somehow, so much so that it looks to be in pain. Something about the expression drags a tiny flicker of compassion out of your obtunding heart and you feebly reach your hand out in a mollifying gesture. When the behemoth looks from you to its hammer again, then to Eideard and back only to repeat the strange cycle, you start to realise that it's trying to convey an urgent and desperate question.

“It's... okay...” you say slowly, watching the construct grow very still and focus its attention on you, “You didn't do this...”

It would be so easy to lay the blame of Eideard's death at the Guardian's feet.

Easy, yes. But you're still somehow lucid enough to know that it would also be wrong and unfair.

The poor beast never asked to be corrupted, just like you'd never asked to be here.

“It wasn't your fault,” you tell the Guardian as it slowly rocks back onto its stone struts, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the writhing, black hillock behind it. At the sight, one of your eyelids gives a brief and imperceptible twitch. “It wasn't your fault...”

Death, playing his part as the silent observer, stands astounded by one of the most unusual exchanges he's ever witnessed.

Angelic scholars would forever attest that humans are, and always have been, ruled by one, core instinct - that being fear.

Death would have been labelled an outlier had he ever bothered to say that he disagreed.

He would have attested that there are two.

Fear, most definitely, is the first. It's a strong instinct, one that has kept your ancestors alive and safe from danger for billions of years. The other, in his opinion, is compassion.

Fear might do well to keep an individual human alive, but it was compassion for their fellow man that ensured the continued survival of communities.

However, even if, several days ago, someone had asked the Horseman which of the two he believed would always, always trounce the other in a life or death situation, he'd have bet his scythes that it would be fear.

So it's tremendously baffling, if not a little refreshing, for Death to discover that fear can be quite easily overridden by something so unorthodox as concern for another.

To think that you, a little human, are offering genuine reassurance to a Guardian who could crush you flat with the tip of its finger, Death can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. Even in spite of all you've faced these past few days, the beast should have been the ultimate symbol for everything that scares and horrifies you. Your fear of the monstrosity should have absolutely crippled you. It posed, by far, the largest threat.

That you're instead communing with the very construct that had been trying to kill both you and the Horseman only minutes ago is... frankly, nothing short of astounding.

In spite of himself, Death lets his expression turn a little less sharp underneath his mask.

He wonders whether humanity would be proud to have someone like you representing them as a whole. Were he a human, shuddersome as the thought may be, he thinks... he would be proud.

Which makes it all the more jarring when, seconds later, you remind the Horseman that for all the soft-heartedness you've demonstrated, you're still descended from the same species who used to tear one another to pieces for sport, for fun, for a concept or a king.

Your gaze slides around the Guardian's bulk and your eyes lock with a sudden fierce and startling intensity onto the corrupted mound behind it. Death had forgotten, after several days spent watching you stitch your heart firmly to your sleeve, why other species are so quick to label humans 'savage.'

As you stare up at the corruption, the Nephilim looks hard into your eyes and sees all the rage and hatred and depravity of your ancestors boiling like a supernova inside them, as though each eye is a star on the very brink of exploding and casting all that dark matter out into the world around you, wiping out everything in its path.

Thousands of years and billions of souls' worth of wrath packed into one, single look.

What choice does Death have but to balk?

Distantly, he hears himself muse, 'By The Creator... War and Fury are going to love this human.'

Drawing in a shuddering breath, you peel yourself away from Eideard's chest and push yourself off him, dropping to the ground noiselessly and taking a step towards the corruption with the most hateful sneer you can muster. “It's that fucking stuff's fault!” you hiss, pointing a shaky finger at the eyeball glaring back down at you. Raising your voice to be heard, you squint up towards the Guardian's head and shout, “You hear me!? That's what killed Eideard! That! The corruption! Right there!”

You feel as if you're egging on a dog, trying to get it to attack, to bite.

The Guardian half turns to look behind itself before swivelling back to you once more, something low and sonorous rolling up from its chest and falling out of its parted maw.

There's a searing heat in your belly that hurts like you've swallowed burning coals, compelling you to turn your murderous glare back onto the eyeball. You meet that terrible gaze and find yourself unafraid for the first time, because how could there be any room for fear when absolutely every single last inch of you is consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge? 

You don't care that the Grim Reaper is watching, you don't care that the construct's swirling, blue gaze is fixed upon you either. There is nothing consolable about you now. All you are - all you know – is frustration and pain and rage. Rage that you wield like a sword, pointed out towards the world around you, but most specifically, at the writhing mass of corruption that still blocks your path to the Tree.

You hardly recognise your own voice as you drop open your jaw and unleash a shout so loud and haunting, even Death is caught off guard by the force.

“KILL IT!”

At once, the Guardian throws its arms back, raises its chin to the heavens and, just as you had, bellows out a gut-churning, earth-trembling roar that shakes the very mountains around you, only this time, you don't feel as though you're going to tumble off your feet. In fact, you've never felt steadier.

“KILL THAT THING! FUCK IT UP!” you holler, spittle flying from your lips. Although your voice breaks and hurts to scream so loudly, you hurl your fist out at the corruption like you're throwing a punch, “FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!”

Fuelled by anguish that's barely its own, the Guardian slams its hammer into its free hand and hauls itself around to face the mass behind it. Your furious screams might as well be a powerful set of bellows that feed all that hatred and fury into the Guardian's soul, turning the fire there into a raging inferno, swelling and surging through its body like lava trying to burst from a volcano.

There's the immeasurable power of three, ancient makers' souls thrumming through the air, accompanied by the raw, physical strength of the Guardian, and Death is almost certain that he sees the swollen, yellow eyeball grow wide, its pupil shrinking with alarm.

How satisfying.

The Guardian reels its arm back and you feel your heart give an approving jolt when the enormous beast suddenly launches its hammer forward and down, driving it straight into the eye's squelching centre and pulling forth the most blood-curdling shriek you've ever heard. It's near enough deafening, but you don't cover your ears this time, instead letting the sound fill you up and thrum through the blood in your veins.

You're glad the corruption is screaming. You've never wanted something to suffer so much in your life.

The Guardian draws its hammer back again and reveals the eyeball, now resembling little more than a concave pustule on the inky wall of undulating, oozing filth.

Blackened spatters of ooze spurt from the wound like a disgusting rain and shower the grass around the cliffs, and a closer look reveals the tendrils that had made up the eyelids have been decimated and lay still and unresponsive, unlike the rest of the mass, sadly.

When the Guardian tries to bring its hammer down for another blow, several, gigantic tentacles suddenly shoot out and adhere themselves firmly around its arms whilst a fatter, larger one collides with the construct's chest, blasting out a large segment of stone as its smaller counterparts shove their slimy, wriggling tips as deep underneath the armoured plating as they can go.

Incensed, the construct tries to reel back, tugging uselessly on the insidious vines and belting out a roar of outrage that drowns out your own.

Blinded by hot tears and inconsolable with rage, you start forwards until Death has the presence of mind to march after you and pull you to a stop, his fingernails biting into the bare skin on your arm as you viciously snatch it back. However, you still reluctantly draw to a halt, never once taking your eyes off the battle ahead.

Beneath your feet, another quake rolls across the earth as the Guardian is brought crashing to its knees. Corruption, like the parasite it is, has its slimy grasp wholly and unshakeably fastened to the construct, stabbing its knife-like tentacles into the vulnerable heart stones and pouring its wicked intent into each of them.

For a gut-wrenching instance, something inside Death sinks at the sight of a sickly, yellow glow encompassing the stones, chasing away the soft blue light they'd once emitted.

Corruption is attempting to take control again.

But the Guardian, still hanging onto the final, lingering threads that tie it to sanity, will not go down without a fight.

Summoning the last of its vehemence and contempt for the force that destroyed its home and its creator, the construct braces its neck and pulls back as far as the tendrils will allow it to before they go taut and keep it from retreating further. Amidst the chaos of Corruption's thrashing appendages, the Guardian unexpectedly goes very still and there's an awful second where horror stabs through the red mist in front of your eyes.

No.. No, it can't be corrupted again, surely! That isn't fair! Eideard can't have died in vain! He can't have!

Just like that, your hatred returns in full and with a heaving chest, you scrunch up your face and open your jaw wide.

