#so strong that he breaks the stick and the drum and even hurts himself

[samyelbanette]

Taz has such destructive hands. 😳

From his Instagram story. September 6th, 2024.

[ghouletteanon]

Strong winds set you free

Mountain has never been happier that he is barely seen behind his set on stage. The helmet covers him even more, and nobody can see the way the tears begin to mix with sweat on his cheeks.

Summary: Mountain considers his place within the pack on the Re-Imperatour, and Cumulus is there for him.

Relationships: Mountain x Cumulus, background polyghouls

Word count: ~600 words

Rating: Gen

Mountain has never been happier that he is barely seen behind his set on stage. The helmet covers him even more, and nobody can see the way the tears begin to mix with sweat on his cheeks.

He is so tired of feeling like he does not fit.

Now that Aether is home, it’s just him and Dew left of their old pack, and once again Dew had somehow got the new quintessence ghoul wrapped around his little finger. The new ghoul is kneeling in front of the fire ghoul and, by Lucifer, Rain who used to be so timid is now taking space unapologetically.

And Mountain is where he has always been. Alone. Trapped behind the drum set and taking out all his emotions on the drums. He wants someone to notice but perhaps it's better if they don't. Mountain has to be the strong one, the old one, the responsible one now that Aether is not here.

Mountain breaks four sticks during the ritual.

When it’s time for the bows, Mountain has no sticks to throw to the audience. Cumulus, the sweet ghoulette with a heart bigger than Mountain’s tall, hugs him close when she stands next to him and they take a bow.

How she knows, Mountain has no clue, but she keeps him close all night even as the ghoulettes try to pry her away from Mountain and they leave them alone after halfheartedly trying to convince Cumulus to join the girls night, even inviting Mountain to join as Rain is also coming. Mountain just shakes his head. It’s sweet that the girls want him, but he does not want them to see him without the safety of the helmet that hides the tear tracks.

Mountain squeezes Cumulus' hand when they enter the hotel room. She gives him a squeeze back. “I’m not going to be good company tonight,” Mountain explains, keeping his voice down and apologetic.

“Me neither. The girls are being too much tonight and I just want to be with you,” Cumulus confesses.

Mountain considers her words. Too much is the way he’s feeling as well.

Later, as Mountain showers and rubs away the paint like he has done for the last six years, Mountain ponders his feelings. He is still tired. It still hurts to see how easily he is cut off even as he hangs onto a thread to Dew and Aether.

Perhaps it’s for the better to let go and just accept it. He is not replacing his packmates. He just lets himself accept that the others really do want him. His relationship with Cumulus is easy, and he likes it when she seeks him out.

Perhaps Mountain can allow himself to seek out the others instead of waiting for them to seek him out.

Perhaps, Mountain thinks as he feels Cumulus cling to him tightly as she drifts asleep, he can allow himself this without feeling like he betrays his old pack. “Cumulus?”

“Yeah, Mountain?” Cumulus says, her eyes closed.

“You don’t feel like you’re forgetting your packmates by choosing me tonight?”

“No. The girls know I love them and that I love you too. Do you feel like you’re forgetting someone?”

“Perhaps, but it’s not like they aren’t forgetting about me so it’s alright.”

“Oh, darling,” Cumulus sighs and holds him even tighter, hugging him and he can feel her tail wrap around him. It’s a comforting presence. Pressure, feeling her near and knowing she's there right now and choosing him.

There’s something in that pressure that breaks Mountain’s resolve. The walls come crumbling down. Sobs wreck through him. There’s somehow still tears in him, even after he cried earlier.

She does not ask, only holds him and Mountain appreciates it. He does not think he can tell anyone about it just yet.

Mountain sleeps better than he has in years that night, held by Cumulus.

[demonslayedher]

Things that went through my head in this episode:

--My cheeks hurt from giggling. Given how much I love these boys now, I cannot help but laugh at the dynamics of their raw character traits playing off of each other.

--But, on my first watch, I was like, "wow, the tone of this show sure has changed a lot... hmm."

--So compare to the raw struggle between Inosuke and Zenitsu in the previous episode, here we get Tanjiro as hot in the fight as Inosuke is, and this shows off Inosuke's unique abilities and strengths better than the Beast Breath display we got a couple episodes ago. The martial artist in me cheers with this fight, especially that redirect Tanjiro does against one of Inosuke's punches.

--Nowdays, I laugh at Inosuke breaking the fight just to show off how bendy he is. It is so stupid, though, that on my first watch I wasn't amused. Although I believe now that Inosuke is the secret sauce to KnY's sweeping success, at the time, I was not prepared for that level of shallowness and stupidity. Later in the episode when he declares how he only joy in life is comparing his strength to others, I was outright disappointed in how simplistic of a character was going to derail what felt like a good story going on. But!!

--Therein lies the joy in following Inosuke's character, isn't it? He gradually learns to find more joy in life, to be open and curious, and later, to be vulnerable. In that way, his arc is even a little like Kanao's, in which, by being more emotionally vulnerable and exploring more of what he might care about, he grows deeper and deeper as a character. He discovers himself, and we get the joy of discovering that with him.

--This of course makes him excessively self-reflective Zenitsu's opposite, and it means Tanjiro takes to Inosuke in an opposite way, too--even in the midst of a fight, Tanjiro yells at him to stop pushing himself while he's in pain, to consider his own future. Tanjiro has to be the voice of fear which Inosuke doesn't have. Likewise, that voice of self-preservation and self-care comes out in Tanjiro being so tender and delicate towards this stupid boar--telling him to rest and let him eat his fill, and feeling sad for him not to have grown up with any social connections.

--And anyway, Zenitsu twice hides behind Teruko to protect him. Any sister of Shoichi must be strong. --These children are so done. --But not too done for Teruko to find Tanjiro's forehead amazing and what to touch it (an anime addition).

--Let the record stand, there were at least eight dead people. Kyogai has been trying really hard to eat, ok, Muzan????

--Let the record stand, within hours of this iconic trio being arranged, Tanjiro has knocked the lights out of both Inosuke and Zenitsu to get them to behave.

--I love these boys together so much now, they really are so funny, and the comedic timing kills me. It's just one thing after another now that they have peace and quiet and calm--they have just up and forgotten the fight they were embroiled in (and on first watch, I could not believe Inosuke just forgot about the demon in the box), but now they're yelling at each other in the forest, Tanjiro's yelling at Zenitsu and Inosuke for their rudeness around their hostess, they're just hanging out and eating together and Inosuke tries to provoke Tanjiro and gets frustrated when it backfires, Inosuke throwing the pillow in Zenitsu's face--this was the perfect time to introduce the scene changes with the drums and silly faces. Also, I didn't see any of these moments coming on a first watch, they are so chaotic and unpredictable with each other.

--On this note, please appreciate what I had for lunch today:

--To add more to the silliness of this episode, that silly BGM is a violin cover of "The Song of Kamado Tanjiro." Amazing.

--I also find it silly how they stick out like sore thumbs in this Wisteria mansion. It is, indeed, a mansion--you can tell not only the number of rooms and their generous sizes, but by the size of the pond in the garden, and the manicuring of the trees. There's lovely artwork hanging in the alcove, that's a very nice spread of tempura. Hisa-san should be the posterchild (poster-obaasan?) for Japanese omotenashi ("hospitality," but Japan really wants you know the word omotenashi to differentiate their style of service, like anticipating the needs of your guests before they have to be bothered to ask). You're doing your whole country a great service, Hisa-san.

--And freaking out Zenitsu in the process, clearly he has never had the luxury of being a guest in such a fine establishment, though I'll bet he probably got some of his debt trying to treat his ex-girlfriends to fancy restaurants (and, according to the first fanbook, one of the girls he dated was a maiko, so she'd know plenty about proper hospitality, and another was the daughter of a tea house, so she'd have known too. Doesn't mean they were fine young ladies for how they used him, though). Tanjiro, even if he hasn't stayed in a place this fancy, probably doesn't have trouble adjusting because he understands the heart behind the manners, and Inosuke... well. He's a fish out of water, a boar out of the forest, but I love how this doesn't make him uncomfortable in the slightest.

--My favorite part of this episode, a part which lives in my mind rent free and plays itself like a song stuck in my head, is the part where they are lying perfectly still in bed and Zenitsu tells Inosuke to apologize and Inosuke refuses.

--Just... after all that, AFTER ALL THAT, they have this perfectly still, perfectly timed exchange. What a good choice on the part of Ufotable, taking was what a shouting match panel in the manga and putting it into this form instead.

--And then we got Zenitsu's first glimpse of his future bride, and the moment is ruined by Zenitsu having A Moment(TM), and I, on my first watch, was putting him back on my "nope, annoying" list with Inosuke. They are... both a bit much. However, my observation on this rewatch now, being the sort of fan I am, is that having them do anything less at any of these moments just wouldn't be in-character for them.

[treehousesinfrance]

Love Leaves Traces - Chapter 6

Watching someone you love break completely and be put back together again was more painful than Sirius was prepared for. 

Remus lay in his hospital bed, hidden beneath layers of bandages and a powerful sleeping potion. His brow was furrowed as if in deep thought, but it seemed to calm when Sirius traced his forehead with his fingers, slipped his hand into his and held him gently as to not hurt him.

Madam Pomfrey was surprised to see Remus with company the morning after the full moon but was suspiciously lenient towards them. Catching Sirius’ gaze, she sent him a knowing smile. Sirius pretended to know what it meant, but he was too focused on Remus to think too much about it. 

They were, however, shoved out of the door before the first classes of the day began. Madam Pomfrey would ‘not be held accountable for any slacking’. 

Class passed like molasses. After exactly zero hours of sleep and a fair amount of worrying, Sirius felt thoroughly depleted. He clung to James as James clung to him and they somehow made it through Divination and Transfiguration before they were released and could visit Remus again. 

He was sitting up, carefully sipping on tea with Madam Pomfrey hovering over him.

“You’re awake!”

Remus smiled at them. A little crooked, but it was a smile nevertheless and Sirius could have melted. They both moved over to sit next to him on the bed, Sirius going as far as to slide under the sheets. 

“How are you feeling?”, James prodded.

“Actually really good, considering.” Sirius felt Remus scooch closer to him as Peter sneaked his way in and plopped himself on the end of the bed.

“The thing is”, he continued, “when I was bitten. When I became a…”

“Werewolf”, Peter said. “It’s not a bad word. You can say it.”

“Right. Werewolf. Well, when I became a werewolf I was only young. When kids are bitten, they normally don’t make it. Their magic isn't strong enough to help them heal, but somehow, here I am. No one really knows what to do with me. Even my own parents weren’t expecting me to stick around this long.”

Sirius clutched his hand beneath the sheets and let him continue.

“I can’t describe how it feels, but it's as though spending the moon with you guys has made me even stronger. I’ve never healed this quickly in… ever. So thanks” Remus was staring determinedly at the wall, “for everything.”

He seemed to act cautiously around them for a while, careful not to surprise them or scare them in any way. Careful not to show any physical strength. Careful not to remind them of what he was, but slowly, he seemed to realise that his friends weren’t acting any differently around him, and he didn’t need to change. 

There were things they hadn’t realised Moony could do. They had dubbed him ‘Moony’, which he said was lacking in taste but smiled when they used it. He could hear when Filch was coming long before the others, giving them time to escape and he could sniff out any chocolate Peter was hiding in his wardrobe, which he used to his advantage. 

They fell easily back into their normal pattern of classes, plotting, helping James unsuccessful talk to Lily Evans and Sirius even had time to finish his book, littered with annotations and doodles. He kept it hidden deep in his trunk. It felt too personal to share. 

Sirius looked up from where he was drooling on his textbook. Slughorn was rambling on about today’s potion. Sirius never listened to these introductions. He was good enough at potions that he could just read the instructions as he went along and it would all turn out fine. James didn’t seem to be paying much attention either, staring longingly at Lily.

Remus was sat beside her, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the desk. His hair had grown shaggy and soft around his ears, only leaving a small patch of freckled skin exposed on his neck and Sirius wanted to run his fingers down it.

“Merlin, ce garçon est magnifique.”

Remus swivelled around in his seat to find Sirius looking directly at him. Offering a small smile, he spun back around to face the professor, ceasing his drumming.

They were brewing wolfsbane apparently, which was some potion that did something to wolves that Sirius couldn’t read through the smoke that was bubbling out of his potion.

“Is it supposed to do that?” James was looking frantic and a little wild, his hair pointing in odd directions.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Sirius was not sure, but acting cool under pressure was kind of his thing. If only he could read the next step through the stupid smoke.

“Hellooooooo boys”. Remus had made his way over, probably to mock them on their failing potion.

“Hey, Rem. Do you think you could help us? I wasn’t really paying attention before and-”

“I know.” He was acting weird. Grinning wildly, his eyes a little lidded. “I know you weren’t paying attention.” He giggled. He actually giggled. Something jolted up Sirius’ spine. 

James’ eyebrows shot up, “You feeling alright, mate?”

Remus started waving his arms around in the smoke, watching as it bounced off of his touch. He was entranced by it. His cheeks flushed bright and his pupils took up most of his eye.

Sirius whispered to James, “I don’t think he’s alright.”

Remus was now tying his shoelaces with fierce determination, getting frustrated when his fingers fumbled around the strings. 

James gripped him harshly, “Wolfsbane.”

“I know what’s in the cauldron, James. What has that got to do with Moon… shit.” Sirius grabbed Moony and called out through the haze, “Um, Professor? I don’t think Remus here is feeling well so we’re just going to pop off to the Hospital wing. Ok buh bye.”

They steered him out into the hallway, the clear air almost startling after the fog of the classroom, and rushed him to the dorm room. He was mumbling unintelligibly and stumbling over his feet. 

“I like when you speak French, Sirius.” He was leaning on him fully now, his head nestled uncomfortably in the crook of Sirius’ neck. “Go on. Say something.”

“Tu es si haut”

“I am not!” Remus smacked him playfully on the shoulder, and Sirius, tired of being leaned on, picked him up bridal style and carried him the rest of the way.

“You are! You are so high! Let’s just get you to the dorm before you do any damage.” Remus seemed quite content in Sirius’ arms and was dozing peacefully by the time they arrived. 

Sirius carefully lowered Remus into his bed, Remus’ tired hands grabbing for him at the loss. He looked so innocent. So pure. His eyelashes, pale at the tips, were fluttering as he dreamed. How Remus was ever worried his friends would abandon him was beyond Sirius. How he was worried anyone would leave him, be scared of him. He was the most beautiful boy in the world. To see him so soft and so carefree as he was in sleep was a gift. He was a gift. 

Remus hummed as Sirius pulled over the blankets, perfectly content.

Sirius couldn’t stop looking, but in an effort to not be creepy, he closed the curtains and headed to the common room, where James was warming himself by the fire.

“How’s our boy?”

“Sleeping.”

They plonked down on the couch and James began moaning about how Lily would never love him, and Sirius would reply, as always, that he actually needed to speak to her for her to fall in love with him.

20 minutes later, Remus trotted down the stairs, still a little wobbly, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked every bit as innocent as when he was asleep, slippers on, nibbling on some of the chocolate Sirius had bought him over the holidays.

He didn’t say anything, only sitting directly on top of Sirius and making himself comfortable. He curled up, sliding his feet between Sirius’ legs and his head under his chin. His hair was tickling Sirius' neck but he didn’t dare move. He held Remus in place with a firm hand and let him drift off again, stroking his back softly.

The girls had joined them for breakfast the next morning. Lily was avidly talking to James about how she might like to get into quidditch, and he was staring wide-eyed, looking like he might combust. Peter was diligently working on his eggs and Marlene and Dorcas were giggling to each other over steaming tea. 

Their friendship was so perfect it made Sirius sad. Not like Sirius’ friendships were any less than brilliant of course, but there was something about Dorcas and Marlene. Marlene and Dorcas. They would hold hands and talk in hushed tones with their faces inches away. Go to Hogsmeade together and buy each other sweet gifts. They practically glowed when they were around each other. Sirius longed for what they had.

Remus poked him with his foot under the table.

“Hey, um. Sorry about yesterday.” Sirius could imagine how mortified Remus must have been after falling asleep on Sirius and tripping all over himself, but Sirius didn’t care. It was rather sweet.

“What happened yesterday?” Mary was stealing some toast from Lily’s plate while she wasn’t looking.

“Rem fell asleep on me.”

Remus kicked him this time.

“No. It was adorable. Drooled on my shirt and everything.” 

“Really. That’s all? I swear you four are on top of each other every minute of the day.” Disinterested, Mary started on her toast.

Remus had a funny look on his face. He eyed Sirius.

“What?”

Remus only shrugged and started chattering about transfiguration, which Sirius happily didn’t listen to in favour of watching how Remus lit up when he was talking about something he was passionate about. How his breakfast grew cold as he didn’t take a breath even to eat.

Sirius realised his breakfast was now cold too and caught Marlene’s eyes as he was scooping out more eggs for Remus and himself. He hadn’t spoken to her in a while and needed to ask her about her new boyfriend, which hadn’t been around in a while. 

“Padfoot.” His attention was drawn back to Moony, who he realised was packing up to leave. “Shall we?” 

Sirius abandoned his eggs, Peter, to his bacon and James to Lily. “We shall.”

Plans for Sirius’ birthday party were well and truly underway, run mostly by James. Sirius never really had a proper birthday celebration before Hogwarts, so James had taken it upon himself to throw a party every year so magnificent, that they would make up for all the years he had without. 

He felt a little uneasy under all of the attention, but it was nice. This year would be the first year they had access to alcohol through Rosmerta, and Sirius was beginning to get nervous. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Peter crashing his way into the dorm.

“She said yes!”

“Merlin, Pete. Are you getting married?” Peter ignored Sirius.

“She said yes. I officially have a girlfriend!”

Remus looked up from his book, which Sirius could now recognise as Wuthering Heights. “Congrats, Pete.”

He was smiling so wide, that you couldn’t help but be happy for him. And not at all jealous.

James and Sirius said their congratulations and left Peter to his bubble of oblivious joy. He was acting like Moony on wolfsbane, all giddy and smiley. Sirius laughed a little at the memory, earning an annoyed look from Remus who was trying to read again. It was then that Sirius thought that maybe werewolves could read minds.

He shuddered. Remus was the last person he needed rifling through his head.

[schleckermaul]

𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩: 𝙖 𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙮 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚'𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, as requested by @archaictold.

break tastes blood and dirt and grime, as he heaves himself off the ground with a huff that's more anger than frustration. where he had expected this mission to be somewhat hard, considering pandora barely ever sends out mad hatter if they don't have to, he didn't think he'd struggle quite so much with finishing it.

it had started raining, at some point during his chase through the streets of a city nearby reveil. not as populated as the new capital, there's mud sticking to his boots, and now his face and coat, after he'd taken a dive into the ground a few moments ago. spitting out a couple bits of wet earth, break wipes his mouth with the hand holding his sword, the other arm limply swinging at his side.

he'd refused any assistance when it was offered, and pandora didn't put up much of a fuss, familiar with his lack of a sense for teamwork. more often than not, he'd accidentally injured the people on his side during one of these missions, so the organization is just controlling their damages at this point. if the hatter prefers to put himself in danger with no help from anybody else, let him be.

break doesn't think that foolish even now, with no feeling left in his left arm, bone sticking out near his elbow. any of the amateurs pandora would've given him would've panicked at the sight of the two chains he's been fighting. and he still thinks he'll be fine, if a little hurt, at the end of all of this.

the problem really only started after he'd gotten rid of one of the two. an ape-like creature and one that looked like a horse if he had to compare it to anything, only of a much bigger size, with grey skin and a jaw that crushed his arm as it got caught in between its teeth. he finished it swiftly, once it dared to come that close, mad hatter's power slicing through its rough exterior easily, with the help of break's blade. it didn't take much for him to hop over the dying chain and slam his sword through the chest of its contractor, somewhat upset that he'd made such an error in the first place, wanting the man out of his sight.

he'd relished the sight for a little too long. the ape had flung itself at him just then, taking advantage of his lack of focus, and had tossed him across the entire length of the street. there's bits of chafing here and there, where his skin had ground against bricks, and mud where he'd slipped into grass and earth afterwards. he's fairly sure some of it got into his empty socket, and he can already hear the scolding he'll get for that later on. and most of all, he's angry— not at himself, not at the creature, not even at the contractor.

just angry.

the ape is charging at him, and break doesn't know where to hit it to best make an impact. he's slowing down. he's aching. using mad hatter too much another time wouldn't necessarily make him pass out, but he'd slow even more, and he can't guarantee that he won't get fatally hurt then. so it'll have to be his sword alone, and that's not ideal, not when the creature is launching itself at him, fists beating like drums on its strong chest, and break prepares until the last moment to dodge out of the way—

as he dodges, a bullet hits the ape's neck.

it screams and whips around, almost hitting break with its outstretched arm in the process purely by accident, and he lets out half a yelp as he ducks and rolls, getting to his feet right afterwards, staggering. guns don't really have to mean anything, do they? most of pandora uses guns. they're all cowards with no expertise in battle, and they're all trained to use the organization's standard weapon. but break already knows, before he takes a few quick steps around the ape as it stops paying attention to him, and instead barrels down the alleyway it had been shot from, towards a suspiciously gloomy looking guy with a revolver in hand.

he's wearing that stupid hat. of course he is.

' raven! ' it's a scream over the pouring rain, one break isn't sure gilbert will even hear in the first place. still, he screams it. a few more bullets whizz through the air as the other man stands still in the face of a gigantic animal charging at him, shooting with a steady, gloved hand. ' what are you doing here? '

' what are you doing here? ' there's really no pause between those two sentences, as if gilbert had known break would say that. he also sounds very pissed, which would be funny in any other situation, but is just annoying now, another task to take care of. ' look at your arm! your ankle's all messed up! i'm helping! '

break groans, not out of pain, and keeps running, disregarding the raven's worries. gilbert dodges underneath the arm of the ape and break launches himself in its direction, pushing himself off its back as it turns to chase gilbert, and landing a few feet behind the two of them once more— now face to face with its contractor, a man that had hidden in this side street from both the battle and break alike.

the man lets out a sound that sounds like a scared whine, and break is surprised when he doesn't make a run for it. not as surprised, anymore, when the man reaches into his pocket, fumbling with something, and then break really has to be quick about it—

the illegal contractor manages to graze his shin with a bullet as break pushes closer, burying his blade in his stomach. and that could have been it, really. the man will die from the blow anyways. but the spot where the bullet touched his skin does hurt, then, his leg suddenly pounding, and break snarls quietly.

an a̷n̶n̵o̴y̸a̸n̶c̶e̴.̵

he rips his sword from right to left, pulling it out when it reaches the other hipbone, and ignores the sound of guts hitting his boots as the man halves in size. he tilts towards break out of sheer loss of weight and balance alike, and the hatter takes a step back expertly, like a practiced step in a dance, as to avoid the river of blood the man chokes out in front of him. behind him, the noises previously drowned out slowly return: the telltale sounds of a crack between worlds, as the ape loses its connection to its contractor, and is sent back to the abyss.

break looks a little too late in that direction. in his defence, he tries to take a second step with the leg that had just been shot, and the entire thing just gives out on him. he doesn't exactly fall, more tilts to one side without much control on his part, and keeps himself upright with his sword slammed into the ground, clinging to the weapon. seems like gilbert might have been right about his ankle. the motion is enough to turn him fully, and he does see, then, that the portal to the abyss had let a single card escape.

it's not looking at him, thank the intention. it is, however, looking at gilbert, who seems to have gotten bit in his brief encounter with the ape. there's a couple of holes in his left shoulder, bloody and sopping wet from the rain, ruining his pretty jacket. and while the ape has disappeared, the entry to the portal disappears with it, so the card can only really pay attention to the two agents that had just killed two of its brethren.

