#there was more than just ‘come to the darkside’ that was going on

[zeb-z]

no okay bc Vhaeraun coming along doing the whole big bad thing - showing he has power and flexing it in both an attempt to put despair over the party and an attempt to split them apart, and then offering them something to tempt them to his side in a sense. of course he offered Argentum knowledge - especially crucial to them because it’s personal knowledge about their family, their parents. but what’s interesting is what he offered Zephrael. he didn’t offer power, nor strength, or anything else along the lines of what he should seek as a member of the reformed church, or what we might think he would find the most difficult to resist. of all the things to try and ‘turn him to the dark side’, so to speak, he was offered redemption

[chexie]

UhhhhhhH

I don't really have anything witty for this one. Just. Don't acknowledge out loud that it's almost been a year, I'll sob.

[shanastoryteller]

i know spn hates good writing and also sam, but the dumpster fire of s4 really could have been salvaged if they'd just played ruby and castiel straight

by which i mean

ruby should have been one of the good guys (honestly it feels like the writers changed their minds last second regarding her anyway)

castiel should have been the villain (which, let's be clear, he totally was)

the point of this is that it would force dean to confront his own bullshit and maybe figure himself out, which not only would have been good television but would have been satisfying to me, personally

sam's problem is that he wants there to be a good equal to every evil. that he believes goodness exists even where it doesn't, that he always wants to give things a chance, that he always has hope. they sound like good traits, up until they're used against him. they reach the station of angels are bad eventually, but it should have been more immediate and visceral, that there is no greater good here. sam should have had this knocked out of him, which would have shattered him in way, to lose this thing he's depended on his whole life, but it really would have hammered home that it's choices that really do matter, not circumstances

dean's problem is always that he sees monsters as monsters with no grey area, that sam always has to play his moral center the second anything becomes complicated. then he goes to hell, breaks, tortures innocents, and an angel yanks him out and tells him that he's a righteous man

dean desperately desperately wants this to be true

because it's sam who they had to look out for, sam who was destined to go darkside, sam with the demon blood

dean doesn't have that excuse

he's just a human man with a hunger for violence who never learned to curb his appetite. who was instead pushed to gorging himself on it, who is left broken and desperate and angry by what he did to save himself. his whole life, his whole self perception for thirty years, was about protecting innocents. then he betrays that in hell. do you think he kept count? how many innocents he destroyed against how many he saved? the day it equaled out, do you think he wished he could weep?

dean is so unbelievably messed up by hell. not the torture he endured, that's barely a blip, but the torture he inflicted is what haunts him

so he needs for sam to be the bad guy

he's using his powers, he's hanging out with demons, he's drinking demon blood. he's the monster. he's inhuman

(he's using his powers and hanging out with demons and drinking demon blood and still he's doing less harm than dean, still he's trying to save people. dean can't accept this, because he can't be the rotten one. he'll forgive sam anything, but never himself, so it has to be sam. because he can fix sam, he'll always love his brother, so if he's evil there's stil a path forward there. but if it's dean? if he's the one going evil? sam's left him before. why would he stay now? if dean is the one going darkside then he loses everything. himself. his brother. it has to be sam)

dean is projecting all his own shit onto sam because he can't deal with any of it, which is why he treats sam like shit, why he treats him in a way that he's never treated him before. it's how he treats himself. and sam has no idea what to do with this, is left reeling and hurt and broken himself by dean doing this to him. sam never thought dean would leave him to die in the panic room, because dean wouldn't, not the dean he's known his whole life, not the dean that loves him. not alone.

but dean would do that to himself. and since sam is his proxy for himself, it's what he does to sam, but sam doesn't know that so all he feels is the weight of betrayal and grief and rage

isn't it funny, almost? the demons brought sam back just as he was, exactly the same. the angels bring back dean but he's not the same. dean comes back wrong, comes back different. but no one wants to say that. to deal with it

having ruby be evil and castiel venerated justifies all of dean's spiraling, all of his punishment. he was right all along, sam was the problem, don't you see?

boring

ruby stays loyal to sam, a demon who chooses something different, who chooses the boy with the demon blood because there's something compelling about sam winchester, as tempting as the apple before eve, and ruby didn't get where she is by knowing better