But just before you can unleash whatever terrible scream is working its way up your throat, the Guardian abruptly raises its head.

From your angle, all you and Death can see is a brilliant, blue light blossoming into existence from the construct's central heart stone, causing your own heart to roar triumphantly at the sight of it. It's magic. But more than that, it's that wonderful, familiar magic that you'll forever associate with Eideard.

The fact may well be that all makers' magic is the same shade, but you don't care.

He'd rebuilt the Guardian with his very essence, literally pouring his own life-force into purifying those heart stones.

There isn't a doubt in your mind.

That's Eideard up there.

Like a flower unfurling its petals, the light swells into a halo of magic that surrounds the Guardian's head and although its hands are still restrained by Corruption, the beast is far from unarmed.

In one, last show of might, it reels back, the plates around its neck shivering and flaring as it glares down at what remains of the corrupted eyeball. Then suddenly, like a colossal, living siege engine, it throws its head forwards into a death-dealing headbutt, smashing its heart stone into the corruption's shrieking core.

Within less than a second, the squirming mass begins to sizzle and hiss like skin under sulfuric acid as the magic encompasses it. The Guardian howls, and you realise that the corrupted tendrils are still tearing it to pieces, even as they dissolve right in front of your eyes until entire waves of it are cascading down to the valley floor alongside great swathes of the construct's stone. The cliffs to the North begin crumbling as well, losing structure as the webs of corruption woven deep inside their foundations melt and die.

The explosion of magic grows bright enough to encompass the entire valley and though the intensity stings your eyes, it doesn't otherwise hurt you. Instead, it lifts the tiny hairs all over your body, dancing and popping across your skin. And it's so warm. 

Warm like Eideard...

As the last remaining strands of Corruption bleed away, you let that tight coil in your belly unwind, collapsing onto your knees as if it had been anger alone that had kept you standing all this time.

In the same moment, the Guardian too falls apart for the last time. Like its creator before it, it had used up all the magic residing in its heart stones, pouring everything it had into one, last spell to save its home.

The magic spend, its body collapses in on itself and implodes like a star, leaving its scattered remains in front of the entrance to a once-obstructed canyon pass. Through the settling dust, you can make out a passage devoid of lushness or frondescence. Only flimsy wisps of grass grow further back, away from the acres of ground that corruption had poisoned.

Your gaze drops to the grass soaking your knees, catching a glimpse of red where your fingers rest against the material of your skirt and you let out a quiet hiss of breath, deflating into something small and tired and very fragile.

“Human?” Death's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he speaks too loudly.

Funny. He might be onto something.

You don't answer, not until his shadow falls over you and he tries your name instead. “Y/n?”

This time, you offer up a grunt in response, hardly more than a huff, really. You're spent.

You're done.

For the living embodiment of death, the Horseman behind you isn't sure how best to get you up onto your feet again. He knows grief well, encounters it in almost every aspect of his journeys. It's more of a companion to him than he ever wanted it to be. But for all his experience with grief and the grieving, he still doesn't know how to ease it with words.

'I'm sorry,' he could say. You seem to say it all the time, how difficult can it be?

Apparently very difficult, he finds upon opening his mouth, only to let it click shut again moments later. But then, why should he be sorry? He's not the one who killed Eideard. The old maker made that decision for himself. Death has nothing to be sorry for, so why say it?

He can practically hear your disapproving reply. 'That's not the point.'

Despite usually being such a fan of silence, for Death, every second that ticks by without a word from you feels empty and wrong, somehow. He chooses not to dwell on how quickly he's becoming used to the sound of your voice. Redirecting his thoughts away from that treacherous area, he stubbornly ponders over how much he despises not knowing what to say. Words, as well as weapons, have pride of place in his arsenal.

So he takes a step back, refocuses on what's ahead. And ahead, he knows, is the Tree of Life, and his brother.

Forwards then, to what he knows.

Looking down at you once more, the Horseman clears his throat. Maybe he can't offer you words of comfort, but he can offer you a distraction. “The way is clear,” he promptly observes, tipping his chin towards the canyon but keeping an eye trained on you, watching for a reaction. After a few seconds, he finally gets one.

“Is that all you have to say?” you wheeze through half-gritted teeth, “The way is clear? What about Eideard?”

Raising a brow, Death twists around to look back at the deceased old one and lets out a sigh. It is always a shame to lose the ancients. All that knowledge and experience lost. “What about him? He's dead.” He hadn't meant it callously, merely as a sad reminder of events. There's nothing either of you need to do. The makers will deal with Eideard's body once they find it.

When you suddenly lurch up onto your feet and round on Death, spitting like a cat, he realises he may have interpreted your question a little differently.

“I know he's dead!” you seethe, swiping away the snot that has gathered above your upper lip, “You're happy to just leave him there? Alone? Dead in the dirt?”`

Death pauses, then cocks his head to the side. “Is that not what one usually does with a corpse?”

His brother, Strife, had once informed him that he had a poor sense of timing.

For a long while, you just stare back at him, a faraway and incredulous look adorning your features. Eventually though, you lick your lips and give a small, dry laugh .”Huh.”

He can't help but ask, “What?”

“I've been hearing you say it all this time,” you admit, shaking your head from side to side, “All this 'I have no heart! I have no soul!'... I never used to agree with you.” Your shoulders droop and you fix the Horseman with a defeated glare that lacks any real bite. “Now, I think I finally see it. Anyone with a heart wouldn't just... leave a friend in the muck for his family to find. A person with a heart wouldn't do that. They'd never do that...”

Perhaps he had been too uncouth, but the Nephilim still bridles at your tone. “I told you,” he mutters darkly, “I don't have a -”

“-Yeah, save it,” you snap at him, cold as ice, turning your back and taking a step towards Tri Stone, “I'm going to tell the others what happened. Why don't you do us a favour and just... just go.”

He almost calls out to you. This parting feels... unresolved.

A flicker of anticipation ignites in his chest when you abruptly stop and twist your head around lightly, peering back at him from the corner of your eye.

“You know something?” you ask softly, “I think, if you'd've listened to me in the first place and didn't put that corrupted stone in the Guardian, then Eideard would be alive right now.”

And without another word, you force your trembling legs to carry you on the long trek back into town, leaving Death to stare after you in the silence he wishes he'd never broken.

[dearestaeneas]

A Sunny Day- [MC x Portia]

Genre: Fluff

There is a steady pounding behind your eyes as you feel them tighten, involuntarily, against the sunlight. Flailing halfheartedly for anything to cover your long-suffering face with, your desperate hands land on a soft, gently rising shape.

“Mrrp?” It asks, with a hint of annoyance.

Experimentally, you open one eye, to see a small, brown and beige face staring back at you. “Mrow,” it says, matter-of-factly.

“Hello, Pepi,” you offer, cautiously. “Is Portia in?” You’re not expecting an answer, but it still feels polite to make some conversation. You’re definitely not supposed to be here, in Portia’s overly fluffed bed, lavishing under the thick quilts and enjoying the gentle breeze rustling the curtains- not at all.

Propping yourself onto your elbows, you survey the room: it's a kind of controlled chaos, wealthy with leafy plants and blooming flowers, the table by the window piled high with maps and parchment populated by various drawings and notes. Although you can’t see it from where you sit, you know many of those drawings feature your own face, and it makes you smile.

Dressing quickly, you hurry out of the bedroom to find the rest of the cottage deserted. Pepi trails behind you, plodding along happily. At the first sunbeam, she flops onto her side, and you abandon your search to offer her a belly scratch- something you would never, in a million years, have expected a cat to enjoy. “You’re just not around enough cats, then,” Portia’s voice rang out in your head.

“Maybe it’ll just be me and you today, if everyone else seems to have gone missing,” you say.

“MC?” Portia’s muffled voice asks. “You’re up!”

The front door opens to reveal Portia, in all her glory, crowned by the flooding sunlight behind her. Her red hair is tied back and her hands and knees are covered in dirt: the hem of her skirts would be deemed by a non-magician to be unsalvageable. “Come help me in the garden.”