' shoot it, ' he yells, a bit high-pitched, and gilbert fumbles a little as he reloads, screeching back. ' what do you think i'm doing? what do you think i'm doing? '

gilbert only really has to shoot it once, between the eyes, before it crumbles into itself. cards are fairly easy.

break breathes out the rest of the anger that could have festered in his chest, ignoring the slow trickle of blood down one side of his mouth. he doesn't let go of his sword, or lowers himself to the ground, instead freezing right where he is. it's still raining. he sniffles a bit, lowering his head. there's guts on the ground.

he hears the sound of gilbert tucking away his revolver, and only acknowledges his presence when the man wraps an arm underneath his shoulder, heaving him into a standing position. break screeches, then, as well, a bit of an undignified sound, and gilbert sounds like he's barely holding himself back from punching the hatter as he snaps a short ' stop it. you can't walk. ' break opens his mouth to say something like 'not when you're clinging to me like some type of worried housewife', but gilbert glares at him before he can.

' i could've done that by myself, ' he says instead, as the two of them make their way to what break assumes to be gilbert's nearby carriage. they'll have to get to pandora immediately, making sure they send somebody else to clean up the mess left behind. eques hadn't been in his shadow for this mission— break hadn't wanted sharon to witness any of this.

' you could have, ' gilbert huffs, solemnly. the admission makes break a bit more malleable. ' but you didn't. because i helped. '

the hatter raises an eyebrow at him in what is clearly mockery, and gilbert kicks his what is apparently a broken ankle.

' whatever, ' says the hatter after a bit of silence, followed by his pained hiss.

and then he pulls gilbert's hat from his head and tosses it in the mud, right before they enter the carriage.

[spidrboots]

angel's vision comes to him in waves, distorted & fuzzy at the edges. his body is one giant, overarching bruise that thumps & throbs along with the beating of his heart. he can detect a hint of nausea bubbling at the base of his stomach, tickling the back of his throat, but it's a faraway feeling, like squinting at the sun heavy on the horizon hundreds of miles away. it takes him a moment to register that the beating had slowed, as if the bodies looming above him grew hesitant in their debauchery, before it ceased altogether. he can't register where he's bleeding, aside from his mouth -- & that is only because the metallic liquid spilled across his tongue in earnest. a very small voice in the back of angel's rattled brain wonders what could have provoked them, but a larger voice says that it doesn't matter. they could have simply done it for fun. maybe the alcohol wasn't rich enough, the drugs not strong enough. the idea that there was no reason behind it hurt worse than the alternative, if angel let it.

it just begins to really sink in that the violence has truly stopped, punctuated by a bang that probably sounds louder to angel's ears than it was in actuality, when a body falls on top of him, limp & heavy. angel's voice catches in his throat & sticks there like the blood staining his lips. his first instinct is terror, fearing that his assailants were done with beating him into the ground so they could take something else from angel. the horror is fleeting, luckily, as the body laying lamely against him is nothing more than a corpse, now. with energy & strength that angel was surprised he could still possess, all four of his arms push the body from him. it takes more effort than he'd like to admit.

another loud bang splits into the air, threatening to break the sky apart. after having a few beats to collect the brains he was lucky to still have, angel can appreciate the sounds for what they are. gunshots. he was familiar.

he can't completely make out his surroundings, & that frightens him further. angel wants to believe ( & hope, hope, hope ) that this gun-wielding individual was on his side ; that he was taking out these men out of his kindness of his heart. would someone down here ever have it in them ? would angel even deserve it ?

one of his eyes refuses to focus, & he's certain that it was beginning to swell shut. his other, however, was steadily seeing a decrease in black dots & blurred figures. maybe there was hope for him yet. blinking back moisture, angel takes a moment, a breath, to look at the man who had done what angel wished he could have. he still wasn't entirely sure that the mystery john wouldn't simply turn around & do the same to angel ( or worse ) but he was in no condition to fight or scrutinize. doesn't mean he wouldn't try if it came to it.

he's a foreboding figure, all long limbs & confident gait. pristine clothes, classy. doesn't look the type to go around sniveling in a place like this. as angel struggles against the headache beginning to beat at his temples like a drum, he thinks he recalls seeing him in the audience -- far back, shielded from the other patrons, breathing a bewildering type of red smoke like a dragon with death on its tongue. despite himself, angel tenses when the man approaches. his words feel foreign to him, like they should belong to someone else & not to alley trash like himself. it didn't mean he wouldn't soak them up, only barely choking back a sob. it was pathetic how much he just wanted a man to take care of him right now.

when he speaks, he finds that his throat is hoarse & raw. the blood in his mouth makes his tongue feel unnaturally thick. " everythin' hurts. but i don' think nothin' is broken. " experience of getting into his fair share of fights & scraps seems to have benefited him, at least this once. he tries looking into the man's eyes, even as they are shielded by oversized heart shaped sunglasses. with a cry, he manages a sitting position. it's wobbly at best, but it gives him a better view of who he is speaking with. angel thinks this might be what it feels like to be saved.

" thanks. not every day a handsome fella comes outta nowhere jus' to keep ya' from gettin' too mangled up. y'don't really . . . look like the type'a fella to hit up a dump like this. come all the way out jus' to see lil ole me ? " a hand goes to grip at his side when the pain slams into him. he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. " bet you weren't expectin' an after show like this one. " he does his best to keep his bravado up strong. it's the only thing left he feels he can hold on to. that is, until he finds himself searching the others face. if this wasn't hell, he thought he might be loopy enough to believe he's found his guardian savior. there was a familiarity about him that sent shivers down angel's spine. something dangerous, almost. his presence was certainly threatening, even after the save. if he was someone important, angel couldn't place his finger on it. he wasn't really into politics.

" m'head an' face are hurtin' pretty bad. side an' back aren't great. but i just need'ta -- get back on m'feet again. " the attempt is pitiful at best. he's crumbling into the man's arms with the effort, hissing as the world tilts around him.

While he was still, comparatively, new on the scene of being an Overlord, Valentino had never been new to making an entrance. The man was his own herald, the click of his heels a drumroll to his arrival on the scene. Even when he'd been alive, he'd brought the party with him into every room he graced with his presence.

He'd been watching Angel Dust that evening like a lion might eye a rabbit in a chicken wire cage. For the most part, he kept himself in the back of the bar, viewing from a cloud of rich, cherry-scented red smoke. Perhaps he hadn't truly been aloft, filling a private box with his lonesome solo act for the night, but he may as well have been.

Just standing at ten feet tall alone was enough to make him tower over most of the denizens of Hell, but that didn't matter. He was above them in other ways, too. There wasn't a better shot in Hell, not to his knowledge--or acceptance--and he couldn't be outdone in his greedy, grabby ways. He had already single-handedly gotten his porn studio off the ground and had several clubs in his name. It had only been a year since he'd come into power, and he was only growing stronger daily.

When the spider had defected, Valentino had been polishing off his drink. He didn't watch him leave, but he couldn't find him, either. That took him outside, adjusting his coat around his thin waist upon hitting the air he would always insist was too cold. Cold? In Hell? Only a man as persnickety as Valentino could throw a fit about Hell being too cold.

The first sound that met him was an unmitigated hurk that drew him to the alleyway. It was the shoe he noticed first, and recognized immediately. Valentino was a man who loved shoes. A good pair of shoes, a pretty pair of shoes, could take you from a basic bitch to the center of attention. The heels he wore now were simple, sharp leather winklepickers that gleamed in the light of the streetlamp outside of the alley, and the bar light above the back door to the club.

A loud thud sounded with the muted sound of the silencer firing off the first bullet. Angel Dust would recognize the weight of a body on him, but it was better than taking another kick to his spine.

"That's one," Valentino's voice cut through the air like a knife, and he quirked an eyebrow, "And I'm fairly sure I can count to five without breaking a sweat. You have until three to fuck off. One."

The men shared a confused, if not tense look.

"Two."

A couple of them turned to run, one making it halfway down the alleyway before another bullet pierced the back of his head.

"Three." He breathed, hitting the remaining four headshots without skipping a beat. Valentino didn't like to fuck around. He didn't want to see pretty things get banged up. Not unless they deserved it.

And, tonight, all Angel Dust deserved was Valentino's attention. He needed to see if this poor, downtrodden little broken thing needed a leg up in this Hellhole.

"Now, now, Baby, don't go moving too much. Let Daddy see. What hurts?" He didn't doubt that it was all of him, but he didn't know if there was anything he shouldn't move right away.

[hobidreams]

november 1869.

to remember what has been lost; to protect what still remains.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: drama. words: 2.4k contains: descriptions of blood/death, a reckoning.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 26. start from the beginning?

Before Queen Jeonghui’s tomb, you stand with hands bowed in reverence, mind laden with warm memories as sticks of incense burn above your fingertips.

“We all miss you, daebi-mama. I hope you are resting well,” you murmur, letting the smoke mingle with your breath in the air as you bow, deeply. “Happy birthday.”

A little ways away, the single guard that accompanies you is also offering his thoughts to the raised, grassy mound that the queen lies beneath. You’re glad it’s Myungho to come with you today. He’s a good man, one who allows you as much freedom as possible. He understands your need to escape sometimes. Nearby, the horses you rode here are grazing on the field, quietly snorting as their tails swish from side to side.

As you look upon the tomb, you wonder wistfully if mother has found the queen in the spirit world. If they’re playing the game of janggi they so loved in life, when both could find the rare time to continue their decade-long (friendly) rivalry while indulging in cups of strong, dark tea. The thought brings a smile to your face even as fresh tears fall at the remembrance.

In your peripheral vision, you see a swish of fabric, the sign of someone approaching. You give one last bow and slot your incense in the traditional tray, realizing it must be time to leave before it gets too cold and your limbs begin to freeze even under the layers of clothes. You must go back eventually, you know it, but that doesn’t make it easier.

But when you turn, the man that stands beside you wears royal robes — the scarlet fabric and golden dragons unmistakable.

“Jeonha?”

The king’s face holds only sorrow as he holds matching incense in his hands. Staring straight ahead, he bends into a bow, dipping his head repeatedly low, low, lower until he’s almost on the dying, waterlogged grass with it, the lit grey tips flickering in the wind as they are nearly doused from the force of his movements. He bites his lip hard, so hard he draws blood as he punishes his own legs with the bows but he doesn’t stop.

You watch him with emotion clinging to your throat, but you swallow the questions you want to ask as you swipe at your wet cheeks. Why are you here? Why did you change your mind? How are you? Are you okay? All these impertinent questions are for you, to satisfy your own curiosity, and that’s not what he needs right now.

Quietly, steadily, you wait until he has finally stuck in the incense in the memorial ash. You wait until he opens his eyes, red-rimmed as they are, and finds your gaze.

“I… decided at the last moment,” he murmurs. “You… were right. I had to see her.”

You nod. Think you understand everything else he means as well, even if he’s left it unspoken. “Me too.”

“She would have liked that you’re here.”

That simple sentence threatens another wave of nostalgia and longing. You let it pull you under. Sink yourself into it. The mourning, the grief. And the love. The love that was there. The love that still remains, the traces of it held in you both. Your fingers twitch with a sudden, daring want to take his hand. To meet your palms and find the warmth and the life pulse that beats so closely, so resolutely just beneath the surface despite all this pain and all this loss. If you could just reach out. If you could just take another risk…

“Jeonha, run!”

The scream comes from the hill behind you. You both whirl.

The head of the royal guard comes running over with his sword drawn. His teeth are grit, hair blown from the wind that sweeps through the grass, rippling. His blade is already stained with a color that makes your stomach lurch at the implication.

“Hoseok— What’s going on?” The king yells back.

“Rebels! An ambush. We don’t have enough men!”

These few seconds are all the warning you get.

An incredible roar of voices comes exploding up and then you see them. The thick crowd of men that come surging over the hill, fighting their way towards you. The unforgettable clatter of metal on metal desecrates this once-sacred ground. Your legs go soft as you panic, scrambling. You’re trying not to watch as guards and rebels alike are cut down, but the enemies are steadily advancing still. What should you do? Where should you go?

“Myungho, get the horses!” The king barks out. But one look at the steeds tells you that they’re frightened, rearing back as men descend upon them. They’re off, running away on instinct to preserve their own lives while damning yours.

“Jeonha, what are your orders?” Myungho’s grip on his weapon is tight.

“Go. Help Hoseok.”

“Yes, jeonha!”

But as the battle wears on, the dread in you only grows. The king’s men are skilled, but it seems there were only a few to begin with. They are overwhelmed by sheer numbers, yelling for jeonha to escape but he doesn’t move. You don’t know what to do. You are at a complete loss, standing beside him with fingers growing steadily numb. You have to do something. You— You can’t just let it end here, at the hands of these men bellowing with violence and anger and pain.

“Jeonha, w-we have to run,” you stutter, forcing yourself to move, tugging at the fabric of his robes. But when you look back at the opposite side, your only escape route, a throng of rebels come scattering across the grass. Cutting you off; rendering you helpless.

“Myungho, cover the rear!” Hoseok spits out as he takes down another three by himself, the quick whip of his blade reflecting a beam of sun. But even he, with two other guards in front, cannot hold all of them off, though there are less of the rebels now that remain standing.

Caught in the middle, you can only watch your allies strain and sweat. In your heart, you promise desperately that you heal them in the end, if only they will hold on now.

With an awful cry, one of the guards hits the ground and a rebel uses that chance. Breaks through the line of defense and charges right towards you both.

“Fuck the king!” He yells, his face smeared with dirt, his sword raised as his bare feet trip upon the grass but he just keeps coming somehow and you have no weapons and you have no shields but the very first instinct, the most primal one you have is to throw yourself in front of the king and take his pain for him and—

Hoseok dispatches the rebel from behind just as you move a single step forward.

“You…” The king’s voice is hoarse. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at you, at what you just did. Then he’s shoving you aside and stooping to pick up the abandoned sword from the ground.

You realize what he means when he sweeps up his sleeves, adjusts his grip on the worn handle. “Wait, no, jeonha, you cannot—”

“Stay behind me.”

“I cannot allow you to—”

“Do not argue with me.”

Again, he leaves you with no choice but to watch his back.

Fear pounds away in your body like a thousand drums, thunder booming through the pulse of your clenched heart in your ears as the king takes a first brutal swing at an enemy. Somewhat out of practice against the towering man, he’s shoved back by the sheer force of the clash, feet skidding across the wet grass but he refuses to yield. Stubborn as he always is, he rushes in again only to be pushed back. Again.

The king tilts his blade, slices it quick only to have one sent right back at him, barely missing his shoulder by an inch. He doesn’t even flinch as he stands firm. Adapts in the moment and tries a new strategy, a new tactic that has him spinning, robes fluttering in the winter air as his shuddering breath comes out in a puff of white and ends in a fury of red. And again. And again until finally, finally, only the strongest of the rebels remain standing with the few allies you left, along with your brutal, bloodied king.

Before you, all the men are panting, open mouthed, every last one of them desperate for a victory that spells the doom of the other.

“Come on then,” the king goads, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a show of nonchalance even though he’s obviously fatigued. “Attack.”

“You little shit!”

This man is enormous, easily a head above the king and he’s strong, muscles bulging from his torn tunic as he thrusts the sword ahead with surprising speed. The quick rush of air slices through two layers of robes, splitting the dirtied fabric open as the king narrowly escapes without a new scar. But his return stab doesn’t meet a mark and he’s slow on the rebound, steps lost some of the agility he had at the start.

Please. Please, you beg to whatever god may be listening, don’t let him die. But that rebel seems to have an endless strength as he forces the king back, meets him blow for blow for blow and you are so worried, terrified you’re going to see his last moments like this. Like this you will have been with him until the end just like you once stupidly wished. You’re so caught up you don’t realize what’s going on behind you.

“Su-uinyeo-nim! Watch out!” Myungho’s voice cracks as he cries your name, but you turn too slow. Myungho’s on the ground and the rebel that beat him is sprinting towards you, savagery in his scowl, his crude axe already suspended in mid-swing, just a few more steps, just one more shove to land right across your heart and you, you who has never held a weapon before in her life, you who has lived to heal and mend instead of hurt, what can you do right now but die?

“No!”

The scream is hoarse, a furious sound matched with a rush of robes that whip past your own.

You peel open your eyes in time to watch the king take the axe blow meant for you with his left arm. Despite his bark of pain, he swings with his right in exchange and it’s enough. The rebel falls, his axe plummeting uselessly beside him. Then the king falters too, sword clattering down as he finally drops to his knees.

“Jeonha!” You scramble to him. “Oh god, oh god, jeonha, why did you do that— Jeonha, how could you do such a thing? Jeonha!” You part the stained robes, stomach churning at the raw sight of his sacrifice. “We need to fetch you help. You need medicine, oh god, oh god.” This is panic like you’ve never felt it before as you look around, as if some miracle could occur, as if it hasn’t already occurred by the fact that you’re both still alive.

To one side, Hoseok is alone, gasping hard with the enormous rebel lying prone beside him, evidently having finished him off. Myungho has a gash running down his side, but he’s crawling towards you both still with a hand pressed to his wound for pressure. There is no one else. You have to do this on your own. You have to calm the hell down.

Using the nearby sword, you force yourself to focus and stop shaking as you cut strips of the inner layer of your skirt. You have to save his arm even as nausea swims in your mind, nerves making you want to empty your stomach.

“Hah...” The king’s chest lurches as he struggles for air. His eyes are hazy but he manages to fix them on you, as if to ground himself. “You’re… safe?”

Nodding frantically, you start to wrap the cloth around him, willing your fingers not to slip. “I-It’s deep, jeonha. Your wound is so deep.” You’re quietly sobbing as you tie the makeshift bandage to stop the worst of the bleeding. How could he be thinking of you at a time like this? It must hurt excruciatingly so, yet he is still trying to be strong.

Beside you, Hoseok is carrying Myungho’s weight, using the extra cloth to help his ally with his limited medical training.

“…Hoseok.” The king sucks in another long breath. “They… Those rebels were peasants, weren’t they?”

“Yes, jeonha… I think they were.”

He accepts this knowledge silently as you finish your preliminary treatment, but lack the resources to do anything else. You stare at the fresh red seeping through the flimsy cloth and hope desperately that it will be enough for now, until one of you can return to the palace and gather reinforcements to take you home. Feeling your fingers stop, he immediately tries to move his arm but winces, bites his lip at the sudden jolt.

“Don’t move, please,” you instantly say.

The king huffs a long, exhausted sigh as he sinks into the ground. Lets the tension seep out of him, though likely not by choice. His dark eyes flicker to the tomb briefly before they slide closed, the scar ever slashed startlingly crimson across the right side. Despite his best attempts, he is still winded, depleted. Human, after all. After all of this.

You brush matted strands of light hair away from his forehead, and pat at the drops of sweat that linger and prove how hard he pushed himself to fight. He shifts into your touch like a stray animal, allowing you take care of him for once without argument until his breaths even some, settling only in your arms.

“It seems it’s been a long time,” he says softly after a moment, his eyes remaining shut.

“Since?”

“Since I’ve protected someone.”

Your pulse catches. Blood thrums through you as you whisper, “but you did.” Your voice is viscous with relief, and gratitude. “You did.”

Only now do you dare to reach for his hand, to lend him some of your strength, even though you have seen again just how much of it he already holds in himself.

Wrapped in your warmth, he squeezes back just the once. Lets you know he is here, he is here, he is here with you still.

a/n: because i could never forget the way he wielded that sword in the mv. so... how you feel about our king now?

[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.

[lenaariewrld]

content loading

KUROO — 8. a strange feeling

You wake up when you feel an unexpected weight suddenly placed on your chest, a gentle rumbling echoing through your ribcage. Your eyes peek open to see your cat, a shark hat strapped under her chin. “Bimmie!” You coo sleepily, your arms cradling the cat and rubbing her spine. She arches her butt against your palms.

“Good morning. Time to get up,” Kuroo stands at the foot of your bed, fully dressed and staring at you over a mug of coffee. You turn your attention away from your cat to glare at him.

“What time is it?”

“Seven,”

“Fuck that,” You turn back to loving on your cat, scratching her ears and chin and rubbing the sides of her fluffy body. She purrs and coos from all the wonderful attention, kneading her paws into you particularly hard when she enjoys the rubs you give her. A gentle laugh leaves you when she finally decides she has had enough and she saunters her way to the space on your bed not occupied by humans, curling up and tucking her paws beneath herself.

Kuroo is still standing by your bed and waiting for you to get up. You sigh and sit up, frowning deeply. “Why am I getting up so early for?” You ask, “It better be for those good pancakes, or else I will kill you,” You threaten softly.

The man chuckles, watching you get up sluggishly. His amusement continues as you drag yourself around the room to gather your proper materials for waking up and being a functioning member of society. Because mornings do not make you look like a functional member of society.

He seats himself in your chair while you leave to head to your bathroom.

“We need to go grocery shopping... I got the others to make lists of things they wanted or needed, what meals we could make, and all that. I just need someone to keep track of the list,” He informs you, spinning the chair to look around your room.

The walls are decorated with posters of your favorite characters from anime and tv shows you like, shelves stacked with manga or figurines from games you’ve adored. Your desk is a neat mess of gaming things and just cute knick-knacks that make it look more you. Kuroo finds himself smiling at it all.

The bathroom door opens sometime later and he turns his head to hear you if you should speak. “Okay, I’m assuming this is your roundabout way of telling me if I go, you’ll buy me snacks?” You pose the question, rubbing a towel over your head to dry your hair.

Kuroo hums.