(remember when sam pulled all the psychic kids together, acted as leader, and resisted azazel? there is a leader in sam, a compassion in him, that azazel had to cheat in order to beat. and if ruby can show him how to win against demons then-)

castiel let sam out of the panic room. he's following orders, because that's his job, and damn the consequences. this should have been seen as the act of betrayal and evil that it was, castiel proving he was never really on their side at all, never on the side of preventing harm. it also would have made his redemption arc mean something, it would have given castiel a lot more to work with if they'd had to really bring him back over

ruby realizes too late what killing lilith means. tries to stop sam, but now that she's here it's too late, kill or be killed. sam accepts that, is willing to die rather than start the apocalypse. but then dean is there, and he can't watch his brother die again, he just can't. so he kills lilith to save dean, when he would have been willing to die himself

ruby gets them out of there. they discover what castiel did, that he pushed forward the apocalypse rather than prevented it

this breaks dean. he finally snaps, but it's good, because everything he'd used to shore himself up before had been terrible and rotted and corrosive

a righteous man is not a good man. dean is forced to confront everything he's done in hell, and after he'd gotten back, everything he put sam through, how he left him in that panic room and almost killed him, how he's treated him for the past year. how it was a demon who tried to help in the end and an angel that damned them

and how sam saved him anyway, damn the consequences

we should have returned to what the show had been building up to from the beginning - that sam loves his brother enough to do terrible things and dean has no idea how to deal with that

so we've got sam and dean on the run with ruby, castiel's slower and much juicier redemption arc, and dean having to pick up the pieces of himself while sam tries to figure out how he gets them out this mess. and sam's guilt is justified here, his aching sense of responsibility, because this time he kills lilith knowing it'll free lucifer. he makes that choice, for dean. and he's determined to fix it

just. demon blood tainted sam and turncoat ruby trying to save the world. the angels trying to end it. all while dean finally accepts the crushing guilt of what he's done and starts to work through it, starts to work on becoming the brother sam lost, on once more being the steady thing sam can hold onto no matter what it takes, because sam choosing him reminds him of something he'd told himself he forgot

he doesn't want to be a righteous man, a torturer, a demon, a victim, a martyr

he just wants to be sam's brother. the one he looks up to, depends on, loves

he wants what he's always wanted

to feel worthy of his little brother's affection

[nchlsdmn]

Full Plot of the Cancelled Sith Shrine arc from Star Wars The Clone Wars: Season 8

The plot of this arc was repurposed in Star Wars Rebels, when Ezra and Maul merge Holocrons together – as well as for the Sith temple on Malachor. The design for the temple and the wasteland where the swords are impaled in the ground were all concepts that were created for Star Wars: The Clone Wars, but were later reused in Star Wars Rebels; and the Sith temple which was supposed to be located deep beneath Coruscant became a planet of its own instead of Malachor.

Yoda gets lured by Sidious like he did in Season 6 when he was messing with Yoda’s mind. Palpatine activates the temple and the disturbance in the Force lures Master Yoda. Additionally, Sidious partially messing with Yoda’s mind, since he knew that Yoda was likely the only one who had an idea of what was to come.

Sidious wanted Yoda to open a Holocron for him, but Yoda refuses, so he decides to hold Yoda hostage and to have other Jedi come down in an attempt to rescue him. The plan was for the other Jedi to open the Holocron for Sidious instead, in order to free Yoda in exchange. Ahsoka realizes this, and went to inform the Jedi that chasing after Yoda was wrong because it was a trap. Sidious would have also tried to sacrifice Yoda because in ancient times, the Sith used to sacrifice Jedi on altars.

Sidious wanted a Jedi Holocron – which Ahsoka would have then secured and returned back to the vault, and she would seal the door shut with her lightsaber while Sidious was on the other side shooting lightning at her. This would be her only glimpse at Sidious, even though she didn't exactly know who he was.

The Geonosians were utilized by Dooku in order to look for the temple itself. Sidious and Dooku didn’t know where it was but Sidious heard about it, so they had to find it first. The Jedi also need to use the Geonosians as guides, because the Geonosians being creatures that live in catacombs and depths by nature, were useful. The Jedi then free Poggle in order to tell them where all of those Geonosians were going (the Geonosians used by Dooku).

The Temple had kaiju-like monsters called "protectors." They lived in the depths and had moved to those caves to live in them. After a while they started acting as custodians or protectors of the ruins beneath the surface. The Jedi had to get past them in order gain access. Their role in the story was more so for lore-building rather than vital to the plot itself.

The Sith temple was only one. But still underground, just above the surface of the buried Sith temple there would have been both Sith and Jedi architecture sometimes even mixed together testifying how the Jedi had gradually started building on top of more ancient Sith ruins and ended up "overwriting" the history of those locations by imposing Jedi architecture and Jedi culture that concealed or sometimes even destroyed past Sith architecture.

This would have also shown the battle that happened between the Sith and the Jedi, so it had more than simply a cultural relevance. The whole plot and theme of the arc was similar to the ruins of Mar in the Jak and Daxter franchise where the ruins of Mar are buried deep beneath Haven City and the city was built on top of it.

The Jedi would have also used capsule-like vehicles to descend deep beneath the surface because they had trouble descending in Level 0. The main Jedi accompanying Ahsoka were Anakin and Obi-Wan. There would have been scenes where Plo Koon, Kit Fisto, Mace Windu, Ki-Adi Mundi appear – but the main ones involved are Anakin, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka.