‘Help’ is more than a bit of an understatement: Portia completely forbids you from touching anything she hasn’t already approved of being picked or pruned. You don’t mind- the garden is stunning, and it doesn’t get that way by letting an inexperienced gardener anywhere near it. You’re more than happy to sit back and be helpful only when requested. The rest of your time is spent listening to her talk about anything and everything- the weather forecast for the upcoming week, the drama between the cooks at the palace, the baker’s cousin’s new girlfriend’s pet toad hopping right into the cousin’s potion collection.

“I heard that it croaks backwards now,” she says, thoughtfully. “I asked the baker what, exactly, that sounds like, but any time he tried he would laugh too much, and I couldn’t afford to wait around all day.”

A curl fell loose during this explanation, and you reach over to brush it behind her ear, to which she leans her head into the palm of your hand. It’s as if cupping her cheek is what your hands were made for. Her smile widens, mischievous to the point where it causes a sharp pain in your chest. As you lean in…

“Here!” A small voice peeps out.

You jolt back, shocked. Portia looks beyond confused, but only for a moment before bursting out with laughter. There’s dirt on her cheek, smeared on by your own hand. In the back of your mind you’re surprised by this, considering you only considered yourself to be an audience member to the gardening, not a real assistant.

Looking around wildly, a blue shadow catches your eye between rows of tomato plants. Faust wriggles up, staring at you with those heart-melting puppy eyes. “Friend!”

Portia is, of course, delighted, and offers her a small pat, which she graciously accepts. 

“So you’ve been looking for me, is that it?” You laugh, leaning forward to brush the dirt from Portia’s cheek. “Where else would I be?”

She coils around the wrist you’re propping yourself up with. “I should probably be heading back to the shop,” you sigh. “I didn’t mean to stay the night, we were just at the Rowdy Raven so late, and…”

“And I can’t blame you for not wanting to walk home alone?”

“Exactly.”

She laughs, and leans back to give you a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth. “I’ll give you some vegetables to bring home to Asra, he told me last time how good the tomatoes were.”

Standing, she offers her hands, which always surprise you with their strength. It seems like you didn’t have to use any of your own power to stand, and instead you weigh about as much as Pepi does to her. As she rushes inside the cottage, you lift Faust up, allowing her to curl herself around your shoulders, her weight familiar and welcome. 

Portia returns moments later with a wicker basket, which she sets to work piling high with vegetables and clippings of various brightly colored flowers. “I’m going to want this basket back, you know,” she teases.

“Aw,” you say, with the tone of one extremely put upon. “So unrealistic you are. Guess I’ll just have to come back.”

“Guess so,” she smiles, thrusting it into your open arms, while standing on her tiptoes to reach your mouth for another kiss, much less rushed this time.

As you and Faust start the long walk home under canopies of green trees in the warm afternoon sunlight, you hear Portia singing to herself as she works.

[realcube]

comforting you during a thunderstorm ⛈

summary: you’re not much of a scaredy-cat but you do have an immense fear of thunder storms which you didn’t tell him about. so this is how he comforts you

characters: saiki k, bokuto, suna

tw// thunderstorms, hurt/comfort

thanks to anon for the wholesome request 🥺 this reminds me of ohshc & i love it so much 💞

Kusuo Saiki

he just popped downstairs to bid farewell to his mother before she headed out to buy groceries, leaving you and him home alone

he didn’t even notice the thunderstorm, until his mom mentioned it

‘oh, i have to walk to the bus-stop in this horrible weather. is there anyway you could make it stop, ku?’

as much as he wanted to say ‘yes, but i cba. cope.’  he just blurted out a ‘no.’ before heading back up to his room

he didn’t think you were scared of anything tbh

i mean you killed a cockroach for him one time so you were basically a fearless god, in his eyes

so imagine his surprise when he walked into his room and..you were gone

he was confused for a moment until he heard faint sobs and whimpers from inside his closet

he slid the door open to reveal you cowering in the corner with your knees pulled up to your chest and your face buried between them, sniffing and only moving when you had to use your hand to wipe away the tears that poured from your eyes and threatened to stain your leggings

‘i go for a minute and this is what happens-- are you crying?’ 

that was when you realised that saiki had entered the room once again and when you looked up, you saw his tall, daunting figure looking down at you - the glow from the lightening behind him not doing any favours as it just made him look even more unnerving

‘i don’t cry. i’m just.. excreting my eye juices. it clears your skin-- ah!’ you tried to explain but you were cut of by another boom of thunder rattle through the house

‘you’re lying.’ 

yeah, you knew he was a psychic so you weren’t really sure why you thought you’d be able to get the lie passed him

also, due to his psychic abilities and common sense, he figured that the thunder/lightening was the reason for your distress

saiki sighed, not really sure if he should do what he was about to but upon seeing how frightened you were and the nervous series of continuous thoughts rushing through your head...he just had to

you heard another noise which sounded rather different from thunder but it startled you none the less

you looked up at your boyfriend for comfort, only to notice that he was gone

then, you caught a glimpse of something unusual from the window 

you approached it hesitantly and peered outside to see the cluster of storm clouds being swept aside like dust by some unknown force, to reveal the bright blue sky that was hiding behind it 

you were in awe and although the masses probably thought this was the work of god or the wind, it didn’t take long for you to figure out that it was your psychic boyfriend who was behind it all

‘it’s gone now.’ his voice tickled your ears from behind and to say it gave you the fright of your life was an understatement

you jumped, alarmed at first but once you turned around for your eyes to meet his, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief wash over you 

‘oh, yes. thank you, saiki!’  you chirped, throwing your arms around him and pulling him into a tight embrace

he was a bit taken back at first but it didn’t take long for him to melt into your touch and hug back, cradling your head and patting it bc i hc that is how he hugs/cuddles

(he just wants you to feel safe with him 🥺 even though he is an OP psychic who could probably kill you if he’s not careful)

anyway, saiki will ensure that you never experience another thunderstorm for as long as you live

Kōtarō Bokuto

you already know that the first thing bokuto is going to do when he sees you cry and cuddle up next to you and cry too so you don’t feel embarrassed

but like when he comes back from the kitchen and heating the pizza he was about to eat, then he noticed you curled up under a blanket on the couch, shivering and whimpering..he drops the pizza

like he is so shocked 

he didn’t want to believe that you were crying tbh

but as your bf it was his duty to comfort you 

bc you always comfort him so well when he feels down and he wants to do the same for you!!

anyway, the first thing he does is join you under the blanket and cry with you for a bit

but his fake wails are so bad that you can’t help but laugh FVHIDBFA

once he notices that he’d cheered you up slightly, he’ll inquire, ‘are you scared of thunder?’

you nodded slightly, gently leaning your head on his strong shoulder, ‘a bit.’

bokuto bent his arm to pat and rub your head reassuringly, ‘but you’re so fearless, (y/n)! remember that time you went bungee jumping and even I was too afraid to do it?!’

you simply shrugged, tensing as you heard the thunder rumble through the living room

‘but anyway,’ bokuto hummed, placing a gentle kiss on your temple, ‘is there anything i can do to make you feel better?’

you shrugged once again, ‘maybe just stay with me for a bit longer, please.’ 

your wish was his command ✨

now there is no way he’s leaving your side until the storm passes

whether that takes a few minutes or the whole night

he’s not going to leave you even to eat the pizza he had dropped on the living room floor

and he hold you close against his chest so you know that he’s not going going anywhere

also, he started talking not only instinctively but also to drown out the sound of the thunder and redirect your attention onto him

‘and then kuroo was all like SUPRISE!! and i was all like THANKS, MAN BUT IT’S NOT EVEN MY BIRTHDAY and then kuroo was like I KNOW!! god, he knows me so well.’

‘hey, (y/n) - we should dress up for halloween his year! kuroo and his girlfriend are doing a couples costume so i think we should do one too and out-shine them! i was thinkin’ fred and daphne except you can be fred.’

‘i was looking on five minute crafts of food the other day - don’t ask why - and some of the desserts were lookin’ kinda tasty tbh. i’ll send you the link so we can make ‘em sometime.’