“You got a deal,” He finally declares, a cheeky smile flashing in your direction. You sarcastically smile back, heading to your closet and grabbing clothes to change into. Kuroo once again takes the time to look around your room.

You don’t go through your entire morning routine this time, deciding to save the man the trouble and put it off until you feel more energized to actually have thoughts. Instead, you just settle for a good shower and clean clothes. Kuroo waits patiently for you the entire time, standing up and holding out his mug for you. To your surprise, it’s not his coffee but yours, made exactly how you like it.

A funny warmth spreads in your chest, and you haven’t even drank the coffee yet.

“Thank you,” You hum, following him downstairs and towards the front door, nursing your mug the whole way. It’s not piping hot so drinking larger gulps is much easier.

You make a quick stop in the kitchen to transfer your coffee to a more portable cup before heading outside. Kuroo is waiting for you once again, a patient smile on his face.

The whole drive he plays soft music, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. You notice he only moves his pointer finger or pinkie to drum.

“Okay,” You brace yourself in your seat, wiggling your body as much as you can to face Kuroo more. “What is the plan this time, chief?” You raise your brow and slide your cup into the cup holder that separates the driver and passenger seat.

“I’ve already organized the shopping list into different categories so we can just go from aisle to aisle and get it all rather than jumping throughout the whole store,” Kuroo says, “It’s on my phone,” He adds before you can question where this oh-so-meticulously put-together list is. Instead, you nod. Kuroo smiles and hands you the device from his sweatpants pocket.

“Add your snacks,”

The rest of the drive is short and helps wake you up completely. By the time Kuroo parks and you climb out, you have the energy to ransack a whole 7-11. Hypothetically.

Kuroo leads you inside, letting you push the cart and being, for once, responsible about the shopping while you trail behind with a small smile. He tells you all the tips for making sure vegetables are ripe or fruits are the kind of look and taste you might want, how to get the best quality of items without overpaying, and what to look for when buying fresh meat.

Admittedly, you are indulging him. You know a good portion of the tips (let’s be honest, who doesn’t know how to make sure an apple or a tomato is good?). However, his happiness to tell you and his earnest helpfulness are refreshing.

“Do you eat salads?” You question as he turns the third variety of lettuce in his hand, inspecting it for bug bites and dirt. “Because that’s the only thing I can think of why you need multiple kinds of lettuces,” You add when he looks at you. Kuroo pouts.

“Don’t be mean,” He huffs. You giggle.

“Then put down the lettuce. Stick to the list. And I don’t see three types of lettuces on here,”

Kuroo sets down the lettuce and turns to you, lightly keeping his hand on the cart. He leans close to you as if preparing to share a secret. “What if I just wanted us all to be healthier?” He says, adding a ‘hmm’ at the end as if he owned you with his sick hypothetical logic. You bump his shoulder and keep pushing the cart past all the leafy vegetables.

“As if you care,”

Kuroo dramatically slaps his hand over his chest. “I am wounded, muffin,” He leans over the cart to lay against your back, laughing as you try to shove him off. However, he was an athlete in high school and still kind of works out thanks to Bokuto being his roommate. You, who has never even looked at an exercise machine, are not as strong as him, and struggle to move him.

“You’re wounding me now!” You shove his bicep, earning a laugh from him. He only drapes his arms around your shoulders, relaxing his body against you further without actually hurting you.

A few other shoppers in the store look at you two. It’s mainly older women, and they simply smile at the two of you and shuffle past without saying anything.

How cute they are, they must think, so happy.

You finally manage to get Kuroo off of you and continue the shopping trip, now with a lot fewer distractions. You make Kuroo keep one hand on the cart as a precaution, reading off items he needs to grab. He doesn’t pout or complain, simply nodding along and going with what you say.

“I know this song,” You comment as you push the cart farther into an aisle. You strain your ears to hear the music faintly playing over the store’s speakers, a smile spreading on your lips as you recognize the tune you had listened to on repeat before. “It’s one of my favorites,”

“Really?” Kuroo carefully grabs a jar of jam and sets it in the car basket. You hum and nod. He smiles back and crosses his arms as he leans on the side of the cart, watching your face. “Why did you like it?”

You stop pushing the cart to check the list. “Why wouldn’t I? It was a great dancing song,” You shrug and cross off the items the both of you already set in the cart. A good chunk of the list had been cleared, and you smile at how much you’ve already completed of this trip. You turn off the phone and hold it out for the man, letting him take it back.

“Show me?” Kuroo asks, holding out his hand. You let out a small laugh. Dancing in the middle of a store aisle sounds like something from a romantic book or movie. Gently, you take his hand and step closer to him. The shopping was temporarily forgotten.

You start leading him in a simple dance, stumbling through the motions as you try to hear the music over the other noises of the store. Kuroo chuckles and follows your lead, holding both your hands and twisting around the small space. A laugh bubbles in your throat and he twirls you, his hand coming around your waist to pull you in again. “You’re quite skilled!” You say, squeezing his hand twice.

He squeezes back.

Again, you feel a funny warmth in your chest. This time, paired with a fluttering in your stomach. Kuroo’s smile never fades as he stares at you, continuing the silly made-up dance you both perform.

“You’re the one leading, I should say that about you,” Kuroo once again twirls you. You release one of his hands and extend your arm, twirling back in until your back hits his chest. You giggle. “See?” He comments, humming along to the song.

You both rock back and forth like that for a moment.

“Now you’re just being cheesy,” You tease, stepping away from the man. He shakes his head playfully, brushing off your words. You run your fingers through your hair, clearing your throat. “We should get back to the shopping,” You take the cart again. Kuroo is right behind you, already with a new item from the list in his hand. He sets it in the basket before placing his hand back on the handle.

You pat the back of his hand, relaxing your hand over his absentmindedly.

The shopping continues like normal, with occasional breaks for Kuroo to look at items or point out interesting things he sees. It’s quick work, and you find yourself at the checkout before you know it, packing your items into bags and carrying them to the car.

The strange stomach twisting doesn’t die down. Even when you unpack the bags with Kuroo, roping Kageyama and Bokuto into helping you both put all the groceries away, it sticks.

Strange.

previous | masterlist | next

funfacts:

Kuroo is in charge of the grocery shopping because he’s the only one who likes doing it

Kenma or Yamaguchi usually go shopping with Kuroo but he decided to torment you instead

taglist: @odxrilove @pogpixelz @toshiswifey @thechaosoflonging @anime-meme-sanctuary @chaseyui @lucyrocks86 @mirikusashes @bolinhodadestruicao @w0rm-babie @fandomsgotmefucked @meena-in-a-nutshell @halcyondaisy @emisse @cerealfrdinner797 @sakusasimpbot

[angelz-dust]

cheaters always win (jason todd x reader)

summary: uh... you fuck red hood. that’s it. happy kinktober.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni) - smut, unprotected sex (no condom, no pulling out),  clothed sex, masks, mild roleplaying. bad writing. terrible, actually. enjoy tho.

minors/ageless blogs who interact will be blocked - read rules before interacting

you laid in bed, comfortable underneath your soft blankets, head rested against a fluffy pillow. you had just taken a nice shower and took your time getting ready for bed. it was starting to get colder, the crisp october wind not being very forgiving, but you managed to maintain a decent temperature that goldilocks would approve of. this was a perfect recipe for slumber and you plan on indulging in that. it didn't take long for your tired state and environment to lull you to sleep.

unfortunately, though, nothing could ever be that perfect.

after getting about an hour and a half of sleep, you suddenly were brought out of dreamworld and back to reality. you wanted to close your eyes and continue your dream where you and your old friends from high school were international super spies, so you did just that. you let out a deep exhale, trying to find that sweet spot of unconsciousness again but something was tingling in your mind. you felt like something was off.

you kept your eyes firmly shut as you tried to feel for anything, the paranoia starting to settle in. was it the boogeyman coming to get you out in some inception like dream sequence or was someone in your apartment? you kept your breathing quiet as you tried to listen in for anything. you couldn't see it, as your eyes were still closed, but you could feel the that the door to your bedroom was now ajar. you were afraid to look, unsure of what you'd see.

you slowly opened your eyes, turning your head and sitting up to see someone sitting in the chair next to your dresser. they were illuminated by the moonlight shining in through the blinds of the window next to you. you let out a gasp, flinching and gripping your sheets and you felt your back press into the headboard. the person just stared at you while you panicked.

your eyes were blurry and filled with sleep. it took you a moment in your now petrified fear to realize that you knew who was sitting in the chair, unflinching at your scared noises.

"jesus fucking christ," you breathed out, pressing your hand on your chest as you felt your heart hammering back against it. "oh my god, you scared me."

silence. no response. not even a nonverbal one.

as you attempted to regulate your breathing, you stared at jason. well... not jason. you were staring at red hood. he must have just gotten back from patrol. sometimes he would stop by to spend the night with you. he must have broke in, as he always did, while you were asleep.

"goodnight, asshole," you pouted, laying back down in your little cocoon. you expected to hear a response or at least the sound of his boots hitting the floor while he shuffled around to get ready for bed. you didn't, though, which prompted you to open your heavy eyes once again.

"jason," you called out cutely, turning over to look at him. your pout returned after a yawn fell from your lips, glistening your eyes with sleepy tears. "hurry up and come to bed."

you weren't sure if there was something wrong with him or not. was he upset? hurt, maybe? these scary thoughts were starting to bring you out of your sleepy stupor. you sat up, deciding to try to throw some humor his way to get a reaction. you wanted to try and see where his head was at without having to ask specifically.

"excuse me, red hood?" you started, rubbing your eyes softly. "have you seen my boyfriend, jason?"

you watched as he shifted in his seat, his elbow propped up on the arm of the chair. he went and placed his chin in his palm, looking at you.

"i don't think i have," he responded, his voice distorted because of his voice modulator.

you smiled, glad that he was talking now. you hoped this meant that nothing was wrong. "he's very tall and solid. silky black hair, pretty green eyes, ruggedly handsome. very hard to miss."

red hood drummed his fingers on his lap with his free hand, pretending to think. "it's not ringing any bells."

"oh no," you sighed jokingly. "do you think something bad happened to him?"

"he's probably dead."

your face fell into a blank stare at his stupid joke. thank god you couldn't see his smug face under the helmet. was he giving you his signature smirk? were his eyes sparkling, overshadowing the sadness that always seemed to linger behind them or had their beauty been plagued by it, along with the rest of his handsome face? it was incredibly hard to tell. you hoped for the former.

"my boyfriend is too strong to die," you told him with a small smile. "i bet he could take you. he taught me everything he knows so... i bet i could take you, too."

"i seriously doubt that," you heard him retort, sitting up straight in the chair now. he viewed your claim as a challenge he was going to accept.

"then try and fight me, red hood," you said, sticking out your tongue at him.

you watched him stand up and walk towards you, not realizing how menacing he actually was. not seeing his face was unsettling enough but his stature made him even more intimidating. you knew he wouldn't hurt you so fear was replaced with confused arousal. it definitely was not the goal of the interaction, so you quickly pushed the thoughts away.

you stood up on the bed, wanting to have height advantage. he looked up at you for a moment before reaching out to start tickling you. laughter pearled out of your mouth as you were brought back down to your knees out of shock. “cheater!” you called out through your laughter.

you tried fending him off, pushing his hands away and weakly punching his chest and arms. it was obvious he was trying to possibly let you win. even in his state of not trying, you'd still lose.

the two of you went back and forth for awhile, taking jabs at each other while you laughed along the way. at one point, jason hooked his finger under the waistband of your panties, pulling it back as far as he could before letting it snap back against your skin. you let out a little yelp, promptly giving him a very careful punch to the crotch. it was a fake fight, after all. you didn't want to actually hurt him.

he instinctively flinched back, quickly breaking your guard by smacking your hands away and reaching out and pulling his sweater up over your head, just enough to cover your face while he softly jabbed at your soft skin. you sputtered as you tried to pull it back down but not before he used both of his hands to give your breasts a squeeze. he must have gotten bored with play fighting because as soon as you pulled his sweater back down, he quickly pinned you to the bed by your wrists. you stared up at him, eyes wide as he hovered over you.

"oh," you breathed out, blinking up at him. "o-oh! ouch!"

"what?"

"i think i've been injured," you said with a little smile as he loosened his grip on your wrists, letting you free. "do you think you could take a look at it? i mean, it's the least you can do considering it's you're fault."

you could feel him rolling his eyes and it only made your smile grow. you sat up and pressed your back into his firm chest. you could feel his steady breathing starting to sync up with yours.

"show me where it hurts," he told you and you took one of his hands, slowly guiding it up your stomach underneath his sweater. you stopped when the side of his thumb was pressed against the underside of your breast.

"it's somewhere over here. i'm not exactly sure where," you explained coyly as he began massaging your breast, looping his other arm around your waist as he started rubbing himself on your ass. you pushed back against him, letting out a mewl of satisfaction.

the two of you stayed like that for awhile, slowly but surely getting each other worked up. you hadn't expected him to be so receptive. you were just going to tease him a little in hopes of getting him to drop the red hood act so you could get some sleep. you assumed he'd want to finish what you started as jason but the fact that it appeared you'd be getting it on with red hood felt much sexier and a lot more fun.

"i'm not feeling any problems, sweetheart," his distorted voice rang in your ears as his movements stopped.

"oh, well, that's good," you said softly, placing your hand over his and pulling it away from your chest. "but i have another problem now."

"yeah?" he questioned as he watched you take his glove off, carefully stuffing it into his jacket pocket. "what's that?"

you silently led his hand down to your soaked panties and he let out a chuckle. "oh, i see. that is a problem."

"can you fix it?" you asked, letting out a moan as his fingers had already gone to work.

"i can certainly try."

while his fingers worked at rubbing you over your panties, his gloved hand made its way to the breast he had neglected earlier. you whined softly as you rubbed back against him while rutting against his fingers. eventually, your panties were so wet to the point where he might as well have been touching you directly, which prompted him to get them off of you. it took some maneuvering but he eventually got them off and he kindly tossed them into the hamper before continuing.

he teased you first, ghosting his fingers over your outer lips and slit before spreading you open. he repeated this motion a few times, making you whine in frustration. once he was satisfied he slipped his middle finger between your folds, softly rubbing you. you took matters into your hands and started rubbing yourself against his finger, desperately wanting more. the more you moved, the less pressure he applied.

"stop it," he finally said, his voice firm. you pouted, complying with his request and quickly being rewarded. he teased your clit right before gently dipping two fingers inside of you, making you moan out in surprise. he began pumping them in and out of you, bringing your juices back up to your swollen clit.

your back arched, surprised at how sensitive you were. it was a little embarrassing, actually. jason clearly didn't care, continuing to exploit your sensitivity and get more pretty moans to fall from your lips. not being able to sit still any longer. your hips began bucking again. jason let you move for a little while before removing his hand completely.

"i think i might be making your problem worse," he teased, palming himself over his pants. "and causing one for myself."

you heard the clanking of him fiddling with his belt buckle and you turned around to help. you quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, giving him the space he needed to pull out his hard cock through the opening. you dipped your fingers into your wetness, using it to help slick his cock, focusing on the head. you started stroking him with both hands, one firmly gripping the base while the other was teasing the head.

jason's moans encouraged you to move faster. he moved his fingers to your lips, making you taste yourself while you stroked him. you sucked on his fingers, closing your eyes as you moved both hands to the tip of his cock. he pulled his fingers away and you let them go with a pop, making him sigh deeply.

"i have to fuck you now. right now," he said seriously, stroking himself in front of you. "i hope your boyfriend doesn't mind."

"i'm sure he will," you said honestly, giving jason a lazy smile. you turned around on all fours, bending to with your chest pressed against the mattress and your ass in the air. you felt him lining himself up with your entrance and you braced yourself for the initial stretch. you gripped the sheets tightly as he pushed gently himself in. he slipped in easily, thanks to your seemingly infinite wetness.

you felt him press his fingertips on lower back, making you sink down so your hips were against the bed. that was when he tightly gripped them and began fucking you from behind. he rolled his hips into you, his movements slow and deep initially before he picked up the pace.

"you're so tight around me," he praised you, moving his hands to grip your ass.

each thrust was met with a moan from you. you were still very sensitive and it was starting to effect your entire body. jason's shameless fucking wasn't helping. he took a moment to remove his other glove, putting it in his pocket before dragging his hands up your sides, thumbs pressed into your back for better balance and access.

eventually he flipped you over, watching your now exposed breasts bounce while he rolled his hips into yours. you wrapped your legs around his waist, wanting to feel him deeper inside of you. he obliged, snapping his hips faster and pushing himself deeper.

"you like being fucked by me?" he asked between thrusts.

you nodded sloppily, gasping softly each time his hips slammed back into you. "y-yes. i love being fucked by you, red hood."

the room was filled with a symphony of your shared moans, along with other lewd noises. you weren't sure how much longer you would last with jason's nonstop thrusting. you felt your leg starting to cramp up and give out, the sensations of pain and pleasure starting to blend together to the point where it almost felt good.

"i'm getting close, baby," jason panted, finally slowing down. he rubbed circles into your hips, looking at your blissed out form below him. "so fucking close."

"please, keep going," you begged him, rolling your hips with his slow movements. "i'm almost there."

jason picked you up, taking you back to the chair. he sat down and wrapped his arms around your waist before harshly bucking his hips upward, hitting your sweet spot. you let out a loud string of moans and whines, using the arms of the chair as support as you tried to match jason's wild hip movements. you could feel your release coming, the pressure that had built up inside of you ready to dissipate.

"i'm gonna cum," you choked out, prompting jason to hit you with deep and deliberate thrusts, finally pushing you over the edge. you clenched tightly around him, feeling his cum spill inside of you while you both rode out your highs.

the both of you took a moment to catch your breath, bodies tingling in the afterglow. you felt like you were gonna pass out at any second, but not before you saw jason's face. you refused to lose consciousness before then. you reached out, hands caressing his helmet. you heard a click and sharp hiss, talking it off of jason's head.

"there he is," you said sleepily, setting the helmet on the dresser beside you. you carefully peeled off his domino mask next, tossing it next to the helmet. "my jason."

jason's cheeks were flushed and his sweaty hair was stuck to his forehead. his eyes were shining, just like you had hoped they would. he gave you a lopsided grin, leaning in to finally give you a soft kiss. "i can't believe you cheated on me with red hood."

“the real cheating was when you tickled me,” you laughed against his lips, stealing another kiss as you held his face in your hands. "can you blame me, though? he's really sexy."

"given the opportunity, i would fuck red hood, too," he admitted jokingly, peppering kisses on your cheeks and down your neck. "sorry for scaring you. i didn't mean to."

you looked at him with a worried expression, recalling the events that got you to this place to begin with. you pushed his hair back from his forehead, carding your fingers through his locks. "are you alright? did you have a rough night?"

jason sighed before nodding softly. "yeah, kinda. but i'm alright now."

"we can talk about it. only if you want to," you offered and he shook his head, giving you another kiss.

"tomorrow," he compromised, slowly standing up with you attached to him like a koala. "we need to get cleaned up and go to sleep."

"i had that handled until you came along," you teased him as he headed for the bathroom. "but alright. sounds good to me."

[writefightandflightclub]

Calm after the storm (dad!Nathan x fem!reader)

Summary: dad!Nathan / ex-husband!Nathan and angst. He comforts your son during a storm. You were always better at dishing out comfort, but Nathan is trying his best to learn how. He’s had to, since you left him. If only he could get you to come home, after he pushed you so far away.

Author’s note: my 1st go at writing something emotional / angsty with Nathan. Different to my other Nathan stuff, so won;t be offended if you don’t like it! No-one asked for this but this popped into my head and ended me and I figured I’d drag you down with me. Will add taglists tomorrow :o) (If you DO happen to like it, please let me know! Writing has been so slow for me lately and honestly I’m just pleased to have finished something.)

Warnings: language, themes of children, divorce / separation, angst, alcohol abuse / misuse, parent!reader.

Warning that there is zero smut in this. Nathan is literally a father when I say daddy here. Just to be clear. Some may feel this is ooc (I may have used a bit of license with his character to achieve angst, but actually, I don’t think it’s too far from a potential truth?)? Mistakes etc. maybe, but I can’t look at this a second longer so here it is.

Word count: 8.8k (sorry!)

Nathan’s head whips up from his computer screen as he sees a tiny, shadowed figure appear in the doorway to his lab. He pauses his frenzied typing, but retains the frown weighing on his brow.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, buddy,” he says sternly, bathed in a pool of blue light and looking at the child from beneath his lenses. Hell, when did it get so dark?

“I’m scared,” a tearful little voice says, and Nathan sighs, pushing back his chair with a small, thin-lipped smile as he regards the boy. His soft, dinosaur-adorned pyjamas have been twisted by sleep, and he is rubbing his balled-up fists into his cheeks, a pet lip trembling beneath. Nathan never did understand the kid’s obsession with dinosaurs.

Unlike father, unlike son.

Things long dead and gone? Nathan didn’t like to look back, after all. He looked ahead. Moved forward. There’s nothing for me over my shoulder.

With his headspace out of his work, Nathan suddenly notices the rain drumming down against the skylight. The rumble of thunder and flash of lightning carving the sky open.

“The storm?” he asks, rising to meet the boy as his little feet pad with trepidation across the cold lab floor to his father. The boy nods. He looks slightly uncertain, since he’s not allowed in the lab, but enters and sticks his arms up into the air all the same. He does that tentatively too, since Nathan hasn’t historically been generous with affection; and yet, this time, Nathan wordlessly scoops him up on to his hip, his heart clenching as the boy’s wet, grabby little hands fist into his Henley. His severe gaze softens instantly; though not all the way. The gesture is still a little rusty.

“That’s illogical, bud - it’s not gonna hurt you. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Irrational. Emotional. Unlike father, unlike son.

You were always better at the comfort stuff. Of course you were. Still, Nathan thinks he’s learning, without you. He’s had to learn. 

Nathan quietly carries the little spider-monkeyed bundle back to his bed. He offers no words of comfort, but he does offer a firm and reassuring pat on his back as he walks. The boy smells of bath bubbles and baby oil, mixed-in with fresh detergent and that indescribable kid smell, and Nathan feels alarmingly soothed as he inhales the scent.

A flood of memories comes back, but he pushes them down. There is nothing for him over his shoulder, after all. Nothing in the past he would care to resurrect.

Carefully balancing the boy with one strong arm, Nathan peels back the covers and slots him back into his soft bed, the glow of the nightlight illuminating the boy in a blue halo.

Like father, like son.

The man securely tucks him in and smooths the covers, his eyes alarmingly gentle now, even amidst his stony face; however, the boy is still not entirely placated. His eyes are still wide. His bottom lip is still trembling.