‘why did you comment ‘i’ll give you my first born child in exchange for you to crush my skull with your thicc, juicy, scrumptious thighs 🤤😳’ under my instagram pic? and why does it have 1k likes?’

needless to say, you can’t be sad for too when you’re around bokuto lmao

Rintarō Suna

RAIEVABTG DON’T EVEN LIE HE’D JUST BE LIKE ‘cover your ears den lmao’

ok ok so you’re on facetime with him and thunder blares through your room - it’s so loud that even he can hear it through the phone - and you jump, immediately pulling your blankets over yourself 

he was hitting his vape then he pulled away to look at his phone again and you were gone (bc you had brought your phone under the covers with you and obvs it was dark)

he could also hear your little whimpers even though you tried you best to hide them by slapping your hand over your mouth

‘doll, where’d ya go?’ he inquired, concern laced in his voice. he opened his drawer to toss his vape away but he did not avert his eyes from the screen just in case something happened

‘i’m still here. just under the covers.’ you spoke, doing your best to hide how shaky your voice was

‘why?’ he puffed, allowing the vapor to leak from his mouth and escape out to his surrounding - which was his bedroom 

‘oh, no reason.’

suna knew you were lying, it wasn’t hard to tell, ‘well, if that’s the case, can you come out from the cover, doll? i wanna see your face.’

‘-no.’ you immediately replied, letting out a feeble sigh as you realised that lying wasn’t going to get you anywhere. ‘i’m just a bit afraid of the thunder, that’s all.’

suna cocked his head to the side, ‘thunder? never heard that one before.’ he said, mentally cursing himself out just as he said that since it came out a lot harsher than he intended, ‘erm, why don’t you try putting your headphones on?’ he suggested in a soft voice, trying to make up for the uncalled-for comment he made

you hummed in agreement, wondering why you didn’t think of that

momentarily tossing your duvet aside, you rushed to your desk where you black headphones were laying, you picked them up and dashed back towards your bed as if someone was chasing you, diving onto it, pulling the cover back over your head and plugging the headphones into your phone before pulling them over your ears

‘this helps a bit. thanks, suna.’

suna’s eyes widened as he slumped back against his headboard, ‘suna? what happened to babe?’ 

‘thanks, babe.’ you corrected yourself with a giggle

now that suna’s voice was the most prominent sound in your ears, the thunder seemed to fade into satisfying background noise

you couldn’t get over the random flashes of lightening though, those always made you yelp - and he noticed this 

‘i really wish you were here right now.’ you mused, hugging your pillow to your chest to imitate what you’d to if he was here with you, ‘i’d give you all my kisses.’

‘bet.’ was the last thing you heard before he hung up on you 

you were quite bummed at first but then you registered that he was probably on his way over :))

and he was!

you heard a few loud knocks on your door followed by a monotone mutter ‘let me in, i’m freezing my tits off out here.’

ofc you let him in and after you led him to your bedroom, he immediately pinned you to your bed, ‘you know what i’m here for.’

‘huh?’

he was confused for a moment but then he noticed that you still had the headphones on

he snickered, momentarily pulling one of the earpads away from your ear to say, ‘kisses.’

[loki--fics]

Stardust - Part 4

Loki x Reader

content warnings: cancer / illness mention

It had been almost two weeks since Loki's arrival at the tower, and you had begun to look forward to the afternoons spent with him in the library. He was always curious, asking questions about your cancer, and although you disliked talking much about it, you realised with him, you didn't mind. Loki seemed quite fascinated by how extensive this mortal illness was, and it seemed as though he never ran out of new questions to ask you about it.

"Hey," You said as you walked into the library. He still took to sitting in your favourite seat in the bay window, so you would always sit on the couch next to the window instead. To say Tony wasn't a huge fan of you spending so much time with Loki would be an understatement, but you didn't much care.

"Hello," Loki replied, looking up at you. You looked tired, he noticed, more so than usual, but he didn't comment on it.

You sat on the couch, grabbing the book you had started reading the day before - The Curious Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens. Just as you were getting tucked in to read, Loki cleared his throat.

"If you wish, you may sit up here as well," He said quickly, cursing himself in his mind. He wasn't sure why he'd said that, it wad stupid, but then you got up, smiling lightly as you took the seat next to him in the window, and it seemed okay.

"Thank you," You said, relishing in the feeling of the warm sun hitting your back. Loki looked at you, rays of golden sunlight basking your face, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest. His cheeks were pink, and you noticed, but thought maybe you were just imagining it. Loki? Blushing? No way.

"So," Loki said after a beat of silence. "What is that thing you lug around that goes into your nose?"

"It pumps oxygen, through the tube into my nose. I can't breathe very well without it."

"Ah. What of these... Growths? Would it not be simpler to have them removed?"

You sighed. "The cancer grew too quickly, they had tried to remove them, but they came back twice as fast. Eventually, they were declared inoperable."

Loki watched as you pulled the neckline of your sweater down a few inches, revealing the top of what he assumed was a quite lengthy scar. Without thinking, he reached a hand out and traced the scar ever so lightly as you watched, feeling goosebumps raise across your skin. You shivered at his touch, but not because you were afraid.

Hearing the soft gasp that escaped your lips as he touched your scar, Loki quickly retracted his hand, a blush painting his cheeks once more. "My apologies, I'm not sure what came over me."

"Please," You said softly. "Don't be sorry."

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments, then Loki spoke once more. "Why do you do it?"

The question caught you off guard. "What?"

"You're in anguish. You let these chemicals and radiation ravage your body, they make you weak and tired, you're aware that they only just barely help, but yet you persist. Why?" Would it not be easier to simply end your suffering? The words sat on his lips unspoken, and even as he thought them he felt a pang in his chest. Loki, too, had grown quite fond of the time spent in the library with you, and the mere thought of no longer having that sent a jolt through him. You were his only friend here, he realised.

You weren't sure how to respond. You knew what he was thinking, and he was right - it would be much easier to just put an end to the misery and be done with it, get the hurt out of the way so your team had more time to heal and get on with living their lives. It was selfish, prolonging your suffering was only prolonging theirs as well.

When you didn't reply, Loki did. "I apologise if the question was... Insensitive. I've yet to learn what does and does not offend mortals."

"No, please don't be sorry," You said quickly. "It's refreshing to have someone speak to me without the burden of worrying they might offend. Everyone has been walking on eggshells around me since I was diagnosed, they've been coddling me, making me feel like I'm nothing more than a helpless child. I enjoy being free of that, and you're the only one who doesn't make me feel that way."

This intrigued Loki. "You are ill, yet the fact that your team takes special care of you due to your illness bothers you?"

"To no end," You groaned. "It's like ever since I got sick, everyone began to act differently around me. It seemed they no longer saw me as who I am, all they could see was a sick person. I slowly became my cancer to them, like my whole life is supposed to revolve around the fact that I'm sick. It's upsetting because I'm still me, I'm the same person I was before I became ill, but they don't see that."

It was beginning to occur to Loki that perhaps the two of you had more in common than he thought, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. "I see," He replied. "You are not the person they perceive."

"Exactly," You said, realising that Loki as well was not the person he had been perceived as, either. Yes, he had done terrible, horrible things, but here he was atoning for those crimes. Trying to change.

"So why don't you change that?" He asked. "Do not let them reduce you to your illness. Show them you are still the woman that they knew before. Show them that your illness does not define you."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "And how do you suppose I go about doing that?" You asked.

"Simply go about your life the way you normally would, were you not sick. Do what you wish, what makes you happy. Then they will remember that you are more than this illness."

This, right here, this is what makes me happy, You thought with a small smile, but you were not so bold as to admit it aloud. Hell, you had yet to even ask him about himself; as arrogant and confident as the front he put off was, you were afraid to scare him off.

"You're right," You said simply. "I suppose that it couldn't hurt to give that a try."

An hour passed in a kind of comfortable silence you had grown accustomed to with Loki when you felt your head begin to hurt. It wasn't that you didn't get headaches before, but the force in which the migraines you'd been getting for the last week tore apart your mind was almost too much to bear. You made a note to bring it up with Dr. Wilson, and set your book down.

"I feel a bit under the weather," You said to Loki. "I think I'll go lie down for a bit."

Loki cleared his throat awkwardly. "Would, ah, would you like me to walk you to your chambers?"

You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, and nodded with a blush. "That would be nice, thank you."

Thor was making his way down to the lounge when he passed behind you and his brother, and a happy smile played on his lips at the sight. He knew your intentions were pure, and only hoped that you continued to influence his brother for the better.

When the two of you reached your bedroom, you turned to look at the handsome God. "Well, this is me," You said. "I'll see you later?"

"I realise you never answered my question," Loki said suddenly, looking at you.

You blinked. "What question?"

"If you do not wish to answer, I won't press the issue, but why do you continue this misery?"

With no hesitation, you said, "Love. The team is my family, and I love them more than anything. The list of things I would not do for them is small, and fighting cancer is not on that list. I enjoy spending time with them, I don't want to leave them because I know it would crush them, so if enduring torturous treatments is what it takes to stay with them, then it's what I am going to do."

"You truly are quite the character," Loki mused, looking at you intently. "You are stronger than I have given you credit for, and for that I apologise."

You touched his arm hesitantly, caressing it softly with your thumb. "No apology necessary."

~

part 5

[carsdreamtoo]

Admitting - Cal x f!Reader

You and Cal have been getting to know each other a little better across the race season, will this be the day that Cal finally admits those hidden feelings?

First xReader submission, I'm hoping to make more of these <3 However this is just some fluff to get started and stretch those writing muscles!

Tags/Genre: Fluff/Feelings / Soft

Pairing: Cal Weathers x f!Reader (female)

Words: 2,671

The air vibrated with the snarling and revving of engines, cars gunning their torque to the very max, moving and sliding around one another and their tires nothing but a blur as they sailed across the searing hot tarmac. The chorus and cheer of the crowd was loud and almost deafening, echoing across the stadium as the sun set, the orange hue settling upon the stadium like a warm blanket. The outside world didn't matter, it was almost as though all the elements had aligned only for this moment here, two cars struggling for leadership in the feat of speed and skill, a light blue faded stock car, and the blazing red of his opponent. It was the only things that the cameras trained on, the audience collectively seeming to hold it's breath as the cars moved at breakneck speed. The white flag flew, and the cheers and cries only became louder, the excitement raging through each and every car that was intended heavily for two contenders. The cars behind the leaders seemed to fall further and further behind, leaving to two racers in a world of their own, their concentrated frowns focusing on eating up the track in front of them.  Crew chief's were yelling to their racers through the mics, trying to put in one last effort to spur their charges on, desperate to at least get a few more points in the leadership, and set them up for the next set of races. Though it was mostly in vain, there were no real changes in position, and the racers all looked tired and mostly done. One such pit stop however wasn't exerting such effort to keep their racer going, the legendary Strip Weathers watching his nephew with pride as he slowly inched out in front of the famous Lightning McQueen, seeing the thrill on the young Dinoco sponsee's face, remembering when he too felt that rush. Beside him was a long time friend and inspiration, Doc Hudson, to watch and support Cal in his mid race season. On the other side of the 'Fabulous Hudson Hornet', was where you stood, a young avid car that could be arguably Cal's 'biggest fan'. You whistled and shouted along with the crowd as Cal soared closer and closer to the finishing line, leaping on the spot in triumph as the blue male practically ate the ground up, diving across the finishing line in a blaze of roars from the audience. You felt yourself leap up ecstatically, cheering out in victory and support, flashes of color and cheer echoing through the stadium with a deafening buzz. He instantly plunged himself into doing donuts upon the track, his tires squealing and engine revving, the friction causing white smoke to plume from the tarmac, his laughter being heard as he peeled away, taking a winning lap round the track at the cheer of his fans.  The feeling was indescribable, and he felt his mood soar higher than the stadium itself, the smile fixed permanently onto his face. Though despite this, he was all the more eager to get back to the pits... knowing full well who was there. He sped along to his stop, skidding to a halt as he glanced up to his uncle, who smiled down proudly to him.  "Real proud of ya' Cal" Strip beamed to his nephew, to which Cal only smiled wider.  "Thanks Uncle..." He started, hearing the congratulations come at him from all sides from his crew, Doc giving a small nod of congratulations, though ready to rib his own young racer for his loss. Cal graciously accepted the praise, though his eyes continued to search, one face on his mind, before he finally caught a glimpse of you, his mind instantly distracted. You moved under the barrier and approached him excitedly, your lights practically flickering in excitement as they did when you dealt with strong emotions.  "Cal! That was amazing! Congratulations!" You beamed, practically hopping on the spot. Despite his calm and friendly nature, you still felt the bubble of nervous emotion every time you uttered a word to the cerulean racer... there was something about him that made you feel lighter than air, and to say you were addicted to the feeling was an understatement. "Thank you... You know I really couldn't have-" He started, when

he saw the media spilling onto pit row, to which he shot you an apologetic smile. Although he wasn't sure what could truly come of it, he didn't want you in the media... he didn't know how that could effect you, and didn't want to put you in that position. You weren't a racer, and he was aware of that. "I'm sorry Miss (y/n)... I won't be long" He promised you, his voice gentle as you also spotted the cameras on their way, your face falling for just a millisecond, knowing he would be torn away yet again. "Oh! No, no take your time, you deserve it!" You said now, covering the slight disappointment you held, and getting hurriedly out the way, just in time for the cameras to focus on him, the interviewer Shannon Spokes beginning to congratulate him herself. It was always this way between you two... just snippets of time together, before his busy life would separate you again. You were pleased for him.. of course you were. And proud! But these small interactions didn't sate the longing that was in your heart.. You of course were too embarrassed to admit the crush you held for the racer, and getting to know him over the race season was always the highlight of your week. You had both hit it off almost immediately at a pre-warming party held by the Piston Cup organizers in order to let the racers mingle, and to bring everyone together before the big season. You had merely gone purely on a whim with a friend that knew one of the racers rather well, and you were now glad that you did. Very glad. The desire to have more than just tiny moments that you could lock in your memories was always there, and in the mean time, all you could do was just hope and wish. You moved over to where the pit box stood, carefully watching Cal with a gentle smile, your heart racing just a little. You couldn't quite hear what was being said, though you blinked as you saw his tires suddenly balloon, Guido racing out from behind the Dinoco racer, and his calls after the cackling racers. You giggled at the sight, feeling just a little sorry for him, before you heard another voice pry you from your thoughts.  "We'll meet him up by the victory podiums. You can tear your eyes away from the love of your life in order to do that, can't you?" Your friend parked at your side, and you raised a brow, scoffing. "Pff, you wish, you'd just looooove to be the matchmaker right now wouldn't you" you mused, before feeling a tire kick your side in play. "I'm better at it than you!" She teased, causing you to turn slightly. "Yeah?" You rebutted, playfully tackling your friend as you had when you were kids, leaping off and trying to evade the revenge attack that would no doubt come your way, move giggles erupting from the pair of you. Little to either of your knowledge, Cal watched with a soft smile on his face, his gaze following you as you left.  -- The confetti reigned free as it exploded high above the podiums, twirling down and settling upon the ground, flashes everywhere as photos were being taken, and more chants and cries could be heard as fans were desperate for their favorite racer to notice them. The audience seemed to settle as a microphone was hitched near Cal, and he began to give his winning speech to them all, smiling gently as his gaze moved through the crowd. "Thank you all! It's such an honor to race, as it always is, and I couldn't do it without the love and support of all you guys out there!" He started, hearing the cheers rising.  "I hope to only bring more wins to the season, and bag another one for Team Dinoco!" He added, waving his tire out to the fans, before his eyes rested upon a certain car in particular, and a tender smile came to his face.  "But lastly... I wanna dedicate this win to Miss (y/n)... she's been a real inspiration to me lately... I owe her" He said now, continuing to watch you as he spied the blush creep across your hood, you gaze falling as the embarrassed smile appeared. He.. he said that? He really said your name on stage.. in front of everyone! He laughed gently, not paying attention to the next speech from