Nathan sighs and lowers himself on to the edge of the bed, his genius brain struggling with this problem. Apparently, simply telling a 4-year-old they’re being illogical doesn’t cut it. Children; so inefficient. So tiny and fragile and…

The best thing I ever created.

Let’s hope he doesn’t grow up to stab me in the chest.

“Okay,” he begins, with a sweep of his hand over that buzzed head of his. “Do you know what static electricity is, buddy? One of the forces which attracts or repels things? Remember?”

“Repels. Pushes things away?” the small voice asks him.

I pushed her away. I’m a force. A force of nature. A storm.

Fear is often based on lack of knowledge. Nathan imagines if he explains the storm, he can demystify it. Take its power away. Still, the 4-year-old looks up at him in confusion, little fingers tightly gripping the edge of the bed covers. His mess of curls splaying over the pillow like a rolling black cloud.

Maybe you did get your mother’s average brain.

We can hope you got fuck all from me, kid.

“Come on, champ, we talked about this...” Nathan sighs, with mild impatience, and then he thinks some more – just like he’s always thinking, except algorithms make sense to him, and how could he hope to solve this?

Nathan shuffles up on to the bed until his back is against the wall, perpendicular to the boy. “Okay,” he says, slapping his palms gently against his thighs. “Remember when we were at Ankita’s party, and you rubbed that balloon on your head, huh? And then all of your hairs stood-up and it kinda tickled?”

The child giggles – a sound that punches Nathan in the gut. “Yeah, Daddy, and it didn’t work on your bald head.”

Nathan exhales through a small smile which doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“So, you remember,” he nods, waving his hand in the air as he tries to find simple language to continue his explanation. “Well. It’s like the sky is having a party, and the clouds are rubbin’ up against each other, making all this static. Understand?” Nathan continues, and the child is rapt, listening to his father’s deep, steady, sandy voice. “But clouds don’t have hair-“ there is another giggle, and this time Nathan’s eyes do crease with his smile, “-so instead they send their lightning forking out in all directions. You got it?”

“A party?” the boy enquires, still unsure. His hands gripping more tightly to the covers and his face inching further below them as a particularly loud rumble of thunder sounds overhead.  

“Right. A party.” Nathan runs with it, pleased that he’s getting somewhere. Moving forward. Making progress. “And parties can be noisy, right? All that dancing and singing and scraping chairs around?”

The kid briefly looks at his father as if he’s stupid -a trait you’d always had nailed- but in the next heartbeat he seems to accept the explanation given, the fear in his eyes beginning to ease, though not entirely gone.

He’s still afraid.

Like father, like son.

It’s evident that Nathan needs to devise something even more soothing. He vaguely considers trying to explain the unparalleled lightning and surge protection in-built into this facility, but he thinks better of it. He instead plumps for something he dearly hopes the kid will understand somewhat better than he comprehends static electricity. “You’re safe here and nothing can hurt you,” he says, raising his eyebrows up from beneath his frames and delivering an intent stare, smoothing a broad hand on the boy’s chest and shoulder. “I promise, kid. Would Daddy let anything hurt you?”

“No,” the boy answers, peeking up at Nathan with big eyes, shaking his little head and rustling his curls against the pillow. It breaks Nathan’s heart that his voice wavers, as if he’s a little unsure of his answer.

“Exactly. Not in a million fuckin’ years.” Nathan says adamantly, his deep, dark eyes intense with conviction to emphasise his point.

“Daddy!” The boy gasps when Nathan curses, little palms rising to clamp down over the shocked “o” of his mouth.

“Ah, shit. Don’t tell your Mama I said a naughty word, okay?” Nathan sucks air through his teeth and delivers a sheepish half-grin.

“I miss Mommy.”

The boy blinks. His eyes sad, his emotions constantly unmasked. Feeling. Always feeling.

Unlike father, unlike son.

Nathan’s chest tightens. He scoops up the plush dog, Crunchy, from on top of the duvet and settles her in the boy’s arms, buying him some time to arrange his busy thoughts.

Thinking. Always thinking.

The dog is so named since it spent the boy’s early years crusted with dried-in food and mud and whatever else. Nathan had dubbed it Crunchy Mutt, and the name had stuck. Memories nip at his heels, but he doesn’t let you creep back in. Doesn’t fill the gaps.

Nathan emits a shallow sigh. He misses you too.

Like father, like son.

His eyes are almost soft, almost apologetic as they meet the boy’s again. He is sorry, in that moment, for depriving the boy of you for half of his time. He shouldn’t have to miss out on you. You shouldn’t have to miss out on your son. Nathan knew all this was because of him.

Nathan had sworn never to let anything hurt you, either. To look after you, and yet...

I pushed her away.

I’m a force. A force of nature.

A storm.

“Mommy’ll be here to get you in the morning.” Nathan says in a taut, gruff voice, his beard bobbing as his throat wrestles around a hard swallow. “To take you… home.” At that, finally the boy finally looks content and sleepy, stretching his little face into a big yawn. Still, selfishly, Nathan no longer wants to be alone in this storm - alone with himself - and so, he keeps talking. “You know, your Mommy loves storms like this.”

“Really? Mommy doesn’t get scared?”

“No.” Nathan shakes his head, eyes becoming burdened with memories. “We would sit out on the deck, wrapped in blankets, and watch the lightning. Listen to the rain.”

“It’s science 101, genius. You can’t work in the lab during a storm. You might create Frankenstein.”

“Fuckin’… how many times? It’s Frankenstein’s monster, sweet cheeks. Frankenstein is the doctor.”

“I know, asshole. At this point I just say it to rile you. Never fails. You stay here then, and play at creating life. If you want to play at living one, I’ll be out on the decking.”

“How about I do both?”

“What are you saying, Nathan?”

“What about we make something together, while the sky is fucking rife with creation?”

The boy springs up in bed, capturing Crunchy in a choke-hold in excitement.

Nathan raises himself to standing - beginning to backtrack, and snapping back to the present day. Compartmentalising you. Putting long dead things to rest. He knows better than to look over his shoulder for too long.

“Can we go outside and watch it, Daddy?”

“Nuh uh. I don’t think so, buddy. It’s way past your bedtime. Go to sleep now, okay?” His voice is sterner again - his gaze back to being more severe.

Still, he guides the boy back down to the mattress and plants a soft kiss on to his forehead, brushing his dark curls back. He kisses Crunchy on the head too, as he is routinely instructed to do.

“Night, kid. Night, mutt. Come on, off to sleep.”

His hands move to his hips, elbows cutting a sharp shape in the near-dark. The boy, however, looks wide awake, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and an excited glow on his face.  

“Please, Daddy?” the boy pleads, with big, puppy dog eyes. So closely resembling your eyes, which Nathan always was a sucker for. 

Yep. He’s definitely your son.

Nathan is about to use his stern voice, and his finger is moments away from wagging. And yet…

“Fine. Quickly then,” he concedes. “Get your coat and shoes on. And find your little red hat with the Pom-Pom that you look fuckin’ adorable in.”

“Daddy! No bad words!” the kid scolds, even as a smile of glee bursts on to his face and he wriggles out from beneath the covers. 

“Yep, sorry! Don’t tell Mommy,” Nathan repeats on autopilot.

The boy springs out of bed and zooms with enthusiasm to his little closet, while Nathan gathers up some blankets from a neighbouring chest.

Sure - it was past the boy’s bedtime. Yes, Nathan had a lot of coding to rehash. But Nathan had lost you. He had let work consume him until there was nothing left for you. He was always looking ahead to what could be, and he didn’t pay enough attention to what he had, when he had it. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again. Not with his son. This time, at least, work could wait.

Once the pair are both dressed in their outerwear, Nathan hoists the boy up on to his hip again, and carries him out to the decking, on the side of the house with the best view of the storm churning over the miserable valley. He clings on to his son tightly as the pulse of lightning illuminates his awed little face, a perfect mixture of your features and his, and yet someone entirely his own.  The boy gasps and shrinks back from the vast, roaring sky, nuzzling closer into Nathan’s chest, grabby hands fisting in his clothes again.

“It’s okay, buddy. It can’t hurt you, understand?” Nathan reassures.

The child visibly relaxes, absentmindedly tangling his fingers into the soft texture of Nathan’s beard.

He does that when he’s nervous. Seems to calm him down, Nathan notes, and files for later.

“Look, Daddy!” the kid points as forks of lightning raze through the blackened sky, sparkling eyes following the display.

“I saw it, champ,” Nathan confirms, as the storm lights up his child’s face in more ways than one. However, Nathan is more awed by his boy than the storm. By the boy you and he created, on a night not unlike this one.

He fixes his eyes on him as he grows in confidence, facing his fear of the braying wind and rumbling thunder. Being a parent is everything Nathan anticipated he would hate. Full of things you can’t control, and yet, he loves every way this boy surprises him.

Shit, he’s braver than me, Nathan thinks, as he cradles the boy in his arms, holding him just a little bit closer – a little bit tighter.  

Nathan isn’t afraid often. In fact, in his adult life, he’s only been truly afraid a handful of times. On those occasions, he didn’t face it like the boy did. He tended to bury his fear, in a landslide of work and drunkenness and insults and excuses. To cocoon himself in his own self-interest.

Nathan was afraid when he fell in love with you, even despite his best efforts not to. He was terrified he didn’t deserve you. 

He was afraid when you told him you were pregnant; he was terrified of creating another thing that hated him.

But Nathan has never been as afraid as when you left him, and took the boy with you. He was terrified that you would never come back.

You were brave. You were so brave that you never ran away from a storm, and yet you had fled from him.

What kind of storm am I, if even you ran from me?

Despite his fears though, Nathan was learning to be brave. He’s had to, since you’ve been gone. For his son, for you, he would fight off any foe or threat. Turns out, he would even do the hardest thing of all, and fight his own demons.

Yes, Nathan knew he was a stern man. Serious. Flawed. Unyielding. An asshole, a lot of the time.

He hadn’t been ready. To be humbled. By you. By the boy. Hadn’t been ready to face his shortcomings and his demons and look them in the eye.

He was afraid of creating something that hated him, but he hadn’t been prepared to create something better than himself. A child who was open, and kind, and brave, and loving. Who wasn’t afraid to feel, and to be kind.

Unlike father, unlike son.

The boy made him strong. The boy was just like you.

“Wow!” the boy gasps at another display of lightning, even though he jumps slightly as a loud rumble of thunder sounds. The shock makes him laugh - a sweet, musical, innocent noise that makes Nathan’s chest tear in half like the sky. The boy watches for a while longer as the storm tires itself out and the boy with it, the rain dying off to a pleasant lulling noise.

Nathan looks up at the sky too and he feels almost complete, until he looks to the other side of him; where you should be. Until he looks over his shoulder. To where long-dead things still haunt him.

“Mommy will be sad she’s missing the storm, won’t she Daddy? Can we send her a selfie?”

No tech after 5pm. Bed by 7pm. One of the co-parenting rules rings in his head.

It’s 2:30am, and he worries you will ride him for this, but surely this is an exception, right?

“Sure we can, bud,” Nathan responds, and he fishes his phone out of his pants pocket. The boy nuzzles into his chest in that adorable red hat, and gives a thumbs-up as Nathan extends his arm to grab a quick selfie. “Great photo. She’ll love it. What shall we tell her?”

“Hmm...” the boy thinks, and then he lands on the perfect words. “Say… I wish you were here,” he says with a toothy grin, unaware of the emotional sucker punch of his words.

Nathan’s chest tightens again, and he attempts to school the frown from his face.

I wish you were here.

Like father, like son.

Smoothing himself, he types out a message.

“Storm watching with Papa bear. Kid says: I wish you were here.”

“Ok,” he says softly, pinging the message away to you. “Done.”

The boy beams at his father.

“Will she type back?”

“Dunno, kid, she might be asleep.”

Tiredness hitting him, the boy nuzzles closer and Nathan gently rocks him on his hip, the boy’s eyes gradually closing.

When Nathan feels his phone vibrate, he lifts it back up, bathing the pair in a halo of blue once again. He is surprised to see a photo. There you are, wrapped up in a chunky cardigan and blanket on your new porch.

You’re watching the storm too, and god, you look so beautiful that it hurts him.

Beneath the picture, you have typed out: “Storm-watching, Mama bear edition. Wish I was there too, baby bear. I’ll see you in the morning. xxx”

He knows the smile and the wave and the words are solely for your son’s benefit, and not for him, but oh, how he wishes.

“Mommy’s watching the storm too!” the boy says sleepily, barely able to keep his eyes open in the comfort of Nathan’s warm, strong arms, as his soporific movements rock him back to sleep.

“Yeah, bud, she is.”

And Nathan tugs the boy into his chest, bouncing him on his hip and stroking his hair -as much for his own comfort as anything- until he is soothed too.

***

After the boy is safely back in bed, Nathan plods sullenly back down to his workshop, bathing himself once again in a blue halo. His fingers gravitate naturally towards the keys, and though he should work, his mind is very much elsewhere. His mind is wrapped up with long-dead things.

With a heavy sigh, he fishes his phone out of his pocket again, and spends a wistful moment staring at the picture you had sent him.

“Fuck it,” he says, and he lifts up the photo frame he’s had face down on his desk for some time now. For months.

Longer.

It’s a picture of you and him and the boy, out on a hike a few years ago. Nathan is carrying your son in a harness on his front, and you are side by side with them, clasping the baby’s hand in yours, and your head leaning on Nathan’s shoulders. You’re all smiling, though none of you had managed to look at the camera, only at each other.

The sight of it makes Nathan’s throat constrict. Lights a fire of yearning in the pit of him. A fire he’s tried to quell and resist for so long – hasn’t let himself feel, because he’s afraid of the power of it.

He stares at his phone again, so many things he wishes to say, but all he has the courage to type is:

“Just letting you know. Byron’s back to bed now, before you ride me for keeping him up. Woke up scared.”

Your reply pings back almost immediately, as if you were expecting him.

“Come on, Nathan. I’m not a monster. It’s a sweet picture. He looks happy.”

Nathan scratches the top of his buzzed head, and he sees the tell-tale dots disappear and reappear, signalling you are considering typing something further.

“Say it,” he types out to you, blunt and demanding as ever, and although the dots disappear for a moment, you come back - finding some courage yourself, perhaps?

“I wish I was there too.” He wonders if you held your breath while typing it, like he did when reading it.

This time, it is Nathan’s turn to convey nothing but dots to you, as he struggles to respond.  As his pulse thrums in his ears.

“Say it,” you echo, just as plainly. 

He takes a deep breath, knowing he’s going to curse himself for his stupidity even as he types the message. He has been earning your trust back. He has been rebuilding. He hasn’t pushed you too far yet, and yet he can’t help but plead with you now.

He says what he most needs to say.

“Come home.”

He stares at the phone, his heart hammering in his mouth.

But there’s nothing. No message. No dots. He throws the phone down on the desk.

Fucking idiot, he chides himself, launching himself out of his seat with a surge of nervous energy, and coming to rest his forehead and elbow against the cool window pane as he tries to steady his nerves. This is why he doesn’t let himself feel. Because when he does, it’s too much.

Nathan’s best quality is also his worst. He isn’t a man of moderation. He doesn’t know how to stop. When to stop. He never has. 

Doesn’t know when to stop working, drinking, striving, fighting.

Loving.

He loved you enough to split the sky open, and god damnit, he doesn’t know how to stop loving you. How can he solve this problem?

I pushed her away and she might never come back.

He feels a tightening in his chest - worse than before - and he has thoughts of reaching for a bottle until he’s blackout drunk, or hitting the punchbag until his knuckles bleed, but he bites those urges back down.

He has to. He has to, because his kid is in the house. For him. For you. For his own good too.

Gradually, Nathan -who once naively believed he had already attained perfection, superiority- has become a lot stronger, and a lot braver. A lot better at feeling his emotions instead of pushing them down. He has learned it from the boy, who learned it from you.

Still, despite this newfound courage -or, perhaps as a result of it- he has his moments of weakness, just like anybody else. He’s not untouchable. Not a god any longer.

Nathan is weak when it comes to you. He loves you. And he doesn’t know how to stop.

Overcome by the impulsive need to hear your voice, and ignoring all reason, he tracks back to the desk and calls you.

You answer almost instantly, as if you were expecting him.

“Nathan...” you say, in your eminently familiar voice, and he can he the agitation and accusation veiled as you say his name. What are you thinking? Always thinking. He’s always thinking. Yet, no- this time, he is only feeling. Finally feeling.

Still, Nathan doesn’t respond until a taut pattern of breaths has been laid like a tightrope for him to walk across.

Then, with a deep exhale, he asks you again. A plea. His face sharp and contorted in the blue light. He is terrified of falling.

“Come home.”

“Nathan...” you say, again. What are you thinking? And the sound of his name in your mouth causes a lump to rise in his throat. He hears your discombobulated breath on the other side of the line, and it is all too familiar. You were always charged, rubbing up against one another, causing static. He was always a storm; the one storm that could drive you away.

Come home.

“I wouldn’t even know how,” you insist, your voice paper thin, syllables soft and measured and sorry like raindrops drumming against a window pane.

You were always his release. If he was the energy and commotion and anger behind the storm -the severe, withholding clouds- you were its beauty and majesty and release. Together, you created life, and you destroyed each other.

Nathan hunkers over on the desk, leaning his head in his spare arm for some morsel of comfort, his guard up over his face.

“Just walk through the door tomorrow and stay,” he says tiredly, as if it’s simple.

He hears you sigh again, exasperatedly - the sound he induced all too often, when you were together.

“It didn’t work Nathan,” you say through your teeth, like lightning might spark through them at any moment. “How would this be any different?” Still, he can hear the tell-tale break in your voice. A gentle plea. God, could you really want to come back to him? If he could find the right answers to your questions?

“I’ll be different,” he promises, all the muscles in his face pulled taut. His face and his body aching with the tension of the sky splitting open, creation or destruction imminent.

Fuck it. Fuck everything else. Enough of this. The measured conversations, the co-parenting, the negotiations. You are what he wants - his family back together; home.

True- love hadn’t come easily to him at first. He was an asshole, a misanthrope, a closed book. Sex came easily to him. Desire. Infatuation. Thoughts of you, bordering on obsession as they took over his busy mind. But love? That too came, in the end. But love as a verb- the act of loving?

Nathan had sworn he didn’t want love at all, but then, there was you. He has sworn he had no desire for the legacy of a child, and yet, then there was the boy. For all his arrogance and grandiose dreams of the ways in which the whole world might remember him, he was finally ready to admit that all he wanted was to be remembered by you as a good husband, and by the boy as a good father.

He had never wanted to create another thing that hated him.

It didn’t come naturally to him at first. He was withholding, stubborn, rigid, and self-involved. Still, when he was motivated, there were other, finer qualities Nathan possessed too. Dedication, focus, discipline. When he was motivated, he possessed those in abundance. Turns out, love is one hell of a motivator.

Turns out, sometimes it is still not enough.

“I’m doing better,” he offers as he is met with silence, clenching his fist in discomfort as he hears you sniffing intermittently through the phone.

“I know,” you enthuse, your voice almost sickly with sincerity. “I know. I’m proud of you, Nathan.”

But Nathan doesn’t want your platitudes.

“Baby, please. I love you,” he pleads, and even in his plea his voice is stern. He refuses to let it crack. He states his truth as a cold, hard fact. He loves you. It’s undeniable. It’s logical, that you should be together.

“You know…. You know that I love you too.” you say, your voice small and full of holes. A sigh billowing out of you. “Shit, Nathan…” You sniff on the other end of the line with greater frequency – definitely crying. Nathan knits his brows together, his eyes brimming with tears that he fights back.

He thinks of all the times you cried and he didn’t reach out to you. He would give anything now to wipe your tears away.

“Come home, then,” he pleads, bluntly, swirling with hurt like silt stirred up by the rains. It hurts. It hurts to feel things. “Fuck, why are you so fucking stubborn?”

You huff out air as he snaps and instantly, he knows he’s fucked it. He wishes he could retract the words but it’s too late. They’ve already become breath. Already thunder, splitting his sky in two all over again.

He throws himself back in his chair in defeat, his hand rasping over his buzzed head in some unconscious attempt to comfort himself. “Shit, look, I just-”

When your voice interrupts him, it is perfectly smoothed out. Cold. Withholding.

So that’s how it feels.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nathan.”

There is a beat, and you soften. You always soften. “I’ll come get him later so you can have some extra time, okay?”

Nathan sighs loudly, catching a glance of his calendar on the illuminated screen.

“Fuck. I have a meeting at 11am- I thought you would collect him early so I booked a board thing-” he says tiredly.

“Fine,” you bite off.

“No. Wait, I’ll rearrange,” he backtracks. “Let me have more time,” he reasons, his voice softening. He tips up the photo frame – that blessed and cursed item- and brings it to rest on his thigh, torturing himself with your smiling face. “Please. I need more time.”

You are silent for a moment, and this time when your voice comes back, it is level, but infused with intentional warmth. He hates that tone. That tone where he knows you are placating him rather than speaking your mind, just so he doesn’t do anything stupid. He hates that it must feel like you have a guillotine hanging over your head at all times, because you feel like you can’t push him over the edge.  

“Fine. Get some sleep, Nathan, okay?”

He huffs out air, a sharp, self-pitying guffaw, and he rubs his eyes underneath his glasses, the frames lifting from the bridge of his nose. “Right. I can’t even fuckin’ sleep without you.”

There is another pattern of breaths, and whatever tightrope Nathan might have tried to walk across to reach you snaps. “Don’t do that, don’t guilt me, Nathan.”

The worst thing is, you don’t even sound angry. You just sound… tired.

“I’m sorry,” he pushes out, muffled through a hand over his beard, and though this time he means it, the words come out sounding entirely insincere.

“Sure. ‘Night. Try and get some rest, okay?”

Now that -that sounded genuine. Sincere. You never stopped looking out for him. Even if you couldn’t stand to be around him any longer.

“Yep,” he says tautly, with little feeling, and he hangs up, tightening his grip on the photo frame in his lap before slamming it back down on the desk along with his phone.

He leans back in his chair for a moment and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

I pushed her away. I did that. I pushed her away.

With a knot building in his chest, partly out of need and partly out of habit, Nathan drags opens the desk drawer where an ever-replenishing stash of vodka used to reside. Where instead, he has taped a picture drawn by his son. For moments like this.  

It helps, but it’s not always enough.

Nathan knits his brows together, his face set with a stony resolve, and his dark, turbulent eyes awash with a storm of emotion.

The boy. He’s braver than me.

Somehow, because he has to, perhaps- because he’s had to learn how, Nathan smooths himself. He cannot solve the problem of how to bring you home, when this simply isn’t home to you anymore. So, instead, he bathes himself in blue light. He basks in the glow of algorithms he can solve, and works and works his mind until it shuts off. Feeling to thinking to nothing.