Lightning, only persisting in gazing to you in the crowd. To him... there was no one else in the area, and he could only see you. Suddenly he didn't want to be on the podium, finally twisting his gaze away from you to look to the track, the last of the sunlight glinting against the tarmac, to which he smiled, an idea forming.  By the time the speeches and congratulations were done, the stadium was clearing out, and Cal made his way through the crowd to watch you make your way back to the pits, presumably to help clear up as you always did. You didn't like being swallowed by the crowd and being caught in the rush... besides, any extra time you got to maybe watch Cal wind down on the track or just have any moment with him, was worth the late nights. He revved his engine a little louder as he approached, in order to let you know he was there, seeing your brake lights shine and your gaze rest on your mirror. The blush was back instantly, but you tried to push it down and resume some soft of confidence... even if it left the moment he appeared, as always. "Well hello stranger..." You half teased, before you chuckled. "I see... now that you've grown bored of the screaming and adoring fans, all chanting and desperate for your attention, you've come to me" You mused, giving him a smirk.  "Well... only so much I can take being yelled at, ya'know?" He smiled in return, before he looked to the track again. You had paused, though had started to turn away, and he reached out with a tire to stop you, causing you to pause.  "You ok?" You asked in concern, and a smile flashed out on his face.  "Couldn't be better... but I want you to come with me" He said now, nodding toward the track. You glanced over, unsure, seeing the vast tarmac stretch before you two, your heart thumping a little harder. "You want me to...?" You started, waving your tire to get him to carry on the sentence.  "Just come with me" He smiled, leading the way toward the gate that led to the track. He weaved through, and finally his tires gradually touched the track, his gaze following the loop round, glancing back to see you hesitating.  "It's ok" He assured the you, holding out a tire for you. You gently moved out onto the track, your tires meeting with the smooth surface, keeping yourself low upon the ground. You could feel the heat radiating off it, and you fancied you could almost hear the many years of racing engines and cheering crowds, their chanting and excitement being sucked into the very foundations. You watched as the track shone in the sun, following the smooth lines as it slipped to the side.  "It's... bigger than I thought" You said quietly, moving up to him.  "They don't quite capture the size on tv, do they?" He asked with a smile, to which you shook your hood. He watched you for a moment, keeping you pinned to the spot with his eyes, before he smiled again. "You wanna go for a lap?" "Really?" You asked, your tone questioning, but your eyes danced with the excitement that he loved. With little warning, his engine growled, wheels spinning, before he shot off like an arrow, sailing once more around the track. A deeper blush seemed to fix itself permanently to your hood, his engine sounded tantalizing after all, but you couldn't help but let that smile slip over your features. "Oho, no you don't" You smirked, your own engine thrown into gear as you gunned it, dashing off after the racer. You felt the ground only pass by faster and faster as you started to push yourself onward, settling into a rhythm, despite how scary the track was up close, closing in on the blue car. He moved up a little, laughing out loud as you pulled up beside him, seeing the joy on your face as you raced on, raising your brow a couple times at him, your engine snarling as you pushed ahead, taking the lead. He laughed again, and began to pursue you, spurring the you on, though not overtaking you. Instead he watched you with a gentle gaze, seeing you thoroughly enjoying your experience was giving him a rather nice flutter to his heart.  You sailed across the finish

line, before you half spun, facing him as he crossed it too.  "Congratulations, now you've won too!" He said, before he chuckled lightly.  "Hm, maybe I should be the one to race for Dinoco" You teased, before you saw Cal's expression turn serious.  "I mean... I could go talk to Tex..." He started, before you laughed.  "No! No, no I don't... No!" You said between laughter, which was only echoing his own.  "Well... you're pretty fast... perhaps you would do better than me" He said now, snickering lightly, the sparkle in his eyes brighter than ever as he got to hear your laughter over and over. "Does someone want to retire early? That's the sense I'm getting right now" You giggled, to which he raised a brow.  "Honestly, if it meant I got to spend more time with you, I'd do it" He said without thinking, causing you both to look to each other in surprise. You felt your hood warm again, lowering your gaze as Cal seemed to grimace, before deciding that he was already down the rabbit hole, he may as well finish.  "Miss (y/n)..." He started, to which you gazed up softly.  "I've told you... I'm not Miss (y/n), just call me (y/n)" You breathed, to which he chuckled lightly.  "You know I need my manners" He responded, before you smiled gently to him. "Anyway... I... I wanted to ask something" He said now, looking to the track, his tire twisting in what appeared like nerves.  "I was hoping that you'd... maybe like to consider.... the thing is we've gotten to know each other and... I really... I wanted to..." He started, before he squeezed his eyes shut. "Dammit" He could only mutter, before he glanced up, seeing you having tilted your hood, but you felt like you knew what he was going to say. "Cal... it's ok...." You started, before he breathed in.  "Miss (y/n), I'd be honored if you... would consider perhaps allowing me to... Miss (y/n), do you wanna... go out to dinner... or something at some point...?" He seemed to deflate just a little, though your kind expression never left his.  "I'd love nothing more" You said tenderly, to which you saw the joy dance in his eyes. He gave you a grateful smile, gently moving forward to nuzzle your fender, though ready to leap back if you became alarmed. Though, as he half suspected, you embraced it, nuzzling him in return as he stay close, the contact feeling almost like electricity. Cal breathed out slowly as he nosed his hood to yours, only focusing on the feeling it gave you both, paying no heed to what happened around you. The affection was slow and deliberate, easing into it, before Cal bit his lip a little, pulling back, and kissing your cheek gently.  "We should head back" He said now, before you gazed over to where the trailers were.  "Ah yes... your adoring public awaits" You whispered quietly, before he nudged you. You chuckled weakly, and you began to slowly move across the track again, slowly getting closer to each other, before your sides rubbed, and your gazes flicked away from one another, with embarrassed smiles.

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 10

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary:  Neither you nor Din are handling your capture well.

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,978

Warnings: captured reader, surprises, plot plot plot, violence, Din goes a bit dark side

Author Note: So sorry this is coming out late 😳 Between making YouTube videos and New Years everything got hectic, but here it is. I attempted writing from Din’s perspective this time so bear with me cuz he’s having a rough time😬 

Links to Part 1 and Part 9 and Part 11

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

When you wake up, you’re lying facedown on a pallet in a dark and cold room. You groan, head pounding, and try to sit up, but your weak muscles protest, resulting in you rolling awkwardly onto your backside. Squinting up at the ceiling, you notice it is made of rock, as is the wall to the right of you.

Your head lolls to the left, granting you a lovely view of a red laser gate trapping you inside this strange cell. The faint glow it gives off produces barely enough light to reveal more rocky walls curving off to the side. You’re in a cave, you realize, processing everything at the rate of a snail’s pace, or some kind of underground tunnel.

At first you can’t remember how you ended up here, or what happened to you, but then everything hits you all at once.

“Finally,” a voice declares from beyond your cell. The purple twi’lek from earlier steps out of the shadows and leers at you from the other side of the laser gate. “I was beginning to think I misjudged the dosage.”

With monumental effort, you push yourself onto your knees, dizziness slamming into your skull with the brutal intensity of a hammer, and reach a hand out to summon your bow.

Nothing happens.

“What—why isn’t it—” The words are thick and clumsy, slurring together as if your tongue has forgotten how to form them individually. Closing your eyes to stop the room from spinning, you feel nothing but unbalanced and vulnerable. You try to speak again, taking a steadying breath. “What is wrong with me?”

“You’ve been collared. All the pets in the Moff’s collection wear one,” she answers, as casually as if she’s discussing the weather outside. “Keeps you from using your abilities and causing trouble.”

She has no reason to lie, but you still gasp when your trembling hand brushes against the metal band encircling your neck. Panicking, you pull on it without thinking, only for a responding jolt of electricity to shock your fingertips and fry every nerve ending in your body. You cry out at the pain, but the sound is drowned out by the twi’lek’s screech-like laughter.

“That never gets old,” she says, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye.

“Death,” you mutter hoarsely, closing your eyes again and breathing shallowly through your mouth. “Death is going to slaughter all of you.”

“Oh, pet, you just don’t get it, do you?“ Her voice is practically dripping with condescension as she coos at you, “The Moff wants you here because you’re precious to Death.”

Against your better judgement, you open your eyes to look at her, confused by the wide smile you see stretching across her face. At headquarters, Gideon and your superiors had seemed far more concerned about the fact you had a second soulmate rather than who it was you matched with. If Gideon is punishing you for being Din’s soulmate (a fate which you had no control over whatsoever), you can’t help thinking he must be insane or have a legitimate desire to have his body dismembered piece by bloody piece. There is no denying that Din will do anything he can to get you back. Even break the rules of the universe.

You freeze.

Kriff. The puzzle pieces begin fitting together and you loathe the hideous picture they form.

“You are Death’s weakness. And anyone with a weakness can be taken advantage of if the right strings are pulled,” the twi’lek says, confirming your fears. She then winks at you coyly. “Congratulations, pet, you’ve just become Moff Gideon’s favorite puppet.”

You barely refrain from shouting curses at her as she walks away, leaving you alone with your chaotic thoughts.

Lying back down on the pallet, you press your hands over your eyes, tuning out the coldness of your surroundings and seeking out the warmth of your soulmate bond. You call out Din’s name within your mind, a repetitive chant increasing in urgency as you pray against all odds he hears you. But as the silence continues and you start to feel a phantom sensation of pain emanating from your throat, as if you have actually scraped it raw by how loudly you call, your heart breaks as it accepts the bitter truth: he can’t hear you.

You touch the collar again, every internal instinct you have screaming it is to blame for the invisible wall blocking you from reaching out to Din. How long have you been collared? How much time has passed since you were drugged at headquarters? Regardless, you don’t have any doubt Din is losing his mind right now. And his temper.

A few tears leak from the corners of your eyes, but you do not sob or sniffle. Gideon and his minions will not have the satisfaction of hearing you crying. Din wouldn’t like it either, you think, remembering his reaction on the Razor Crest when he’d found you panicking. He had held your hand, offering you any support he could to end your sorrows. Even offering to kill for you.

It’s funny, though, because few people seem to realize the feeling is mutual. You would do anything in the galaxy to spare Din a second’s worth of pain. If Gideon is under the impression you’ll just silently let him use you in order to exploit Din to do his bidding, then he’s going to be thoroughly pissed to learn just how stubborn you can be. Taking away your Cupid abilities might have weakened you, but you’re not going to be a helpless kriffing damsel.

Although, you correct yourself ruefully as you lower your hands and look around your confines, you might currently be a little helpless. You take in the high ceiling above you, thinking you’ll be able to stand at full height once the effects of the drug wear off and still not be able to touch the top. It scares you to think how far your cell has been dug beneath the surface of whichever planet Gideon has imprisoned you on. The twi’lek had referenced he had a collection of others hidden away in these tunnels. How many have died here with no one up above being any the wiser?

Pushing the morbid thoughts aside, your gaze drifts along the walls, noting the varying shapes and sizes of the rocks. They are all different shades of brown except for one odd green one in the corner. You look at the laser gate, knowing it can’t be shut off unless you have access to the generator which severely limits your plans of escaping since—

Your thoughts screech to a halt as your eyes snap back to the corner.

A rock does not have a little green body clothed in brown wool or long pointed ears. Nor does it peer back at you with large, innocent eyes as it clutches a piece of dirty black fabric with tiny three-fingered hands. And it certainly doesn’t waddle up to you and coo curiously in your stunned face.

You rub at your eyes, half-convinced you have now begun hallucinating things.

Nope. That little green face is still there when you open them again. It’s official, your brain isn’t screwing with you.

Your cellmate is a kriffing baby.

~~

Decades ago Din was approached by a man who begged to be killed. He had been separated from his soulmate against his will and compared the pain he felt to the sensation of a thousand needles injecting acid straight into his bloodstream. However, Din had sensed the man’s lifetime was far from over and ignored his pleas.

Thinking about that incident now, Din has determined the man’s comparison to be a gross understatement. Being forcefully separated from his angel is as if an invisible force is holding him underwater, wishing him to drown. His brain is on the verge of exploding, torn between thoughts of bloodthirsty savagery and the overwhelming agony of not being able to breathe without her in his sight. Every hour they remain apart threatens to rob him of his sanity and transform his outward appearance from man to monster.

 Already he has experienced a lapse in control of his powers the moment he’d first felt their bond had been blocked. He’d been forced to teleport away from Kuiil’s farm, lest he risk reaping the Ugnaught’s soul before its destined time, and unleashed his wrath upon an uninhabitable Outer Rim planet. His powers had pierced its core in the same effortless manner a vibroblade cuts through flesh, killing its essence instantaneously. In a matter of minutes, the planet would be nothing more than scattered dust particles floating through the vastness of space, though he did not linger to witness the destruction.

Instead, he returned to his ship and sent a holographic message to his most trusted reapers, assigning them the critical task of searching the galaxy for one specific target: Valin Hess. While they hunted down the bastard, he dedicated his time to searching for his better half. He extended his powers to each individual planet and moon in every region, tendrils of darkness looking through homes and alleyways for even the faintest trace of her vibrant aura amongst trillions of souls.

Now, ten hours later, he is interrupted by the chime of an incoming call.

“Come to Trask,” Bo-Katan says bluntly, not one to waste crucial time with excess words. “I've got him ready for you.”

“Good,” Din says. His own voice sounds strange even to himself. As he reaches for his helmet, his reflection in its visor reveals his eyes have changed from brown to solid black, his true form beginning to break through the human facade he cloaks himself in. 

He had been warned in the past of the grievous consequences that will ripple across the galaxy should he ever lose control of his internal darkness. But if unleashing that force brings him even one step closer to reuniting with his angel?

He won’t even hesitate a heartbeat.

~~

You are quick to learn three important facts about your cellmate.

First and foremost, the baby adores attention. Within minutes of discovering him, he climbs into your lap and snuggles against your stomach, making a strange purring sound of happiness. Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest when you notice the tiny collar around his neck, identical to yours. Why would Gideon be keeping a child in his collection? Any potential answer that comes to mind makes you feel sick.

“You’re safe with me,” you tell him gently, stroking your fingertips over his wrinkly brow and the sparse amount of fuzzy hair on top of his head. He coos as if he understands you, ears perking up. “We’ll get through this together.”

Secondly, he is extremely possessive of his belongings. You learn this the hard way when you reach for the torn piece of black fabric he has gripped in his hands, intending to get a closer look at it because it doesn’t resemble a usual child’s blanket, but instead more so a torn bit of clothing—only for surprisingly sharp teeth to nip at your fingers.

You pull your hand away and hold it up, showing you mean no harm. “I’m sorry, bud. I should have asked permission first.”

Brown eyes stare back at you for a silent beat, painfully reminding you so much of Din you almost can’t bear to look at them, before the baby bobs his head with a low grunt. You chuckle at his cuteness. Although you hate the unfairness of the situation, you’re grateful for his presence as it stops you from worrying incessantly about your disconnected bond. As long as you wear the collar, you remind yourself, there isn’t anything you can do to reach Din. So you’ll just have to continue being patient and live with the uncomfortable hollow sensation until you can determine the best opportunity of freeing yourself.

And the baby now, too, you can’t help but silently add, looking down at him.

It is impossible for you within your cell to tell how much time passes as there are not any nearby clocks or windows providing a glimpse of the sky. As a Cupid, nourishment isn’t a necessity like it is for mortals, so you’re unsurprised no one has come by to offer you food or water. However, the same apparently can’t be said for the baby whose stomach growls unexpectedly, startling you both with its loudness.

He looks down at himself then at the laser gate. His ears twitch, as if he hears something, before he lets out a quiet whine. You open your mouth, wanting to console him, only for him to push himself out of your lap and waddle quicker than you anticipate towards the corner you initially spotted him in.

Thirdly, he is a master escape artist.

“What—” you start to ask, only for your jaw to drop when he squeezes himself through a small hole you failed to notice earlier, no bigger in diameter than a womp rat’s body, and disappears from view.

You stare at the corner, a million questions swirling inside your brain, each one focused on the baby. Where the kriff did he go? What is on the other side of the wall? Will he be okay?

The laser gate abruptly vanishes, plunging your cell into total darkness. You immediately press your back against the wall, blinking rapidly to try to adjust your vision, but you can’t even see your own hands in front of you. There is a distinct clicking sound of a button being pressed and then a glowing black blade lights up mere inches away from the side of your face, nearly singing your hair. You’re unable to stop yourself from crying out in terror, flinching backwards and hitting your head hard enough you see stars.