I’m a force. A force of nature. A storm.

He can do anything he sets his mind to.

And… fuck. I pushed her away.

Anything, perhaps, except bring you back.

***

The next day, you arrive to collect your son.

It is familiar by now. It is an encounter that Nathan both longs for and dreads, in equal measure. Today, especially so; especially both.   

Byron runs down the hallway and leaps into your arms, the sound of your laughter scooping Nathan out from the inside as you pepper the boy with kisses, a toothy smile on his angel face.

In these encounters, the moments are always too fleeting; always slipping away too quickly. It seems to happen so fast that it’s a blur to him, his mind zoning-out and working through a million things he wants to tell you, and simultaneously hyper-focussed on every single aspect of you he’s missed desperately. He wracks his brain for the right things to do and say, as if desperately searching for the one remnant of code- the one function or command that will simply make you stay.

With effort, he tunes back in to the scene as the boy wraps his arms around his leg.

“Did you pack Crunchy?” you ask Nathan, as he hands over the kid’s weekend bag to your waiting, outstretched arm.

His mouth opens to respond, but you are already unzipping it and rooting through the bag, checking in amongst the clothes and tiny boxing gloves and dolls for the dear mutt. You find him nestled in there safely, and you smile softly at Nathan for remembering.

You shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. He remembers things – he remembers everything. It’s forgetting he typically needs a little more assistance with. Maybe he does look over his shoulder more than he’d care to admit.   

You ruffle the boy’s crow black curls as he clings to his father’s leg, snapping your hand back as if you’ve been burned when Nathan opts for the same gesture in the same moment.

You opt to fold your arms against your chest instead, casually clearing your throat. “What did you do with Daddy then, baby? Have you had a good time?”  

“We watched the storm,” the boy begins animatedly, swinging around Nathan’s sturdy leg, “and we did boxing and I learned a new combo,” the boy looks up at his father who nods and smiles gently in proud confirmation, hoisting the kid up on to his hip – a gesture that is becoming increasingly less rusty- “and we did a new trail to the glacier, and, um, what else Daddy?” Byron asks, waving his up-turned palms in the air and turning to his father for guidance. Nathan dips forward to whisper a prompt in his ear. “Oh yeah! And we watched Trolls and I put lots of my dolly’s bows in daddy’s beard,” the boys giggles, and scrunches his fingers through Nathan’s wiry hairs.

The kid’s smile is infectious, even fracturing Nathan’s stony resolve, and it has the three of you joined in a smile for a moment, until Nathan sees your eyes mist subtly over with tears as you observe the father and son together. You quickly quell them, but they don’t go unnoticed.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, voice expertly smoothed, and a masking smile on your face. The strength of you. “Did he look pretty?”

“Yeah, I guess he looked pretty,” the boy giggles. “And this morning Daddy taught me about static electric.... um-” the boys stumbles over his words for a second, and again looks to Nathan for guidance.

“You got it -go ahead,” Nathan encourages firmly.

The boy gains confidence, brushing his black curls out of his face with a little hand before continuing. “Static electricity, right?”

“Right, champ,” Nathan says, and as the boy barrels happily through his recital of events, Nathan barely realises that he’s holding him a little tighter, because with each moment that passes, so fleetingly, he feels it’s getting increasingly harder to think about letting him go.

“And Mommy, did you know this whole valley was made by a glacier that crawled all the way along and carved out all the shapes of the hills and then melted, like, a super long time ago?”

“You know, I did know that, but that’s smart of you to know too, baby,” you say fondly, a tremble at the corner of your lips that the kid doesn’t see, but Nathan is sharp enough to catch.

And then, suddenly, Nathan has no trouble contemplating passing the boy over into your arms, because you look like you need someone to hold too. However, as he motions to do so, Nathan can see tears threatening to spill out of the corner of your eyes. You shake your head subtly at Nathan in apology as you brush away a stray tear, in a moment you hope the boy won’t see, so, instead, Nathan sets your son down on the ground. He crouches and pulls the boy’s shoulders squarely to face him, providing you with a discreet moment to compose yourself.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly. “I remembered I need to talk to your Mommy about boring grown-up stuff. Gas prices and 401ks and… major yawn. So, hot tip, you might wanna go and play in your room for 5. That okay, champ?”

“Okay,” the kid says, unphased, and skips off down the hall.  

That leaves Nathan and you in the hallway. He hover-hands his palm against your lower back and gestures, with his other arm, towards the living space, guiding you towards the seating area.

You sit on opposite sofas, positions stiff and formal, hands clasped on laps. Your gaze looking just past Nathan because you can’t seem to meet his eyes.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks gently, feeling a lump grow in his throat. He hates this- how tense it is, when you used to be so intimate and relaxed around each other. “Why are you crying?”

Unlike Nathan, you were usually an open book, yet this time, you decline the invitation to share. You pinch your lips in between your teeth.

You’re so strong, and so brave that it breaks Nathan to see you succumb to tears like this. Plus, you’ve given so much already- so much love, and so much heart, and he hasn’t given you nearly enough back.

Still, he looks at you from beneath his lenses, gently encouraging, waiting until you are ready to share. Your gaze fixes on a spot in your lap. “I… It’s just. Seeing you and Byron together. Why in the hell couldn’t you have been this man while we were together, Nathan?”

Nathan’s heart aches at your words. Years ago, even months ago, he would have bristled. He would have snapped back at the insinuation that he was ever in the wrong. Ever less than godly.

This time though, he lets the sad truth settle over him like a dark cloud. And, as much as he wants to pull you towards him, he also- and he can’t believe he’s going to do this- he realises he needs to push you away from him one more time. There is only one way to solve this. To let you go. To realise it’s your choice. You are out of his control. Unsolvable.

He shifts his position, until he is perched on the coffee table in front of you, his palms resting on your knees and smoothing circles there. His dark, calculating eyes intent on yours, and for once unobscured by agendas. For once, he has things to say to you that aren’t intended to provoke a particular response, or establish a particular gain. He has things to say that he simply needs you to hear.

He needs to show you his fear. He needs to face the storm he was never too afraid to create, but was always quick to flee the wake of. Nathan imagines if he explains the storm, he can demystify it. Take its power away. Then, even if you don’t come home, at least there can be calm. Calm after the storm. Both of you able to move on, with all the cards laid out on the table.

With effort, he begins.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan says gently, and even with those two words a gentle sob wracks your chest, perhaps with the relief of a weight you didn’t know you were carrying. “Honestly, I don’t think I told you that and meant it yet. So, I’m sorry.  About last night, by the way. But, shit, about everything that I did, and didn’t do…” Your hands come to clasp his in your lap, fingers gripping fingers tightly as his face contorts with regret. His dark eyes wander over your face as tears stream freely down your cheeks. Where once he would have shied away from you, in a state like this, now he has courage enough to be present.

“I missed you,” he continues, his voice tattered by emotion. “I miss you. I didn’t want to tell you that. Didn’t want to admit that I’m scared either. But I am. Of losing you.  Scared that the best thing for us… the best thing for you, might be being without me. To get out of the black hole I suck everything in to.” Nathan tears his eyes away from yours as his vision becomes blurry with tears, his voice cracking. “I’m scared because I love you, and I love that fucking kid and I... I’m scared that I might get better, and be better… but that you, and him… that you still might deserve better. Better than me. So, I’m sorry. Actually fuckin’ sorry, for all the ways I’ve been a dick. Shut you out. Put you last. Made you hurt.”

“Nathan,” you breathe through tears, as if you can’t fathom this onslaught- this emotion tearing your chest in two, like the sky on that night.  

He reaches up to fumble some tears away from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I need you to know that I finally see it, even if it is too late,” Nathan nods to himself, eyes fixed down at your hands clasped in his. “I see that if had to lose you to realise what I had; I never did deserve you. You’re so… fuckin’ unreal. And he’s just like you. And,” Nathan presses on, despite the mortifying ordeal of baring his heart to you. Despite the tears which finally spike out of the corners of his eyes too. “I need you to know. Even if it didn’t last forever… This fuckin’ family? It will always be the best thing I ever created. And if there’s one thing I want to be remembered for- any fuckin’ legacy I wanna have, I just… I need it to be known that I love you, and I love that fuckin’ kid. I want you to be happy, and I’ll always regret that I didn’t make you happy while I had the chance to.” He huffs out another small, self-pitying laugh “Guess in the end, I’m an idiot; not a genius. Guess I should have realised that when I got stabbed by my own AI…”

He drags his big brown eyes back up to meet yours from beneath his lenses, and your eyes are shining softly at him, brimming with bittersweet pain, and you tug him into you for a hug, holding him close and your tears wetting each other’s shoulder.

After a moment he pulls away and settles himself back on the edge of the coffee table, already missing your embrace.

“You did. You made me happy, Nathan,” you promise. “So, so happy, and so, so miserable,” you let out a small, self-pitying laugh too, and then suddenly you are both laughing, as bizarre at that seems, as you palm the tears away from your puffed cheeks.

When the laughter fades, you reach out and place your palm fondly on the side of his face. Nathan knew that even in all his years of marriage, he had never been so vulnerable with you as he had been just now. He knew that had been precisely part of the problem. He had thought it would feel horrible to open up, but he finds that he feels fresh, like ground after nourishing rain.

Your gaze flicks back to him, and he swears he can read the look in your eyes.

Why couldn’t I have been this man when we were together?

Then, it is as if you remember you are touching him. You snap your hand back from him, and back from the brink as if you have been burned. It would be so easy, Nathan thinks. So easy to just fall back into you. As if wrestling with the exact same thought, you surge up from your seat, wiping the remainder of your tears away and immediately putting some distance between the two of you. You track to the nearby mirror, leaning forward to fix your appearance a little, before the boy returns.

Nathan watches you fondly. Longingly.

You turn back to him again, a little more composed, and retake your seat opposite him – in the same spot, but feeling much further away this time.

You bite your lips between your teeth, gazing at that same spot on your lap again.

He wishes he could reach out to you. Take in the textures and scents and feel of you in all your glory. But he does not want you to jump away as if you’ve been struck by lightning.

“I miss you too, you know? I miss our family. When it was good it was…” your voice is small and you trail off, perhaps not wanting to look too far over your shoulder. With a visible effort, you seem to drag yourself back to the present. “Byron adores you, you know that? I don’t think I’ve told you this since we… but you’re a good father, Nathan.”

A pride ignites in Nathan unlike anything he’s felt before.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, and instantly closes it again, his throat bobbing around a hard swallow before he can push his words out.  

“Just a terrible husband?”

You shake your head. “No,” you say, with a wistful expression on your face, and Nathan is surprised that you sound sincere. “No, not terrible at all.”

Nathan knew his flaws well enough, but you always reminded him of his attributes. You never poisoned the boy against him, even though the split was largely on him – a fact he had denied for a long time, because it was your decision. And, because of your strength and commitment to that, the three of you -oddly- had never made a better team than you do now.

He examines your face. Your beautiful face.

Come home. Please.

For your sake, he makes an effort to lift his thin smile up until it creases the corner of his eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting what an asshole I can be,” he smiles lopsidedly at you and succeeds in lightening the air. Lightening it a little too much. Enough that there is an alarming hint in your eyes of what used to be there for him. He hopes it is not the shining of false hope.

It would be so easy. So easy to kiss you.

You chew some words over in your mouth, and Nathan can see their failure to launch on a couple of breaths as you wring your hands in front of you.  

“You, um. Last night… you asked me to come home.”

Nathan’s breath stalls in his chest.

“Did you mean it?”

Nathan can’t speak suddenly. He can only nod, slowly, tears sparkling in his eyes as he looks at you.

“I could… I could never just move back in. It didn’t work, Nathan. But… maybe…”

Nathan holds his breath, like a latent storm, the hint of a new energy buzzing in the space between you.

“Maybe,” you continue tentatively. “We could start over again. See if we can build something new. Not the same old patterns. No looking over our shoulders or trying to resurrect what’s long-dead. Instead, maybe we – I don’t know- try to create something… new?”

While the sky is rife with creation.

“You’re good at that. Building things,” you finish, fondly, everything about you tentative yet somehow hopeful, and Nathan’s chest constricts, his blood thrumming nervously through his body in a blind panic.

Just shut up, Nathan, and don’t fuck this. Just refrain from being a dick for five fuckin’ minutes.

The muscles in his jaw twitch. The vein on his forehead pops, yet his whole body is still. Breath bated.

“Like, fresh code?” he asks, with shining, hopeful eyes.

You nod, and it is the tiniest gesture, but one that means the absolute world to him.

A new way of doing things. Moving forward. Looking ahead.

“Sure, I guess - fresh code.”

Don’t fuck it up, Bateman, you fucking shithead.

“Yeah,” he agrees weakly, yet with all the conviction in the world. “How?”

Anything.

You nibble on your lower lip, thinking things through as you go. “Take me out for dinner. A first date. Somewhere away from this goddamn house. From everything that happened. All the… mistakes.” As Nathan’s eyes swim with guilt and regret, you squeeze his hand, dipping your head towards his to catch his gaze. “Yours and mine.”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok,” Nathan responds, his eyes glowing as they meet yours.

He immediately feels you withdraw from his burning hope, and so he consciously tries to reel his natural intensity in.

“No promises, Nathan,” you caution, firmly.

He nods, slowly. Outwardly disciplined and measured.

Don’t fuck it. Do not fuck this, you mother fucker.

“And please, don’t get his hopes up?” you say as a quick aside before delivering a broad smile over Nathan’s shoulder, signalling that the kid had arrived back in the vicinity.  

The boy runs over and starts happily wheeling a toy news truck over Nathan’s thigh. The man unconsciously, automatically, winds his arm around his son and dips a kiss into his black curls, causing your eyes to shine softly in admiration. “I love you, champ,” Nathan says, the words heavy with the weight of his feeling even as he reaches to tickle the boy’s tummy, earning a chaotic giggle.  

“Love you too, Daddy,” the boy replies, but Nathan pats him gently on the back.

“Time to go though, bud.”

“Yeah, baby. We should… go,” you announce, and yet there is a tug of hesitation in your voice. A rope binding you to Nathan which he is desperate to reel in; however, he pushed you so far away, and he knows that if you do come back to him, it must be on your terms. In your own time. He understands now.

Nathan leads the two of you to the door and helps pile all of the bags into the trunk of your truck. You strap Byron into his car seat, and Nathan dips to bid him farewell. “Ok, get out of here, kid. Look after your Mommy, you hear me? She’s special.”

There is a moment, before you open the door to slot into the driver’s side that Nathan comes to face you, his hands stuffed into his pockets, a familiar furrow in his brow and tight-lipped expression on his stony, impassive face. “When was the last time you had your tyres checked?” he wonders idly, shifting forward to poke at the tread on the front wheel and finding them satisfactorily safe.

He is surprised to find you smiling softly at him when he looks back at you. You seem like you can’t help yourself, but you lean forward and press a kiss into Nathan’s cheek, your face lingering against his as he closes his eyes and leans in to it, just a little.

You pull back from him, your hand clasped around his upper arm. “We love you, Nathan. Will you be okay?”

His eyes grow overcast. “Uh, don’t like it when you go,” he states plainly, his brow pulled down and cloaking his big, brown eyes with shadow.

You nod in understanding.

“Text me later. About dinner,” you add casually before you slot yourself into the truck. Still, he can see you tearing up, just a little.

“You mean it?” he asks, his stare intense.

“Dinner and we’ll see, okay? No promises.”

He had made you so many promises that were broken.

Nathan nods his agreement and you clasp the door shut. Reluctantly, Nathan steps aside as you swing the truck around, and he doesn’t stick around to wave you off, aside from a quick hand in the air for the boy.

He doesn’t like it when you leave.

He knew he had pushed you away, and now, just maybe you would come back to him. He feels hopeful- ecstatic even- at the prospect, but he can’t help but feel a little guilty. A little selfish too. He feels as though he’s sucking you in to a black hole all over again. He thinks maybe it would be better for you if you could escape him.

But, as Nathan settles back in his chair down in the lab, and gazes at the framed picture of his family, he knows that as much as he has grown and changed - because he’s had to, with you gone- that he will never quite be selfless enough to let you go.

I’m a force. A force of nature. A storm.

You had always revelled in storms. You were always happiest when it rained. Maybe this time, he could make you so, so happy, without the miserable.

Oh, how he hopes.

Don’t fuck it up, Bateman, he thinks, glancing at the picture one more time. Don’t you ever fuckin’ push her away.

This time, he pledges to stop looking over his shoulder, and looks ahead to something new.

That’s what he’s best at.

Fresh code.

He types away, and his chest feels lighter than it has in a long time.

The calm after the storm, perhaps.

[amenomiko]

Thank you for the request @ikemen-girl !!! Once again, thank you for your constant support and endless love for my works 😘😘😘😘😘💖💖💖💖💖💖😘😘😘😘😘😘💕💕💕💕💕💕💕✨✨✨✨✨✨✨❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

A/N : They called her big sis, as it was a child mode of them turning into a child (of their past)

Nobunaga

Even though he is in a child mode..

That usual smug and proud attitude is still there.

Did he develop such personality since he was small? Oh God, have mercy on my poor soul - MC.

"When I grow up, I demand you to be my wife."

Also MC: You don't have to demand it now, you already say the same thing even when you are an adult 😒😒😒.

Commands MC to feed him his konpeito while he lay down on her lap.

"......"

"(˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)✨ Hm."

"Say that once again."

"Oh? Perhaps you didn't hear me clearly? Woman! I command you to feed me those candies while I-"

"An apology or a 5 minutes of tickle torture on your neck?"

He took a step back. "H-Hm. 5 minutes is for sissies."

"Oh really? I will make it 15 minutes then."

"I'M SORRY QAQ!!!"

Ieyasu

"(´・_・｀)...."

There he goes. Peeking at MC from afar again.

"Are you hungry?" And boop! He hides himself.

Is he cat? If he is, he will be the most adorable cat and MNGH it's really, REALLY HARD for MC to hold back from taking this BEAUTIFUL opportunity to have him all to herself, especially when he is in a very vulnerable state..!!

"(´・_・｀)...." He peeks again.

"This smol lovely thing-- how did he became the saltiest lord again?" She mumbled under her breath, visibly trembling to hold back herself from squealing.

"Uhm.. I'm hungry.. J-just a little bit."

HNGGGH! SHE CAN'T!! "UGH..!! MAH HEART 💕💕💕💕💕💕!!!"

"(´・д・｀) *Gasp*! B-big sis are you okay? Do you want some medicine? I may not be strong as much but.. I know how to treat wounds..!"

MC: *Breathing heavily* You do..?

"Yes,.. Uhm.. You see.. The kids always b-bully me so.. When I'm injured I always tend to my own wound.. And- B-BIG SIS QAQQQQ???"

Current MC: *Faints from nosebleed and she writes her death message (with her blood from her nose at that) with the word "An angel has killed me."*

( X/////w/////X ) - MC.

Masamune

MC: (❁´◡`❁)🌸🌸🌸

Masamune: *Peeks* (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)...... *jumps and smacks MC's butt* BIG SIS ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ!!!!

"KYAAAA O/////O!! Masamune!!! How many times do I have to tell you to NOT do that???"

"EHEYYYYY!!!" NYOOOM he runs away while laughing, leaving bewildered MC behind.

Heavens. Masamune is cute and all when he is in a child mode but that mischievous side of him is still THERE!

Every time she bend down, he will get every single chance to do that! She could only sigh on how ironic adult Masa and child Masa is:-

That naughty habit can't be changed.

...Except Masamune will playfully squeeze her butt in front of everyone.

"Oh well. May he turn back into an adult soo-"

*Masamune appear back and play MC's butt like a drum before running away again*

"WOOOHOOO ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ!!!"

"........GET BACK HERE YOU EARTHWORM ᕕ(ಠ Д ಠ)ᕗ!!!!"

Mitsuhide

"Sit here for a while, okay?"

"Okay, big sis."

Phew. She's glad that child Mitsuhide is very obedient. He seems like a good boy so far. Helping her with errands, smiling sincerely when she served him food and such, practically the OPPOSITE of adult Mitsuhide.

Well.. She is wrong. SO, SO WRONG.

Hideyoshi had came to MC's place, looking furious.

"This kid..... Is just.like.his.adult.mode!"

"Huh? What did he do OAO?"

MC turned to Mitsuhide and it was met with a very innocent smile,...

Until he opens his mouth. "Well.. His letter for his so-called fan girl breaks people's heart so.. I helped him by writing a new one. See? They are all dressed in a wedding kimono outside, isn't that lovely ( ͡^ ͜ʖ ͡^)?"

"It took me 5 hours, MC. FIVE! To draw them away and explaining things at them!!"

MC went (°д°) when Hideyoshi walks away, crying, and shakes her head at Mitsuhide. "I see. He is such a small snake even when he is in child mode, huh?"

Welp. MC literally jumped when he suddenly give out a creepy, low chuckle to her words after that.

Them: (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)Σ(°д°ﾉ)ﾉ

Kenshin

The plate of snacks nearly fall from her grip the moment she entered the room.

Imagine child Kenshin, surrounded by a cloud of bunnies all over him, and he is there, in the middle of it, with ONLY his head that sticks out with this face (눈‸눈).

"Uh.. K-Kenshin? I brought some light snack, let's have it together...?"

"(눈‸눈)...."

"(´・ｪ・｀).... *sweats*"

"It's delicious, you know? See? This bun is shaped like a bunny."

"(눈‸눈) ...Hm."

"Uh.. S-so can you tell the bunnies to go outside? Or maybe y-you know, let you move so you can eat the snack?" She clasped her hands together, beaming a (forceful) smile, "It's a veeeerry limited edition...! It's like onigiri, you see? It has plums in the middle of it..!"

"(눈‸눈)... *gasp* (°д°)! Plums?"

"Yeah, plum- WAAAAHH \(OAO)/!!!! 🐇🐇🐇🐇🐇🐇🐇🐇🐇🐇!!!"

Poor MC get swarmed all over by the bunnies. But it's a miracle the bun survived though.

Shingen

"Oh my angel, my goddess, my angel, my sweetest being of my life 😏😏😏😏✨✨✨."

"...You said the word 'angel' twice, Shingen."

He gasped, "Ooh? I have come across a very genius goddess as well 💖💖💖💖💖!"

"Oh..."

MC about to escape from him, but only to be stopped with him, biting a cherry blossom branch in his mouth as he take it out when he successfully gets her attention,

"No, no, don't go and leave me like that. It hurts me, goddess..!"💖💖💖💖💖

MC's eye twitched to the saliva around the branch (ewww) before turning to him, "God, seriously, his child mode is the worst than his adult mode."

"What are you saying, my rainbow sunflower dango mochi? I am serious..! I don't see you as a big sis who take care of me..!"

"Oh really now? Show me how serious you are, then."

He nodded, genuinely showing a very firm look before going away for a while. "You wait here..!"

MC: ( ͡°з ͡°) Now what is he planning- uh--

*Shingen comes back with Yukimura, by riding on his shoulder like a very proud lord + wink* 😘😘😘😘😘✨✨✨✨✨

MC: OH FOR THE LOVE OF-- ಠAಠ

Also Shingen: *Kabedon MC in that state, with a SUPER EMBARRASSED Yukimura below him* So..? Do you believe me now, my kuchipu mimimu? 😘😘😘😘😘😘💖💖💖💖💖

MC:

MC:

MC: *S N A P*

*Cues sound of Shingen's forehead got flicked and both of him and Yukimura stumbled backwards and SPLASH!! They fell into the nearby pond*

[rightsockjin]

Timbs part 2

Hello beautiful people! Merry Christmas and Happy holidays! Since this blog has grown so much even during the time of our temporary hiatus, and this story (Timbs from the dynamite series) continues to get attention, I thought that I'd listen and write a part two! Happy Christmas Y'all! Also, I do want to address some stuff that is in this pic. First off, as a group, the writers at right sock decided to give each member of BTS a permanent girlfriend. So basically, nicknames which will make it easier to refer to other girls. This is the first real place you will see that. Y/N is nicknamed Bunny in this. But Y/N is used as well. Just incase it confused you.

Anyway! On to what we all came here for!

Summary: After your last encounter with your best friend and the words exchanged, you aren't sure where you stand... but maybe you should focus on where you lay...

Rating: M! Big M!

Genre: Smut, angst, fluff. All the good stories are hehe.

word count: Drum roll please....7,378!

Warnings: Stalking, being eaten out, mentions of blowjobs, kink talk. someone walks in during the deed....kinda. Jealousy. General meanness. Naked people y'all. nipple stuff. I think that’s all??

Part one

Master list

He closed the door behind him. It thudded thickly in the small apartment of his that you frequented. It was in the same state as you had seen it the last time you had been over. Boxes were still packed, dust covered the old furniture, save for the couch that had been a combined gift from all of his friends as he was the last to move out, that had come with the appartnemnt appartment, and heaps of bubble wrap and packing peanuts littered the floor. You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

Your nose itched and you could feel a sneeze coming on. With a slight shake of your head, you looked over your shoulder and gave your best friend the look. Eyebrows slightly raised at the center, a light smile teased your nude, mint chapstick coated lips. A hint of incredulity mixed with “really?” and some other emotion that you tried to snuff out completely. Something akin to fondness perhaps?

Jungkook had his black shirt covered back to you. His hair was grazing his lower ears and lightly ruffled as he turned to look at you after checking that the door had indeed locked as he forgot to lock his door constantly which made no sense because it was an automatic lock, but somehow, he had already gotten people accidentally walking in on him in less than opportune moments. Namely, this girl who lived near by was always accidentally walking into his apartment thinking it was hers, but you surmised that she couldn’t possibly be that stupid and was coming in purly because she thought Jungkook was cute and single.

You knew this because one time, you had been over and she “accidentally” walked in while Jungkook was in the restroom with a cute little confused face on which fell as soon as she saw you lounging on the couch eating a particularly stringy mango. She stumbled through an awkward apology before quickly closing the door and going to her actual apartment.

But Jungkook was convinced that she was just very lost and very new to the building. You couldn’t bear to break it to him. Or maybe you didn’t want him to realize that she most likely had a crush on him. A creepy, stalkery crush… maybe you should tell him...

Jungkook’s mask sat slightly under his nose. His eyes widened when he noticed you staring, completely zoned out from your light flashback. He blinked in confusion, frozen for a second before he slowly crossed his arms and raised his own eyebrows at you.

You shook your head and scrunched your eyebrows at him then. Your hands held up in question. A stance that clearly said “what are you looking at me like that for? I’m the one judging you here.”

Again, with mirth in his eyes and his nose scrunched slightly, signaling that he was smiling under his face cover, he mimicked your stance. He leaned down slightly to get on your level. His mistake. You would think he’d learn by now.

You smacked the side of his head lightly enough that you were sure it didn’t hurt but also hard enough to get him out of this weird theater mirror exercise thing he was doing.

“Ow? What the fuck, Bunny,” he questioned, closing one eye tightly and rubbing the spot on his head you had tapped as if you had bruised him.

You rolled your eyes but reached up and patted his head lightly before giving his hair a small scratch that you knew he loved as an apology. Without fail, he smiled down at you with squinty eyes and a scrunched nose. The fondness in his eyes reached your own body. A sense of calmness. Your body relaxed.

You made to remove your hand from his hair, but he put his own hand over yours, begging you to keep it on his head for a second longer. You complied, only because you liked to mess with his hair almost as much as he liked for you to mess with it.

Jungkook ripped his mask off as you mused his hair gently. His breathing slowed and he let himself take yet another step closer to you. The scent of sweet pea flowers danced around him like a lullaby.

He was tired. He hadn’t realized he was tired until that very moment, since your outing hadn’t really been something to tire him out. He was usually fairly energetic around you and lunch was hardly an activity that would make him feel tired, but now, a nap was sounding really nice. He wondered if you would nap with him if he asked.

But then your hand was off his head and you were stepping away and the peace was lifted. He snapped his eyes open, a pretty pout decorated his pink lips which went ignored by you.

“You should really unpack all this stuff Kookie. The dust is really obnoxious.”

And then you rubbed the underside of your nose and sniffed aggressively. Jesus, how were you this...breathtaking? He felt the emotion building in his chest. It compressed into his ribs and pressed on all his organs. It grew bigger and bigger until it felt like he would explode. Almost like the weeks before when you had your head between his legs with your saliva dribbled down his cock and onto his-

AACHOOoo!

Jungkook was nearly knocked off his feet with the force of his sneeze. Instantly, the pressure in his chest loosened a bit but not entirely. Not enough. He blinked down at his body, feeling betrayed.

He could already feel his nice slacks starting to squeeze around his middle. He could only stand there in shock as he watched blood flow to his third leg. He had really thought that he had gotten past the phase of his crush on you where every little thing you did turned him on.

But then again, sucking him off while he fingered you in a barely lit room wasn’t exactly a little thing. It was huge. And he wasn’t just talking about his dick.

If he was a braver man, he would have made something of that first encounter. Maybe asked you where you stood. Maybe confessed that as much as he thought you were beautiful in every physical way, he was highly attracted to you. Just you. The you that barged into his room whenever she felt like it. The you that texted him every morning with a synopsis of your crazy dream and used the word dick as a verb, a noun and an adjective at any given point.  The you that liked to bitch at him for every little thing he did because it was out of affection.

But no. You had left that day and neither you nor him had mentioned it once while you hadn’t rejected any of his date invitations, he couldn’t muster the courage to actually ask what your relationship was. Not even in passing. He was starting to wonder if it had actually even happened or if he had imagined it, but every time he goes for his laptop and sees the dent on the edge where it hit the floor, he is forced to recall the sweet scent of flowers and your dripping center.

He had to stop that. If he kept letting his head wonder this way…

Well, he wouldn’t do anything to make you uncomfortable, which is why he hadn’t brought it up. Or that’s what he told himself.

“Well bless you,” you said with a slight giggle, “That sounded like it hurt.”

Jungkook forced his awareness away from his crotch, realizing that if he wanted you to not see it, it would be best to not draw more awareness to it himself and the limb that was awkwardly sticking to his left leg.

“A-a little. Maybe you’re right. I really should sweep this place. I just haven’t had time since i’ve been spending so much time out with you.”

You scrunch your nose at him. His cheeks were a little red, though you assumed it was from the cold outside since the tip of his nose was also a bit red. Then, he pushed his hair out of his face, you noticed that so were his ears.

Weird. He only ever got rosy ears when he was embarrassed? Well he should be. His apartment was a mess. He probably shouldn’t have even moved out. You doubted that he knew how to clean his own ass let alone do his laundry. You were going to tell him exactly that, sass locked and loaded but something- maybe it was the way his pants fit or the way that his chest protruded through his shirt or the muscles in his arms- told you to look down.

His thighs were always your favorite part of him. So strong. Rideable. How could you not when he spent so much time making sure that they were solid as a rock. You could salivate, in fact you were salivating thinking of the last time you had your mouth anywhere near those legs and his dick deep in your throat.

If you really focused, you could fool yourself into thinking that he was hard in that instant. But no. Wait. Was it? Was he?

You snapped your eyes back to your friend. Your friend that you wanted to be more than that but you refused to say so, to see that he was looking around the apartment thoughtfully.

“Why don’t you go home for today, Y/N? I should get started on-,” he cleared his throat and visibly swallowed, hoping that if he got rid of you quickly enough, then you wouldn’t have a chance to notice the log that was in his pants.

You on the other hand weren’t sure what to do. His suggestion made you do a double take. Your boundary issues had not been resolved from last time. And this was evident in what you said next.

“Gonna beat it to the last time you got a real blow job instead of asking for one or what? Small dick energy.”

And who else could that have been than you? Your brain caught up to your mouth a second too late to take anything back. The words floated out in the open like an invitation. Well, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you had meant? Probably. Your brain tended to go that direction when it came to Jeon Jungkook but had you really just offered him a blow job?

There was a second in which Jungkook’s face steadily turned the color of a cherry tomato and he began to sweat slightly. His eyes were wide and he was looking at you like he must have misunderstood. Were you speaking the same language?

His body tensed and blood pumped predominantly to his cheeks or his nether region. He felt a little faint even. Was the room spinning? It felt like it could be.

You watched him reel and try to compose himself. This was similar to the last time you guys had partaken in activities that weren’t usually shared by platonic friends. And like that instance, you felt the urge to run. To get out before he had a chance to don his other persona. The one that makes you weak in the knees and something of a brat.

“Is that like an offer or are you being an ass?” he asked, sass dripping from his tone. He pushed both hands into his pockets, the tips of his fingers grazed his hardened rod, already sensitive despite it not being entirely hard.

You crossed your arms, not sure if you wanted him to take you up on your invitation or if you wanted to retract it.

Jungkook took a step closer to you, waiting patiently for you to find your voice. He wasn’t going to pressure you. As much as he had enjoyed it last time, he couldn’t live with himself if you did something just for his sake.

You leaned against the back of his couch, the head rest was pushed slightly against your lower back, grounding you.

“No pressure, Y/N,” he assured, suddenly feeling like the playful tone that this activity had taken on the last time may seem a little pushy if you really didn’t want to partake once again.

But this solidified in your mind that as much as he seemed turned on, he clearly had enough respect for you to make sure you really were into the situation as much as he was. This was enough to push any feelings of unease aside and focus just on what was being given.

“I mean… honestly, don’t you kind of owe me for last time? I basically did all the work and you just sat there like a rock.”

Jungkook gaped at you, he put a hand over his heart and scooted slightly closer so that there was only a foot of distance between the both of you now.

“You were the one calling the shots babe. If you wanted me to do something more than just shake that,” Perfectly sculpted and hard work evident, “ass then you should have said something.”

His vibrato dropped for a second, his eyes met yours, “I’d do anything you ask of me, Bun.”

Your heart palpitated wildily in your chest. The words he had spoken to you that night came back to you then. You dreamed of those words. Hoped he would say them again in a different setting but never had even acknowledged that it had even happened, so you were left only with dreams and foggy memories of the way your name sounded on his sweet lips and the three words that you craved to hear.

He’d probably said it in the heat of the moment. The emotions were high and your climaxes had just...well climaxed so maybe it wasn’t that he L-worded you. It was that he L-worded what had just happened.

The issue then was that you did mean them. You meant when you said that you L-worded him so the blow of your relationship staying exactly the same as it had been before, nearly made you want to cut ties with him completely out of pure embarrassment. But you couldn’t. Because he didn’t let you. Any time you didn’t answer your phone, he was at your door. Any time you avoided set dates, he’d find you. The jerk wouldn’t let you leave, and you were too weak to let him go anyway.

But then there was that sparkle of...something, in his big eyes that made him seem so genuine and willing. Subconsciously, he licked his lips and you could only imagine those same lips on you. His head between your legs.

Could you take his offer? Did you have the courage to ask for what you wanted?

“A-anything?”

Junkook’s teeth made an appearance before he chuckled lowly, “Do I make you nervous? Is- is that’s what’s going on here?” He asked, gesturing between you two with one finger. Confidence poured out of every pore.

Instantly, you scoffed. Because no. Jungkook, baby boy, bunny teeth Jeon didn’t make you nervous in the slightest. But then why did your voice get stuck in your throat? Why did your mind go blank? Why were you fidgeting incessantly?

Jungkook hissed, a laugh chimed deep in his throat, “Who would have thought that the only thing I needed to do to get you to shut up was to offer to do you? Wish I would have known this years ago! I would have offered more often.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles flexed against his shirt. Your body thirsted at the sight. What would he look like on top of you? Pinning you down?

Your eyelid felt heavy. Lust coursed through your body. If you could just speak-

“So what will it be? Want me to eat you out? Fuck you? Spank you? Or are you more of an orgasm denial type of girl? You know, if this is going to work out, we should really talk about those kinks. Maybe think of a safe word? Or are you not that kinky? Cuz I’m pretty kinky so we should definitely talk hard limits as well-”

You watched him monologue in complete shock. Did he think that this was going to be a common occurrence? No. You didn’t usually sleep with guys just for the hell of it unless you were never going to see them again, and Jungkook clearly did not fit that criteria so no. You couldn’t just casually sleep with your best friend.

You opened your mouth to tell him this when you suddenly tuned back into the conversation.

“-and I mean… I know it might have been a bit fuzzy but I’ve had fun on our dates so far so I guess it’s natural that we take this to the next level? If- If that’s okay with you! Mama always told me that a gentleman never rushes his woman. Not that you’re mine! Or like that I own you or anything like that! No, no, I just mean that I like you and well you like me and like… the dates? So we’re like together? A couple? Should we have that conversation as well? I don’t know… what do you think, Y/N?”

You blinked at him in complete shock. Had you been dating Jungkook for the last couple of weeks and hadn’t noticed?

In hindsight, he had been paying for some of your meals and while he had done this on occasion, it had become more of a regular thing. He’d also been a lot more clingy than he had been. He’d even tried holding your hand  a couple of times only for you to panic and pull away.

All of this information seemed to hit you like a ton of bricks. Oh my God… You had been dating Jungkook! How the hell did you miss that??

When you didn’t answer, combined with the horrified expression on your face that he had no way of knowing wasn’t complete disgust at the idea of him touching you, Jungkook feel like a total idiot.

To him, it seemed clear that the last thing you wanted was for his nasty hands anywhere near you. Couldn’t he take a hint? Clearly not, because you hadn’t so much as tried to kiss him on the cheek and now here he was offering to eat you. Talk about jumping some steps.

He took a step back, trying to give you some room so as not to force himself on you but he could feel his heart constrict. He was not gonna cry. He was not gonna cry. He was not gonna- oh…

Tears pooled in his pretty eyes. They burned with emotion and he really wanted nothing more than for you to leave and never speak to him again while at the same time wanting to jump into your arms and be comforted.

Regardless of his feelings, he stayed rooted to the spot he was standing in, his hands folded neatly before him as he bowed his head in a small apology.

“Oh...I uh… I overstepped. I’m so sorry, Y/N… I didn’t mean to- to make you uncomfortable.”

He balled his hands into fists trying to distract himself from the emotional pain of the blow you had dealt.

You on the other hand, were struggling to come to terms with what was happening. How did you stop this from spiraling further? And.. was he crying? No! He couldn’t be crying! You had to stop this. He may be obnoxious and a baby but he was apparently… your… obnoxious baby!

Without thinking much, you closed the distance with one big step and wormed your arms around his torso. You shimmied your head under his chin. Jungkook seized for a second. Unsure what he should do.

But as the shock wore down, he let his body relax and wrapped his strong arms around your body as he was shocked with emotion. At the end of the day, you were his best friend and if he was going to be consoled after a girl broke his heart, it would be you who would do it, even if that girl who broke his heart… was you.

But then, why were you kissing his neck softly? Was he imagining it? No. Because in the next second, you were grabbing his chin with your thumb and forefinger- they were ice cold- and you were pulling his face to look up at you.

When your eyes connected, your heart shattered. The pools of tears turned to streams in the mountains of his cheeks then conjelled at the valley between his collarbones.

Of course, on top of his good looks, he was a pretty crier. That was so unfair. Almost as unfair as the beautiful fan of eyelashes that caught his sparkling tears. And the voice that could only belong to an angel that he possessed.

You couldn’t help the slight smile that crossed your chapstick lips and the fond scrunch of your nose before you closed the three inches or so of air that divided you. When your lips settled onto his, you felt rather than saw him freeze for the third time that day.

His lips were a little salty and a little minty. Vaguely, you remember him applying and reapplying his chapstick all day. Now you wondered if he had been doing it out of nervousness.

Then his hands were in your hair, pulling you closer, balled at the nape pleasantly. He was breathing hard. Like he’d run a marathon or danced a full concert.

His lips were pressed so firmly onto yours that you were sure they would swell and bruise after this. You let all semblance of control be taken from you. One of his hands slid down to the arch of your back tentatively. Like he was scared to break you or that you would tell him to get off.

You arched your back with his hand, pressing your high necked cotton shirt into his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his own shirt and the muscles that covered it.

With a sigh, you opened your mouth as he opened his lips and sandwiched your top one within his own.

You could feel that he was still crying, but you weren’t exactly sure why. You could ask later. Right now, all you wanted, all you knew he needed, was for you to kiss him and make it all better. To fix whatever it is you had done. You could piece him back together if you tried hard enough.

So when he began walking you backwards towards the couch, you didn’t fight. The hand on your back moved over to your hip. His lips were connected to yours, open wide, his tongue explored the wet cavern of your mouth. Teeth clashed awkwardly, the kiss was out of sync. You let him maneuver your head whichever way he wanted with the hand that was still firmly in your hair. He leaned over you. His body seemed to completely incompace yours. Your back was arched almost forty five degrees. It wasn’t painful at all. Instead, it pushed your hips flush against his.

His member, which had shrunk significantly only seconds before, was now growing again, filling with the erotic arousal that pulsed in his veins. A hulk in disguise was being pulled from the Bruce Banner you were so used to. And you were all too eager to let him show you this side of him.

Like a man on the brink of drowning, he pulled his mouth from yours. You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes. In a split second, he leaned down and picked you up from the knees. You wondered if he would carry you to his room or throw you over his shoulder, but he sat you down on the back of the couch before he placed a quick peck to your lips.

Then, like the sadist he was, he pulled away again, smiling up at you through red eyes. He wasn’t sure what this meant. If this was a sign that you too were too scared to bring up the relationship and the conversation that could change everything, but that could wait for another time. Right then, all he wanted was to show you, with his tongue, with his mouth, with whatever limb you let him, that he was falling for you. Hard.

Reluctantly, you opened your eyes. A sigh escaped your lips. If you opened your eyes, would it be over? Would he ask you to leave? Would it once again go back to how it was for the last couple of weeks?

Eventually, you did open your eyes. Jungkook could see the fear and unsteadiness in them. The red around the brown made you hurt deeply in your soul. A tender hand reached out to cup his cheek. The light scratch of your freshly done nails was pleasurable to his senses. Goosebumps. Then a strong shiver. And he felt himself melt for the girl he had known for so long. And you for the man whom you had watched grow from a frightened boy.

“Are you going to touch me or are you going to punish me for all the times I left you high and dry,” you laughed. Even in this tender moment, you couldn’t hold your tongue, but Jungkook didn’t mind. The engine of his brain was whirring and he could hear, all he could see and feel, was you...you...you. Nothing but you and the way your hair hung under your chest and covered your left eye. Nothing but your chest rising and falling and the smile on your kissible, bruised lips.

How could he help himself? The answer? Would always be you.

He kissed your nose, then your cheek. An eskimo kiss. You giggled. It was the most beautiful music to his ears.

“You want me to Bunbun?” Internally, he cringed at his overly affectionate name but you smiled brighter and the insecurity left as soon as it came.

“Is that my name now?”

“If you want it to be, or you could choose another one?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, now that you were almost level with his eyes- though now you were a bit taller than him. You shrugged.

“I like it. Bunny, Bun, BunBun, any variation.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed.

“Who knew you were this cheesy, Y/N?”

You rolled your eyes at him playfully as you opened your legs so he could slot himself between them. You pulled him closer and wrapped your legs around his waist. A mischievous smirk crossed your lips.

“What’s with the face,” he asked, sniffling a little.

“What face,” you asked, feigning innocence.

“This face,” he countered, gesturing vaguely at your eyes.

“Oh this? Ah well you see,” and then without ending your thought, you let yourself fall backwards with your legs and arms wrapped tightly around his frame. He was much heavier than you and clearly more muscular but with the weight distribution you were able to pull him over the back of the couch and twist both yourself and him so you landed on the cushions. His body atop yours.

By the look on his face, he clearly had not expected you to pull him, nor did he expect for his center to land directly on yours, but the shock gave way to the joy and fun that tended to encompass your everyday encounters.

His high pitched giggle of a laugh made an appearance which caused a multitude of butterflies to flutter through your intestines and chest. He relaxed into you, laying his head cautiously onto your breasts, pushing his middle away from your heated core. (yes, he noticed)

He could hear your heart beating against the- hehe squishy- lump of fat on your chest. Instantly, he knew that he could spend eons on your bosom uninhibited and satisfied.

But the pulse of his confined member made his head swirl with thoughts less than innocent.

When your nails lightly scratched at his back and the smallest, lightest moan left your lips, he knew you must be on the same page. Or at least, he hoped. Spurred on by the heavenly shapes and your inquiry from a couple seconds before, Jungkook picked his head off your chest and hovered over your left breast.

There was a question in his eyes as he looked between your boob and your face. One which you couldn’t answer verbally as your heart rate picked up and the lust poisoned your veins.

With the slightest nod, he had everything he needed to lean down and lightly nip at the mound through the thin material of your beige shirt. The warmth of his breath traversed the stitches easily. It sent pleasant shivers through your body, settling in your core.

He nibbled softly around what he hoped was your nipple, before he kissed the center of the mound with tender lips. His eyes stayed looking up at yours, searching for any signs that he should stop. You bit your lips and took a deep breath, dropping his questioning gaze and letting him take the reigns once again.