Over the pounding of your heartbeat and the eerie humming of the weapon next to your ear, you hear a familiar chuckle.

You freeze. Dank farrik.

“Believe it or not,” Gideon begins, looming ominously in the darkness. “I remember our first meeting when you awoke after your transformation. You weren’t special by any means, not one detail even remotely suggesting you would become such an invaluable asset to my plans. I’ve come to realize your unmemorable appearance was the universe’s attempt of concealing you from me. It might have worked, too, except the universe is a hopeless romantic, unable to help itself from matching soulmates. How else can it be explained why you were chosen out of all potential Cupids to monitor Death each month, thus increasing your affections for each other, if not for fate’s divine intervention?”

Gideon lifts the blade away from your personal space and holds it in front of him, outlining his features enough you’re able to see him peering down at you, expression blank and giving you no hints as to what is going on inside his head right now. “Your capture has driven Death into quite a frenzy. His influence can be felt in each region of space. Even his reapers have become involved.”

He pauses, as if he’s expecting a response from you, but you’re unable to look away from the laser sword in his grip. You wonder if all seraphs possess them, such as all Cupids wield bows, or if he had it specially crafted for his own pleasure. Regardless, the negative energy it radiates is strong enough that you feel as if dozens of spiders are crawling over every inch of your entire body.

“Your soulmate has no notion of my involvement, but even if it were revealed to him you are being kept here I thoroughly warded this location to hide myself from those intending me harm. Your presence will continue to remain invisible to his powers as long as he desires bloodshed. So I suggest you better make yourself comfortable because this cell shall be your home for the foreseeable future.”

Swallowing against your suddenly dry throat, you ask, “Do you honestly think keeping me hostage will grant you control over him?”

Gideon inclines his head. “I think you underestimate his willingness to guarantee your safety. He’ll commit any sin imaginable if it means not one hair harmed on your head.”

“Death won’t listen to a single word unless he has proof I’m okay,” you say, the beginnings of a risky plan forming in your head. “Which means you have to let me talk to him.”

“I’m not the fool you think I am,” he replies, shaking his head in a reproachful manner, as if you are no older than a child. But your hopes rise when you notice there is the smallest glimmer of intrigue in his eyes.

You position yourself on your knees, eyes wide and brimming with tears, clasping your hands together as you start to beg. “Please, sir, the separation is tearing me apart. I can’t handle the pain anymore. I must see him. I’ll convince Death to kill whoever in the galaxy you want. He’ll do it without question if I’m the one who asks.”

Gideon considers you wordlessly for a long moment. The hum of the weapon and your heavy, anxious breathing are the only audible sounds. And in that moment you pray harder than you’ve ever prayed in your entire lifetime.

Let this work. Please, please let this work.

You know the exact second he gives in to your begging because a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, teeth bared almost predatorily.

“Very well then. Tomorrow I will make preparations for you to contact Death. Think carefully until then about what you will say in order to convince him to be agreeable with me. It would be a shame to use this ,” his sword hovers in front of your face once more, the tip nearly touching your chin, “to cut off your tongue should you fail or if you attempt to be clever and alert him of your whereabouts.”

Step one complete, you think to yourself after he has departed and the laser gate returns. Wiping away the lingering tears, you begin to plan step two.

Getting this kriffing collar off your neck.

~~

Valin Hess is every bit the smug bastard Din predicted him to be. Despite the binders securing his wrists to a pipe high above his head and his bleeding split lip, the high-ranking Cupid still has enough arrogance to smirk at Din when he arrives at the abandoned warehouse Bo-Katan chose as the setting for the interrogation.

“Tell me where she is,” Din demands through clenched teeth as he marches up to the pompous prick without sparing a glance towards the red-haired reaper silently leaning against the nearby wall. He knows Bo-Katan is smart enough not to intervene.

“Just who would you be referring to?” Hess blinks innocently back at him.

His nose crumples beneath the knuckles of Din’s fist, blood bursting from his nostrils and staining Din’s gloves crimson.

“I am not known for my patience,” Din says. “Your suffering will only worsen the longer you keep me from my soulmate. I know you are aware of where she’s being kept. So tell. Me. Now.”

Untamed fury burns hotly beneath his skin, threatening to incinerate his mortal guise and his armor as if both were made of paper. It takes all of Din’s self-control not to give into the wicked desire to break each one of the Cupid’s bones, to peel off his skin layer by layer, to twist and carve and scar his body until there is not a single identifiable feature left.

“I haven’t the faintest notion nor care where she wound up.” Hess’ naturally gruff voice has changed to a nasally sounding one due to his broken nose. If the response hadn’t further stirred Din’s annoyance, he might have smirked beneath his helmet instead of snarled. “As soon as that twi’lek dragged her unconscious body out of headquarters, she became a nonentity to me.”

Din places his gloved hands over the other immortal’s shoulders, resting them there long enough Hess starts to twitch, unable to hide his increasing panic, and then Din squeezes until both clavicles shatter at the same time with a resounding crack . Hess tosses his head back, howling like a wounded animal, but Din is not yet finished.

He slams his fists against Hess’ torso, growling loud enough to be heard over the merciless snapping of each individual rib, “Give me a name.”

When the only answer he receives is agonized screaming, Din decides another approach is necessary to produce the desired results. He rips his gloves off, this time unable to resist smirking when Hess immediately starts to choke on his tongue and blood as he shakes his head emphatically, eyes blown wide with fear.

Din’s fingers reach out towards the Cupid’s temples, the veins in his hands ominously black in color.

“Xi’an!” Hess shouts, blood spraying from his mouth and painting Din’s visor. He doesn’t even notice, already planning the hunt for his next target. “The twi’lek that took your whore is named Xi’an!”

Din stills. “My... whore?”

Every lightbulb within the warehouse shatters, glass and sparks raining down upon them and the concrete floor. Hess starts babbling, a litany of apologetic words, but Din is beyond reasoning. Something sinister and feral has awakened within him, intertwining itself with his powers and enhancing their strength beyond what he ever imagined possible.

Din has reaped countless souls over the span of his existence. He has mastered the precise method of coaxing a soul out of a corpse, persuading them gently with his powers. Once the essence is held within his grip, the universe judges it, deciding either eternal damnation or a glorious afterlife. Most people tend to think Din is who chooses their fates, one of the many reasons why they fear him, but he has never been powerful enough to personally influence anyone’s destiny.

Until now.

He lowers one hand to hover over the center of Hess’ sternum, sensing the soul living deep within. It is a little battered from Din’s assault, but otherwise it resembles every other soul he’s ever reaped: a glowing, fidgety, amorphous bundle of energy.

Usually, he’d patiently guide the soul towards the corpse’s esophagus. But Hess is undeserving of such kindness. Din’s powers sink into the essence like sharpened claws, yanking it into Hess’ throat. The soul puts up a valiant fight, recognizing its host is still alive and thus should not be prematurely abandoned. But Din will not yield to its struggles, his powers manifesting dark tendrils to wrap around it in an unbreakable hold.

“You’re killing him!” Din hears someone call out over the harsh choking sounds Hess is making. Their voice is familiar and feminine sounding. “It’s not his time, you have to stop!”

Stop? No. He can’t. Not now when he’s on the verge of fulfilling the oath he’d sworn to his angel.

With one forceful twist of his wrist, the soul is helplessly torn from Hess’ bloodstained mouth and ensnared by Din’s awaiting hand. Without the essence of life, the light fades from the Cupid’s eyes and his broken body hangs limply from the binders.

The afterlife was never going to be an option as the soul’s final destination. However, Din has decided damnation is also too kind a place for vermin like Hess. There must be a third fate, he thinks.

Din squeezes his fist tighter and tighter, generating a cacophony of anguished shrieks from the soul. Ignoring the near-deafening cries, he gradually increases the pressure until at last it lets out one final high-pitched wail before disintegrating into dust that forms an unsuspecting pile on the floor when he uncurls his fingers.

A sharp gasp has Din turning, forgetting he has a witness present, and he finds Bo-Katan staring back at him with blatant horror. “What have you done?”

“What was necessary.”

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