Jungkook felt you relax into him. Relief flooded his chest. With a little more confidence, Jungkook looked with his mouth for the hardened bud of your breast and pulled it softly between his teeth. He was rewarded with a moan, only slightly louder than the one before and he realized, he wanted you screaming. He wanted you to moan his name. Hear your voice penetrate through the walls of his apartment and disturb the neighbors. This was his new goal.

“Y/N,” he said softly trying to get your attention. Instantly, you looked down from your position, your pupils were blown wide. A beautiful sight.

“Is it okay if I-” and then his confidence waned and so he gestured to your shirt with his eyes a couple of times. You smiled at him.

“Mhm, go for it Kookie.”

Was this what it felt like to be called a good boy? Because Jungkook loved it. He needed more. More. More.

Eagerly, Jungkook untucked your shirt from your pants and bunched  it up right under your boobs. The expanse of skin that he had exposed seemed like an oasis in a desert. He couldn’t help the pull of gravity that connected his lips to your stomach. They were not soft, nor gentle. They were fast and more pecks than anything. They tickled your skin as he tried to cover every single open spot with his love.

He worked his way up and nudged your shirt higher with his nose.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Jungkook?” You asked exasperated.

“Can I take this off?”

You groaned, “Yes. Take it off. All of it, my shirt, my pants, my underwear. Whatever you want. You have my permission.”

Sheepishly, Jungkook obeyed. You raised your arms over your head and arched your back to make it easier for him to undress you.

He pulled it off swiftly, ruffling your hair in the process. He tossed the shirt aside, excited to see what he was unwrapping. He wasn’t disappointed. Had you known you would be undressing for someone today? Or did your undergarments always consist of lavish fabrics and sexy shapes?

Jungkook didn’t care. He just felt honored to be able to see it. The see through fabric held together by underwire did little to hide the prize behind the clothing. Your nipples stood pert and puckered under it all. Begging to be released. He wondered if your underwear matched.

It was weird. The things one noticed when something monumental was happening. Like the golden stiching that held the bra together, or the way that the underwire dug into your skin to hold your perfect breasts in place.

Then in a second, he was moving again, frantically unbuttoning your pants and ripping them off your body without hesitation. He must know. It was life or death for him   to know if your underwear matched.

He tossed the pants in the opposite direction of the discarded shirt. He watched it fly over a lamp and land on a box that he thought had his art supplies. With bated breath, he turned to look at you. It felt as if his whole life had been leading to this moment.

And yes. The answer was that you were wearing a set. His mouth salivated as the scent of your arousal hit his nose. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your folds and die.

But he slowed down and took in every inch of your body. He wanted to remember it. Every freckle, every curve. He wanted a picture to hang in his bathroom or to draw you on his ipad so he could use it to jerk off when you weren’t around because after this, he knew that no other image would do it for him. Not anymore

He watched your chest heave. He looked up at your face again, asking for permission even though you had already given it to him.

“Jungkook, if you don’t touch me in the next five seconds I’m gonna bite your dick off,” you growled.

Oof… that was not one of his kinks, thank you very much, but it was the last push he needed, because he slithered down your body and pulled your legs around his shoulders staring at the promise land between your legs.

He could already see a bit of your natural lubricant running down your lightly covered slits.

You watched him, entranced by how hypnotized he seemed by your entrance. A laugh gurgled at your throat.

“Wow, if I knew that all it would take to shut you up was for me to wrap my legs around your head, I would have done it sooner,” you teased.

But the laughter died on your lips as jungkook opened his mouth wide and licked a thick stripe from your entrance to your clit. Even with the fabric in between his tongue and your skin, it felt like heaven.

“Fuck, Jungkook…” your hand flew to his hair, tangling in the locks of deep noir that you loved to braid when you two sat together watching a movie.

He kissed up and down your lower lips lovingly, lickig his lips as if it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted in his life.

He hummed, sending a long vibration to your core which clamped around thin air as if trying to stop it from leaving.

“I can’t wait to really taste you, Bunny… fuck you’re delicious…” Every word was like a strike to your center. Arousal gushed from your entrance that made jungkook’s eyes sparkle in earnest enthusiasm.

Without asking, he pulled your underwear to the side, and buried his face in your juices. A bit of self consciousness wormed its way into your brain. He could be lying about how it tastes. Did it smell okay?

But the devilish sounds of him slurping and sucking at your folds pushed the thoughts away. He held your ass up, pulling you closer and closer to his face. He never felt like he was quite close enough. His nose brushed continuously against your clit and when he noticed the way you screamed under your breath every time it happened, he made it his mission to continue to do just that as he laved at your pulsing hole.

You had been hiding all of this from him. The paradise between your legs. The treat at your center. He wouldn’t let you hide from him any longer. He’d rather perish than to go one more day without your center at his lips.

Short, consecutive moans fell from the petals of your lips. Your orgasm built slowly at first, not coming to a head- both literally and figuratively and he could tell. He pushed his tongue into your entrance. Your walls closed on it, trying to keep it inside. His name came from your lips like a prayer. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted you to scream his name. To never be able to think of another doing what he was doing to you in that moment, so when your eventual crash came, he was less than satisfied.

You were breathing heavily. Your legs twitched. Jungkook ripped his face from your core only because you pulled harshly at his hair. From his nose to his chin, he shone with your cum. If there was anything hotter than that you couldn't picture it.

But then he was standing, and he ripped his belt from the loops and began to undress.

Looking over his shoulder as he pulled his pants down he said, “Take off your bra and underwear. Are you on the pill?”

Shocked, you followed his demands, though they were given loosely. You shook your head no and he gave you one nod of confirmation.

“I have condoms. You’re not allergic or anything right?”

Again you negated his question with a shake of your head and he half smiled.

“We could stop if you want-”

“Don’t be a fucking tease, JK,” you rolled your eyes and spead your legs, hooking one on the head rest of the couch so he could see your abused lips which were dripping for him.

His eyes widened only for a second, but then he tore his shirt off and scrounged for his wallet where he kept a condom. He ripped it open with his bunny teeth and pulled his underwear off unceremoniously.

You watched in fixed fascination as his cock sprang free of its confines, so hard that it looked painful. It was bound to feel good.

He rolled the condom on carefully before he situated himself between your legs and wiped your juices from his face. He was partially on his knees and partially standing. It was easy to find your entrance with your legs spread so wide.

When his head pushed in, you let your head fall back. Maybe it was because you already had one orgasm under your belt or maybe Jungkook’s dick was just a good fit but pure pleasure filled your body. He watched your reaction, gritting his teeth as your walls clamped down  around him, resisting his entrance.

“Does it hurt?”

You gurgled something that you couldn’t make out but Jungkook seemed to understand because he nodded and pushed in farther, slowly. He bottomed out, his balls gently hit your ass and your vagina clenched, feeling every ridge of his member within you.

“Fuck… Y/N… I… I don’t know how long I can last…”

It was so sensitive. Every little twitch of his dick felt monumental. In all honesty, you weren’t sure if you could last either.

“Move,” you managed.

You didn’t have to tell him twice. He pulled out slowly then slammed back into you. Your skin clapped loudly in the mostly empty apartment. You whimpered. Your back arched. He pulled out again, then slammed back in. His pace was marked. Timed. It made your boobs jiggle as he grabbed your hips to help you meet his movements.

Cute little ‘ah’s filled his ears. They got higher pitched as you neared your end. Jungkook couldn’t believe his luck. You were so tight. So wet and the way your walls closed around him made him grow close to his end much quicker than he ever had by hand.

“Y/N… I’m gonna… I’mma…”

But you beat him to it. Your pussy clamped down and fluttered around him as your second orgasm crashed upon you.

You moaned his name as he continued to pound into you. Whines and pleas went unheard as he sped up. He needed you to know who you belonged to… in like a totally consensual way.

You were so sensitive, but the pain of over stimulation gave way to pleasure far too soon and a third orgasm consumed you.

In pure shock, Jungkook grunted and moaned, your vagina got even tighter around him. And he came violently, with his dick mid thrust and his name bouncing off the walls in the tone of your exhausted voice.

Spurt after spurt of white, hot cum spilled from his member and into the condom. He was so caught up in his pleasure that he didn’t notice nor hear the front door open.

Both of you heard a gasp and footsteps. Jungkook, mid orgasm, snapped his heavy head to the sound. To his complete surprise and embarrassment, there stood the aloof neighbor that was always walking into the wrong apartment.

At first, you were embarrassed, being naked was not something you did frequently in the presence of others, but then you were upset. Angry. How stupid could one girl be? Shouldn’t she learn that this was not her place after a billion and one mistakes?

For a second, all three of you were frozen. Jungkook’s orgasm finished and his cock quickly deflated. He jumped to action quickly, throwing his body over yours to cover you before he looked back at the neighbor and said, “this isn’t your apartment!”

Over Jungkook’s toned shoulder, you watched her eyes dart to his exposed ass before they filled with tears.

“Oppa…” she said under her breath, before the tears streamed and she turned on her heels and hurried out.

Your blood boiled. It seemed you were right. She wasn’t stupid at all. She had a crush on your… person? Whatever he was. He was yours- in a ‘I want to be yours and like it’s totally okay for you to say that’ kind of way, and you were not going to put up with some random girl who clearly didn’t have boundaries.

Jungkook looked down at you, his cheeks were red and you could tell he was extremely uncomfortable.

Carefully, he pulled his softened member from your core and made a show of removing the condom then disposing of it. You began to put your underwear and bra back on, watching him walk around his apartment butt naked. Would he say something? Or would you have to bring it up?

After minutes of silence, you decided you would have to be the one to break the awkwardness.

“So uh… do you know what her actual apartment is? Maybe we can put a note on your front door for her to remind her,” you half joked, standing to find your shirt and pants, but settling instead for the button up he was wearing before.

Jungkook pulled his shorts on, his back was to you. There was a tenseness in his muscles that wasn’t going away and something in the air struck fear in the pit of your stomach.

“She lives next door.”

Something about the way he said it made you feel like it was a confession of sorts. It made you want to run.  But instead, you sat in his shirt as he rifled in his boxes for a pair of more comfortable pants before you decided to drop it for now, knowing that whatever it was that was hanging in the air around you wasn’t something you were ready for.

“Jungkook, where's your broom?”

“Uh…,” there was a hint of a laugh in his voice and some of the pressure lifted from the atmosphere, “was I supposed to buy one?”

You rolled your eyes for the millionth time that day and berated him for not having bought the basic necessities for his home. Everything felt lighter, but still like you were trending on eggshells. It felt like instead of taking a step forward, you had taken six steps back. You were no more clear on what you were or what to do than you had been the last couple of weeks.

You helped him unpack that day, because you knew he wouldn’t do it on his own. He joked with you as if nothing had happened, and you sassed him all the same but something was off… and you didn’t know if it could be fixed without it first breaking you both.

[herradhighpriestess]

Love Grows in the Valley of Death

Chapter Nine:  The $64,000 Question

As Dr. Wakefield began rummaging through the ugly yellow folders in the rows of tall, grey steel cabinets, each containing four drawers of files, across town in Helena’s kitchen, Tig kept his grip tight enough that his touch brushed into near painful as his eyes bored into her, “please,” he finally growled, his tone reeking of outright, face down begging.

Helena pressed her dry lips together and tried to control her breathing, distracted by his ironclad hold, making it difficult to form words. “Can you pretend you didn’t hear the message or see the flowers?” she managed to stammer.

Tig shook his head before she lapsed into silence. He lifted a hand to pinch her chin with his fingertips as he dropped his face until their lips were a breath apart. “Talk to me,” he demanded on a whisper.

In the space before Helena spoke, her mind whirred with the intensity of the turbine engine of a jumbo jet. “What do I say? Will he end up hurting me?” Helena thought before she stopped being able to think when Tig pressed his lips to hers. His kiss turned urgent, and she felt herself left breathless when he lifted his lips, foreign patience shrouded him as he gave her time to think.

Helena blinked and found herself unable to look away from Tig’s probing, penetrative stare. The press of his body made Helena fight competing lust-fueled thoughts as she cleared her throat. “How do I fit in?” she finally asked.

Tig frowned, unsure of what she was asking, and Helena continued before he could speak.

“How do I fit into your world?” Helena asked as her mind once again conjured the seemingly inerasable image of the skinny, glossy-lipped, spike-heeled, gonorrhea ridden, parasitic whore trying to play with Tig’s stick.

Tig dropped a strong hand to encircle Helena’s wrist, the tips of his middle finger and thumb overlapping. He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Tig squeezed her smaller hand, free from scars, lines and nails gaudily encrusted with rhinestones before he spoke.

“I should be askin’ you the same thing baby,” Tig murmured on a heady rasp, his exhale a hot tease against her skin.

Helena drowned in the electrical sensation that was ignited the nanosecond he pressed his lips to her palm, the wiry strands of his facial hair, near-singeing where it brushed against her skin.

Helena blinked hard as she tried to collect her flurrying thoughts, she was suddenly a snow globe that had been violently shaken and left to find herself again amongst the falling chunks of artificial snow. “How does he fit in?” Helena asked herself. “How do I tell him that he scares the nightmares away, that since the moment I met him, he filled a space inside me that was empty?” Helena asked herself as her face turned a brilliant, fuchsia hue as she let her mind wander down a sexual rabbit hole.

“Because you’re different,” Helena finally managed and added in a quick stammer as Tig’s hands slid down to rest on her hips. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

Tig squeezed her taut hips, massaging the supple flesh through her jeans. “Who do ya think I am doll?” he asked on a heady tease.

“I think you’re dangerous,” Helena whispered on an exhale as Tig tugged her closer and slid one hand up the length of her spine, his fingertips brushing each of the protruding vertebrate until he could tangle his fingers in the silken fall of her hair.

Tig couldn’t even pretend to deny the veracity of her words as he tugged on her hair until her neck pulled taut and Helena met his unblinking eyes. “Not towards you in any way baby, nothing bad will ever happen to you again,” Tig rasped and crushed his lips to hers, stealing her breath with the intensity of his want.

Helena was forced to surrender in Tig’s embrace, his hands everywhere at once while holding her immobile.

Tig’s strength was equal parts frightening and protective, his physical intimidation was not lost on himself as he settled closer to her.

“I’m not the kind of man you think I am,” Tig whispered as he pressed his lips against her ear and smoothed one hand down her side and cupped a hand under the curve of her bottom.

“What do you think I have wrong?” Helena asked on a low murmur.

“That I’m some kind of monster, inhuman,” Tig growled in a low tone.

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” Helena said softly and lifted a hand to cup his jaw. Tig captured her wrist, keeping her palm pressed hard to his face. Helena shivered as she felt the stubble against her warm palm and could feel his words vibrate against her skin as he spoke.

Helena almost didn’t hear him add in a strangled whisper against her flushed skin over the thundering beat of her heart. “Please don’t reject me,” Tig growled.

As Tig and Helena’s red blood cells bloated and their pupils pulsed with the increase of their collective and rising blood pressure, across town in the Human Resources office at St. Thomas’s, Dr. Andrew Wakefield pulled open a metal drawer and pawed through the folders until he found Helena’s personnel file.

Andrew began to whistle a lively show tune as he opened Helena’s folder on top of the HR secretary’s desk.

For a second Andrew looked like a reptile, so much so, one would’ve expected a forked tongue to slip out from his thin lips and wet his twisted smile as he read her name aloud from the sunny yellow folder tab.

Onassis, Helena.

Andrew skimmed her contact information, most of which he already knew, before he fished his phone out of his pocket and took pictures of each page in the manila file folder.

Andrew replaced the file and easily slipped out of St. Thomas’s before he casually made his way back to his hotel room.

As the prominent and adored Floridian doctor returned to his hotel room, back in Helena’s kitchen, the air had become charged, and Tig found himself closer and closer to losing the mere semblance of control he possessed.

Helena found her voice as Tig began to tug open the top button of her jeans and deftly lowered her zipper. “No, I, I can’t,” Helena began before she trailed off into silence and desperately tried to avoid his gaze.

“Ya can’t or ya won’t?” Tig hissed, his exhale fell from lungs surrounding his heart that began to gallop in its opaque pericardial sac.

Tig never stopped his touch even as Helena unsuccessfully pushed at his hands and incoherently protested. “I can’t right now,” Helena finally spit, her anxiety had melted into vulnerable defensiveness.

Tig tried to lessen his hold but failed as he took a deep breath in through his nose as he softened his tone but fell flat in an effort to blunt the crassness of his words. “I’ll do anything you tell me, just let me fuck you baby,” he grumbled, his words delivered under the growing roughness of his touch.

Helena couldn’t help but laugh nervously once she caught her breath and dropped her hands to close around Tig’s wrists, simultaneously brilliantly blushing at his ragged admission. She shook her head, “I should probably tell you something,” Helena lamely managed.

“Tell me,” Tig said on a rasp as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, his exhale causing her to break out in goosebumps.

Helena danced her fingertips up his forearms and along the curve of his triceps as she tried to formulate a coherent sentence. “I need some air,” she said in more of a shrill tone than she would’ve liked.

“Could we go outside for a few minutes?” Helena asked on a breathy moan as Tig slid a hand to cup over the clothed junction of her thighs, shuddering with the urgent want to sheath himself in her wet center.

“Just a few,” Tig finally conceded on a frustrated groan.

Helena looked past his shoulder as she raised her hands to his chest, feeling his heart pounding under her palm. Tig let her slide along the edge of the counter away from him as he drummed his fingertips on the outside of his thighs.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Tig told himself as he followed Helena outside.

They each settled into the new turquoise chairs that Helena had picked up at the hardware store, the southwestern round chair pads were still stiff with newness but stood out brightly on the sagging porch.

Helena tapped the arm of the metal chair. “I bought these the day I moved here.”

Tig squeezed the cold arms of the matching chair, “from Harvest’s?” he asked, not sure how to have a casual conversation with her when all he wanted to do was fuck her until he forgot how to spell his name.

Helena nodded, “that place is great, I think I’ve been there more than the grocery store.”

Tig nodded and fumbled for his freshly opened pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket as Helena directed her gaze out at the overgrown yard that needed countless full weekends to clean up and who even knew how many trips back and forth to Harvest’s for mulch, weed killer and topsoil.

Tig was grateful to whoever was on the other end of the incoming call that made his phone buzz in his other pocket.

Helena moved her eyes off a trio of overgrown Meyer lemon trees, their wickedly sharp thorns ready and waiting to rip the flesh from anyone who dared supplant them, to look over at Tig as he frowned down at the caller ID.

“I gotta get this,” Tig murmured, suppressing the anger from his tone that he was being pulled away from her. Helena nodded and watched Tig disappear into the house before he answered the call.

“Yeah,” Tig grumbled tersely as he picked up Clay’s incoming call.

“Where are you?” Clay barked, irritated that Tig had been ignoring a laundry list of calls and messages.

“I’m just working on some things,” Tig benignly answered.

“Well brother, we’re meeting with the Irish in a few hours. Can you break away from your ‘things’ for a while?” Clay added with a chuckle, recalling Gemma telling him what she’d seen in the grocery store aisle with toiletries and over-the-counter products.

Tig walked over to the kitchen counter and stared down at the chipped tiles on the edge and ivory-colored grout lines as he tried to come up with an excuse to not have to leave.

As Tig was trying to come up with an excuse that would hold water to skip out on Club business, Helena’s phone chimed from where she had left it by the stainless-steel toaster.

Tig glanced over his shoulder and could see Helena still sitting on the rear porch, staring out at the yard just as she had been when Clay called.

“Tig? You there?” Clay asked when Tig fell deathly silent as he picked up her phone and glanced at the message preview that popped up on the phone.

“I gotta call you back,” Tig muttered abruptly and hung up on Clay.

Tig clenched his teeth until his jaw popped as he read the first sentence of the incoming text message. Helena’s locked screen kept him from reading any further than the three words displayed on the smudged screen.

“Remember this baby?” Tig read aloud before another message arrived. Tig squinted down at the small square photo that was too tiny to discern much detail.

Helena flinched when Tig stomped back outside and held her phone out towards her, the screen facing her.

“What is this?”

Helena’s face first drained of color as she swallowed hard and was then replaced with a wave of defensiveness as she reached out for her phone. Tig held it just out of her reach, “tell me who sent this.”

Helena blew out a low breath before she moved her eyes from the rectangular screen to settle on his face. “Fine,” she finally said in a heated tone as she began to flush. “Give me the phone first,” she demanded as she held her hand out.

Tig pressed his lips together. Feeling his salivary glands leak and a trill of excitement stimulate his nervous system as Helena’s indignation at his invasive encroachment into secrets she wanted to keep hermitically sealed in a titanium coffin, buried under three million miles of earth.

Tig’s watched her eyes grow wide as her irises practically vibrated in their sockets. In the center of his brain, his pituitary gland ejaculated hormones that further fanned his lust as her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

Helena felt the tiniest lessening of the electrical heaviness in the air when Tig gently placed her phone in her waiting palm. They both felt a tingling jolt as his fingertips brushed against her open hand.

Tig sat back down on the firm chair pad and watched Helena unlock her phone and read the messages. He watched her eyes move back and forth over the words before she began to speak.

Helena spoke without meeting his eyes, never taking her gaze off her phone clutched in her hand. Her voice grew in strength as she gripped her phone so tight that the skin over her knuckles turned white as it was pulled taut.

“Before I started in the neurology ward, I heard all sorts of rumors about several of the physician department heads and a game they played.”

Tig waited as she gathered her words, willing to give her eons to continue, as long as she would speak only to him.

“Dr. Gatez, with a Z, was the one who started everything. He paid off a guy in maintenance to put cameras in the bathrooms, changing rooms and staff lounges. They had competitions for best pictures and videos recorded. They set aside one department head meeting a month to talk about their other conquests,” Helena said before closing her eyes and resumed leaning back in the metal chair.

Tig didn’t have to wait long for her to continue.

“Besides their surveillance fun, they would often use the footage to blackmail people they found in compromising footage or threaten to release still frames. Sometimes they’d try to leverage more with their threats,” Helena said as she looked down at her phone and reread the simple message and tapped on the photo, enlarging it.

Helena was transported back to the events she had moved three-thousand miles away from as she stared at the screen.

Helena turned the phone’s face towards Tig, she cleared her throat as his eyes fell on an image of her emerging from the employee shower. She positioned her fingers to cover most of her nudity.

“After I was sent this and a few that were similar, there was another message that said I could find out how to keep that picture and more from being circulated to the entire staff.”

Helena settled back in the chair and turned the screen back towards herself as she struggled for a moment to find her words.

“One of the doctors told me that all I had to do was perform a few free favors and I’d get the originals.”

Tig felt himself hit with a simultaneous tsunami on each hemisphere of his brain as he battled vastly different thoughts about what Helena described. Tig was both compelled to comfort her while at the same time he felt a coiled charge of excitement in his body as he wanted to rip her phone out of her hand to see the uncensored image of her wet nakedness.

“He tried to take payment when I said no,” Helena started to say before her voice broke and she sniffed hard. “There was a security guard close by,” she added and pinched the bridge of her nose as a headache decided to start brewing behind her eyes.

Tig finally spoke when Helena didn’t seem like she was going to offer more. “What happened after that?”

“I filed a report with the hospital and police department but of all places the cameras weren’t working was the parking garage and the security guard never got a good look at him. It became my word against the esteemed Dr. Wakefield and Gatez,” Helena spit.

Helena blew out a low breath. “The threats quickly escalated, and I tapped into my trust and left everything behind. I didn’t even put them down as a job reference for St. Thomas.”

Tig left his chair and dropped to a knee in front of her. If someone had been watching, without words, it would appear he was proposing. “Let me in,” Tig breathed as he pulled her phone from her tight grip and set it aside. He gathered her hands and smoothed his fingers over her soft, unscarred skin.

Tig pressed his lips to her palms before he buried his face in her lap. “Please let me in,” he begged.

Helena stared down at Tig’s head, his face pressed against the tops of her thighs, his ragged exhales were hot through the denim.

Tig held himself statue still on the outside while inside his chest cavity, his heart leapfrogged itself with its rapid beating.

Helena lifted her hands and slid her fingertips through his hair, the strands tickling her palms.

Tig closed his eyes and smoothed his hands up and down the outside of Helena’s thighs as she rubbed her fingertips in slow circles on his scalp.

As Helena and Tig remained in silence, across town at the Clubhouse, Piney was eating a second sandwich, the new anti-nausea medication had made his appetite return with a vengeance.

Inside his body, the cancerous cells continued to divide. Piney’s discomfort was trapped behind a narcotic wall that was difficult to maintain, the breakthrough pain made his spine practically bow with its intensity.

Piney lowered the volume on the game show rerun as Cassie brought him an extra slice of pie she had brought from St. Thomas’s cafeteria. As the two of them talked about bland topics and then shouted out their answers to the game show trivia, back on Helena’s rear porch, Tig squeezed her hips until she hissed from the pressure as her whispered words fell around his ears.

“Can I trust you, Tig?” Helena asked. He began to nod his head the nanosecond she was done speaking.

“I need something, “ Helena began and trailed off as she lost confidence in her words.

“Talk to me,” Tig demanded as he snapped his head up to find her eyes on him.

“I want,” Helena began before she paused briefly. “I need to know I mean something to you, I’m not disposable.”

Tig rose to his feet and pulled her up and out of the blue wrought-iron chair to join him. “You’re everything,” he growled and crushed his lips to hers.

[tomsrebeleyebrow]

Tom getting kicked in his balls by his child and he tries to act brace but runs inside and you give him an icepack😂

A/N: oh my, I had so much fun writing this! 😂😂😂 and i clearly was in a dad!tom mood today soooo enjoy this one! thanks for the request, nonnie and as always stay safe 💖💗

‘Stay safe, Cheer up’ blurb event

“Alright Nathan, grab firmly onto the bat like this” said Tom behind his four-year-old son, trying to adjust his posture. “Great, now lift your elbow a bit- there you go, buddy!”

Meanwhile you were in the kitchen, preparing lunch and watching your two boys messing around in the backyard of the house. After “teaching” little Nat the basics of soccer, Tom wanted to try baseball as you convinced your husband to put any golf related things aside for a bit (but also for your own sanity).

“Now, imagine someone’s throwing a ball at you” explained Tom, gently holding Nathan’s little arm with both hands.

The little boy stared at his dad, carefully listening to him while sticking his tongue out just like him when he was concentrating. Nathan was the spitting image of Tom but with your eyes, a clever and beautiful mix of wild brown curls with big (e/c) eyes and long eyelashes that made you and Tom (and pretty much anyone else) go soft for the little boy. God you loved your son so much, and now you couldn’t help but be scared about him getting hurt. At least, Tom was there to supervise. Kinda.

“When the ball’s coming at you, you get warmed up to hit it with the bat like this.”

Tom showed Nathan the right motion to do by stepping behind him, gently making the boy swing the bat to the back, before bringing it to the front to hit the imaginary ball. He did the same move a few times, getting it quite fast and winning the approval of his dad. You smiled at how invested your little boy was and so decided to prepare more side dishes to reward him.

“You definitely got the move, Nat!” proudly said Tom, “okay now, show me by yourse-”

As Tom was stepping backward to give his son some more space, Nathan apparently got too excited and didn’t wait enough as the top of the bat made direct contact into Tom’s family jewels. The impact cut Tom’s breath instantly, making him bite his tongue at the same time as every muscles in his body contracted, all nerves sending distress messages to his brain.

“Did I do good, daddy?” Nathan’s soft voice asked, the little boy lowering the bat as he turns towards his father.

Tom’s face was as red as a tomato, his teeth biting into his bottom lips hoping to suppress some pain by creation another one. His eyes screaming pain then focused on his son who was obviously waiting for his answer, and maybe wondering why his dad was making such a funny face.

“Y-You did g-good, b-buddy!” exhaled Tom in one breath, a smile way too wide to be natural but Nathan didn’t seem to notice.

“K-Keep practising a b-bit, d-dad’s comin’ back q-quick!”

Not wasting another second of suffering, the brunette rushed through the garden to then enter the kitchen you were in. Hearing him getting close, you turned to propose him and your son some water but just stopped when you saw your husband’s face.

“Are you alright, Tom?” you asked while approaching him with a confused look as his breathing was getting quite loud and pained, like the unusual redness of his entire face.

Tom raised a hand in front of him, slowly catching his breath as much as possible, before gathering enough strength to talk properly.

“I-I’m… okay, love. I-I think…?”

Then your eyes fell lower and noticed how his other hand was firmly covering his private parts. You frowned, getting even more confused before Tom interrupted your thoughts.

“C-Can you please give me an ice pack, darling? Nat hit me in the balls pretty hard a-and I was not expecting our son to be that strong…”

Then all dots connected. And you couldn’t help the laugh escaping your lips, a loud one that actually brought tears at the corner of your eyes. What a blast.

“D-Darling please, the ice pack!!” whined Tom as he leaned on the wall to rest a little.

You slowly calmed down and went to take an ice pack out of the fridge for your husband, whom modesty had suffered enough. Once you helped him sit on a chair, you remembered Nathan was still outside by himself so you walked to the window to see if he was doing fine. And he definitely was, as you watched your little boy running around the yard still holding the bat, swinging it to chase some monsters or villains like he liked to do.

“I’m glad I’ve got you pregnant before this happens” laughed Tom, still holding the ice pack between his legs, the thump slightly becoming a bit swollen.

You turned to face your husband with a fake shocked expression, hands resting on your hips while you made your way towards him.

“Being cheeky, Holland?” you challenged him, raising an eyebrow followed with a smirk. “Careful, I now know a way to scare your male chauvinism away...”

“Jeez woman, ‘mini Tom’ and my sperm cells suffered enough already” chuckled Tom before sliding his free arm around your waist.

He brought you closer and kissed your belly, well your now three-month pregnant belly that will protect your second child for another six months or so. Tom then nuzzled his face against it like a cat, which made you giggle, content. You slid your fingers through his brown locks, brushing some hair back. Then you heard little footsteps coming your way.

“Mama?”

You saw Nathan appearing from the corner of the room, his hands now free from the bat. Tom didn’t move from his spot but followed the sound of Nathan’s voice.

“Where’s papa?”

“Daddy got a bit hot outside and needed to rest a little” you gently replied, smiling at your son’s understanding expression.

“Dad’s doing super fine” Tom added with a huge smile, trying to hide the ice pack he was still pressing against his crotch. “Alright, taking a break from your baseball training. Time to get some lunch, buddy!”

🏷 Permanent tag list & mutuals 💖 (get notified)

@allegra-writes @tom-holland-is-spiderman​ @detroitbydark​ @blissfulparker​ @farfromhaz @xxtomxo @worldoftom @charismas-world  @stiles-banshees @americaxo17 @zabdisamor @princezzariel @mcuassemble @thatweirdomimic @juliebean247 @harryhollandwhore @spiderbibby @intiate03 @himynameishooman @bookworm06 @flowerboyparker @miraclesoflove @eridanuswave @jillanaholland @mendes-marvel @biebsmylife95 @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @tsh-darling​ @popbubblegumpop​ @fanficscuziranout​ @beiroviski​​ @langdonlovey​ @markleehee​ @riverxholland @tomhoran @itseightbeats @xxrebelswithoutacausexx​ @rubberducky-jrr​ @howdyherron​ @jacobsppsleeve @lovewolfspirit​ @saysomethingspiderman @yoongi-holland @quaksonhehe @the-crazy-fanfictionist​ @alaeddis @lyzalovealk @sovereignparker @lmaotshollandd @howdyherron @t-monosapiens-h 

[heauxplesslydevoted]

And They Were Roommates (Bryce Lahela x MC)

Summary: A surprise leads to a major shift in Bryce and Casey’s relationship

A/N: Eeeek, this is my first time ever writing a Bryce x MC fic! The day you guys see me writing something not Ethan centric is the day you should play the lotto because it’s more rare than a unicorn sighting.

Anywho....please enjoy!

Tags: @drakewalker04 @canknot @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @maurine07 @badchoicesposts @ermidc @sundaescreamcheese @danijimenezv @starrystarrytrouble @the-pale-goddess @gogotomago95 @have-aheart @aworldoffandoms @zaffrenotes @anotherbeingsworld @to-fangirl-or-not-to-fangirl @nazariolahela @the-unconquered-queen @writinghereandthere @omgjasminesimone @parkerattano @silent-storms-posts

~v~

“Okay, are we going out to lunch?” Casey asks, twisting her fingers into her skirt. From the passenger seat of Bryce’s car, the bustling streets of Boston fly past her. A tendril of her curly hair whips around in the wind, settling on her lip as it sticks to her tacky lip gloss. Bryce is a freaking speed demon and drives too fast for her liking.

But she does like looking at him when he’s behind the wheel. His grip on the wheel is relaxed, much like his posture, slouched low in the seat, right hand drumming against the gear shift. While it’s still winter, the sun is shining brightly, making the highlights in his hair and the light dusting of freckles adorning his nose stand out. Her boyfriend—even thinking that word makes her giddy—makes a pretty sight to behold.

“No, that’s not the plan. But we can go get food once we’re done,” Bryce answers..

“Ice skating?” Casey guesses. She watches as he shakes his head. “But ice skating sounds so fun.”

“We can go ice skating some other time, Case.”

“We’re going to the movies?”

Bryce chuckles. She’s been trying to guess all morning what he has planned for the day, and despite getting every single guess wrong, Casey comes up with another one at the drop of a hat. The persistence is admirable. “You’ll find out soon enough. Stop being so nosy.”

Casey pouts, feigning hurt. “I resent that! I prefer to be called naturally inquisitive. It makes me sound smart.”

“You’re nosy,” Bryce deadpans. “But don’t fret, we’ll be there in like, 5 minutes tops.”

He’s been excited from the moment he told her to get dressed, and Casey can see that his leg is bouncing up and down underneath the steering wheel. Whatever he has planned, he’s really excited about it, so Casey decided to keep quiet and enjoy the rest of the ride.

They enjoy the rest of the short ride, Casey scrolling through Bryce’s different Spotify playlists until she settles on the perfect song, but he’s pulling in and parking his car before she can even hit play.

An apartment complex was not what she was expecting to see. It’s a very nice apartment complex, located a few blocks away from Boston University. Casey can see the college students milling around, some adults walking their dogs, a few older more established couples, some with kids, some without going in and out of the building.

Now her curiosity is piqued. Is Bryce dragging her along to some surgeon friend’s apartment? Is this his idea of a Saturday adventure? Granted, he never promised her an adventure, just a surprise, and while she likes most of his surgical cohort, she’d rather be doing something else. Nonetheless, Casey doesn’t say anything, letting Bryce intertwine their fingers and lead her through the building.

They ride up the elevator in silence until they reach the 4th floor. It isn’t until Bryce reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key do the alarms go off on her brain. “Bryce? Did you–”

“I got a new apartment!” Bryce exclaims, cutting her off. “Surprise!”

Once the door is open, he’s pulling her in, his excitement palpable. Casey looks around the place. It’s unfurnished, the hardwood floors beneath them bright and freshly waxed. And even though she hasn’t looked around, she can already tell it’s much larger than his current 1 bedroom.

“Oh...wow,” is all that manages to come out of her mouth.

“I know! It’s in Keiki’s school district, thank god. And it’s a brand new unit, all stainless steel appliances, marble and quartz countertops, which are apparently huge deals when you’re apartment hunting. In-unit washer and dryer, walk-in closets, there’s a gym and a pool downstairs, a game room–”

Casey watches him as his animatedly rattles off all of the features in the apartment. His face is flush, pink with excitement, his words are breathless and tumbling out of his mouth all at once. She takes a step forward, cupping his face between both hands. “Bryce, I think you should stop and breathe.”

The command makes him flush hard, now from embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You can continue now.”

“That was pretty much it. The main draw is that it’s a two bedroom, two bathroom apartment, so I don’t have to sleep on the couch anymore. Now Keiki and I will each have our own space. Do you think she’ll like it?”

“Will the 15 year old girl like having her own room, and not having to share a bathroom with her older brother?” Casey nods. “Absolutely. Keiki is a lucky duck.” She takes a few steps further into the apartment, silently appraising it. It’s beautiful from what she can see, and she hasn’t even seen the bedrooms. “Question: how are you affording this place? You’re a surgical resident, living in Boston is expensive, and I’m pretty sure Sallie Mae is eating most of your paychecks.”

Bryce looks down at his feet, shuffling them back and forth much to Casey’s dismay. He’s going to scuff the floors doing that. “I uh...I talked to my parents.”

“When?”

“A little over a month ago, before I enrolled Keiki in school. I called my parents and gave them quite the earful about not contacting Keiki once since she’s been in Boston, and I kinda let them have it. Turns out I’ve been holding in a lot of pent up...stuff regarding my parents.”

Casey’s eyes soften at his confession. They hardly ever have conversations about his parents, and when they do, it’s never good. “You want to talk about it?”

Bryce shakes his head, memories of that conversation trying to bubble to the surface. His mother tried her hand at making awkward small talk as if they hadn’t gone years without talking, while his father said nothing at all. He bites the inside of his cheek, willing the bad memory to go away. Negative thoughts of his parents don’t need to invade this space.  “Nah, it’s not important.”

Resisting the urge to call bullshit, Casey simply nods. “Agree to disagree, Bry. But we’ll table it for now and just continue your story.”

He’s grateful that she’s willing to listen, but not pushy enough to force him to talk, leaving the ball in his court. “Long story short, I told them that Keiki is welcome to stay with me in Boston and I wouldn’t make it public news that they all but abandoned their daughter and drag social services into things, if they allowed me to be her legal caregiver.”

“Really?”

“Yup. So I can be in charge of her education and medical decisions while she’s out here. It’s less permanent than me filing her guardianship, and my parents still legally have rights, but it makes things easier. And because of that, my parents are giving me a pretty generous monthly allowance for all of her expenses. Housing, food, school supplies, the works.”

“So child support?”

“Pretty much, yes. I didn’t ask for it, but the Lahelas like to throw money at their problems. Some of that money goes towards the rent here, the rest I put in a savings account for Keiki. I’ll gift her the money when she starts college, so she’ll have a bit of a nest egg, and won’t be dependent on ramen noodles and the McDermot’s dollar menu like I was.”

Bryce shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at Casey, trying to gauge her reaction. “I know I dumped a lot on you, and you probably think I’m insane for taking all of this on but–”

Casey wraps her arms around his waist and cuts him off with a quick kiss. “If I could look at you with literal heart eyes right now, I would.”

“Really?” 

“Really.” She leans forward, resting her head against the solid expanse of his chest. The faint scent of his laundry detergent and his cologne invade her senses, and she relishes in it. He smells like comfort, if there was ever such a thing. “I can’t believe you accomplished all of this in such a short period of time.”

“Well my lease was up, and I was trying to get Keiki situated in school, and it all sort of fell into place at the right time.”

“Stop trying to downplay it,” Casey orders. “You are strong, and brave, and you take initiative in any situation. I don’t know too many 27 year olds that would spring into action and volunteer to raise their teenage sisters, all while being a resident and trying to juggle their own personal life.”

The way she says it, the awe and idolatry in her voice makes his stomach flip. Bryce considers himself to be a pretty self-assured guy. He has a healthy level of self esteem, but something about Casey praising him always causes him to short circuit, without fail. “You make it sound so much cooler than it really is.”

“It is cool,” Carey argues. “You’re doing a noble thing, so let me give you compliments you deserve.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes immediately, the bashfulness still holding him tight. Eventually, Bryce looks up at her, her expression open and earnest. “You make me sound so much better than I really am.”

Casey grabs hold of his sweater and tugs him closer, forcing him to crane forward and be at her eye level. “Mhmm, it’s a hidden talent of mine. I happen to be an excellent salesperson.”

Bryce smirks, their lips barely brushing against each other, and mumbles “You’re such a dork,” before capturing her in a kiss. Casey responds instantly, matching his eagerness and fervor. It doesn’t take long for things to get more heated, his tongue slipping into her mouth, hands going to grip her waist.

She breaks to kiss to inhale sharply. “You’ve lived here for 5 minutes and you’re already trying to defile the place.”

“Can’t help it. You make me feel like a horny teenager again, baby.”

“Well stop it.”

Bryce rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun.”

“Come on loverboy, show me around. Give me the grand tour.”

They wander around the apartment at a leisurely pace, Casey pointing out all of the different things Bryce could buy to furnish the place—“What do you mean you’ve never gone to Home Goods?”—and admonishing his idea to shop on Craigslist. He’s an adult, not a college freshman, and his home should reflect that.

“You want to know what the best part is?” Bryce asks, leading Casey back to their starting point, the living room.

“What?”

“Keiki’s bedroom is on the other side of the apartment, separated by a pretty sizable living room.”

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and she shoves at his chest, laughing. “And? Are you trying to say something?”

“Yeah, that one of us—you—can be pretty loud at times.”

Her cheeks heat up and she blushes furiously. “Well I’ll make sure to keep it quiet on the nights that I sleep over.”

“What if you didn’t just spend the night over here?”

He instantly regrets the way he phrased that sentence because it sounds like he just told her he doesn’t want her in his apartment. Casey frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Sorry! That sounded weird.” He flushes, stumbling over his words. Something about Casey Valentine makes him very nervous. “That’s not what I meant, I promise.”

Bryce grabs both of Casey’s hands, holding them close to his chest. “Move in with me.”

Her eyes widen at the suggestion. He wants to do what? “What?”

“I spent all of last year tiptoeing around our relationship, trying to keep things light and breezy when I really didn’t want that. And it took you being in that...horrible accent for me to finally reveal the full extent of my feelings for you. Now that we’re together and official, I don’t want to waste any more time.”

“I would like to go to sleep with you every night, your ice cold feet pressed against my legs, and your curly hair tickling my nose because you’ve invaded my side of the bed. And I want to wake up to you every morning, because even though you think you look crazy in the morning, I think you’re absolutely beautiful. I want us to cook together every day, or just you because you’re a much better cook than I am.” Casey giggles at his jokes, which only spur him on further. “Besides Keiki, you’re the most important person I have, and I want you here with me, permanently.”

When Casey doesn’t say anything immediately, Bryce understands. He just dropped a bomb—a few bombs actually—right at her feet, she needs time to process. But the silence stretches until it grows into something long and uncomfortable, and a thin sheen of sweat forms at Bryce’s hairline. Did he just shoot himself in the foot? Did he seriously overestimate her feelings for him, and the nature of their relationship?

Before he can open his mouth to renege on the invitation, Casey speaks. “We’re going to have to talk to your landlord, or the property manager, because a new lease needs to be drawn up.”

“W-what?”

“I mean, I assume it’s just you and Keiki listed on the lease, and I don’t want to just be a permanent guest staying in your apartment. I want it to be our apartment, so I need to be on the lease agreement,” Casey explains. “And I know you said your parents cover most of the rent on this place, but I want to contribute, so I guess I’ll be in charge of the–”

She doesn’t get to finish talking because Bryce is on her in an instant, his mouth crashing into hers in a fiery kiss. His fingers dig into her hips, walking her backwards until her back bumps into the kitchen island. In a quick show of strength, Bryce lifts her onto the island, and Casey has to break the kiss to hiss. 

“Shit, that’s cold!”

“Sorry baby.” He’s not the least bit sorry, flashing her his signature smirk. “I’ll warm you up.”

“And you say I’m the dorky one,” Casey teases, laughing as Bryce kisses her between each word.

“You are,” he insists, kissing down her neck. She squirms away from him as his lips find a particularly sensitive spot, but he holds her in place. “We bring that out in each other.”

He kisses her a few more times, some softer than others, some so deep, she feels dizzy when he pulls away.

“We’re really going to do this?” Casey asks rhetorically. “This whole living together thing?”

“We are. I asked, and you said yes, so you’re stuck with me, little lady.” 

There’s a smile on his face, so huge, Casey really thinks he might blind her with his pearly white teeth. She hasn’t seen him this relaxed, this unabashedly happy in a while. She can’t help but to smile back.

“You have to let me have creative control on furniture and decorations though.”

“This apartment is going to look like a furniture store magazine spread.”

Casey nods. “It’ll smell like the inside of a Bath & Body Works store in here, too.”

“You’re going to go crazy on the candles, aren’t you?”

“Oh absolutely. They also have cute wall plug-ins.”

Bryce laughs. “I don’t care. You and Keiki can do whatever you want to the place.”

“Mhmm, now you’re talking my language, Lahela.”

They talk excitedly, basking in the fun that this new journey is going to bring their relationship. They don’t know how much time has passed when the conversation finally dwindles down.

“Hey, Bryce?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you let me down from here?” Casey asks, gesturing to the countertop. Bryce has her caged in, arms on either side of her. “Despite your best efforts to warm me up with a make-out session, this thing is freezing cold.”

“No one told you to wear a mini skirt like this in winter, you naughty school girl.”

“I resent that! This skirt is very cute, and it would’ve looked even cuter had you taken me ice skating.”

Bryce rolls his eyes. He’s gonna have to take this girl to the ice skating rink, and soon. He trails his hands up and down her legs, taking in all the goosebumps that have popped up on her smooth skin.

“You want to know where this skirt would look even better?”

“Where?”

Gripping the backs of her thighs, Bryce lifts Casey off of the countertop and into his arms. “The floor of our new bedroom.”