The reward for mixing Darkside arts and the knowledge contained in a Jedi Holocron was similar to what Ezra and Maul obtained in Star Wars Rebels, although at the time when they wrote the Sith Temple arc, they had decided that the reward for mixing Darkside and Lightside was a vision of the future – and Sidious wanted to see the future to know if his enemies would be defeated and if his schemes would actually come to fruition, or if he had to retrace his steps and change some things and to see how his enemies would have reacted.

As far as how the arc ended – the Jedi rescue Yoda, Poggle returns to Dooku (hence his return in ROTS), and the Temple would have been destroyed similar to what happens in Star Wars Rebels with Malachor. The Jedi decide to keep the matter a secret -- even from other Jedi who didn’t know – because the fact that the Darkside of the Force was so close to them, and they never noticed or sensed it would make the Jedi look weak.

Also, according to them – in the end it was better that the temple was destroyed because the Jedi had the mindset that the Darkside has nothing to offer them or to show them, so it’s better off if it was destroyed and buried forever. But this would leave Master Yoda disturbed because it meant that their enemies were much much closer than they had initially realized.

Ahsoka would have "returned" to the Jedi, but she would have acted as a sort of "external informant" on their behalf for some time; and this is where her role comes into place with this arc – because she would have investigated in the lower world and found out where Master Yoda was taken. In the original intentions for the show, Ahsoka was not so sour with the Jedi after she left them.

Anakin initially is upset that Ahsoka left to begin with, but by the end of the arc, he accepts that Ahsoka made her own decision, a nod to Obi-Wan's wise words in the Utapau arc: "She made the decision..." Ahsoka doesn't fully commit to the Jedi until the Siege of Mandalore arc, which is where she joins with Rex and the 332nd.

Unrelated, but one element that was removed from Dark Disciple is Ahsoka's role, because in the original version, Ahsoka still held a close relationship with the Jedi despite being outside the order; and she would act as an external informant or agent for the Jedi when the Jedi themselves were limited by their own morality or code. So the Jedi would have gotten Ahsoka to contact Ventress for the job they wanted Ventress to do for them (assassinate Dooku with Quinlan Vos) because they thought Ventress would be more open to listening to Ahsoka and also because Ahsoka lived in the underworld so she could find out Ventress’s location at the time and approach her.

[gffa]

see that’s the part I don’t like, it’s one thing to have Jedi be fallible people who don’t know everything and make mistakes. But then people start going “yeah see, the darksiders are right, the Jedi are all either terrible people or idiots”

Hi! That's the point I was making in the previous post--at a certain point, worrying about what other people are or aren't saying about any given piece of Star Wars media featuring the Jedi was killing my desire to be in Star Wars fandom at all. So I had to step away from what other people were saying because it wasn't fun for me and it made the entire experience of watching or reading Star Wars miserable to the point of genuinely I considered quietly just entirely leaving the fandom. I had to step back and say, you know what, I am okay with the Jedi being "flawed" in the same way other characters are allowed it and I'm going to talk about it in that vein and maybe I'll get some people to go, oh, hey, yeah, the Jedi can be flawed without being evil, they can still be heroic, good characters, which would be a win for me! But also I'll have spent time having fun in fandom and not worrying about what other people are saying. I get it, sometimes we have to address the frequently racist and imperialist influences a lot of people are refusing to acknowledge in their arguments about the Buddhist space psychics, or sometimes we have to vent about how frustrated we are in fandom, it's a balancing act. But for me the bigger trend has to be just not worrying about how others are going to interpret the Jedi in The Acolyte or Rise of the Red Blade or Tales of the Jedi or whatever because otherwise I might as well leave the fandom right now. Instead, I'm going to build a corner where my friends and I can see Jedi being "flawed" and react positively, because at the end of the day, that is the fandom space I want to come relax in. That corner isn't going to be for everyone, fair enough! Everyone's gotta build their own corner. But, for me, my advice is always to build up that space you want to see and set down boundaries about it--and I want to see a space where a Jedi can make a mistake and it's not the end of the world any more than it's the end of the world when Luke makes a mistake. That space may not exist in the wider wilds of fandom, but it's going to exist here and that's everything I really need. <3

[ronearoundblindly]

Dirty Water

Steve Rogers x deep sea mermaid!Reader

Prompt from this dirty ask game with our pairing from the Sun, Salt, and Shield series.

Summary: After a very long (but unofficial) courtship, where Steve is too shy to bring up your anatomy and his compatibility, a cultural misinterpretation quite literally sinks his resolve.

Warnings for smut (I'm gonna have to call this what it is and just say it's monster-f**king, or the one where Steeb gets maybe-CNC-boinked by a 'monster.' Sorry, babes. Ro's dipped a toe into the darkside for a smidge.) MINORS DNI. Poorly--or rather, not--edited and I have no idea the word count...

Steve swallows harshly and tries not to nervously splash his feet in the pool.

"What?" he chokes out.

He can't think of anything more articulate to say, not that it would matter when so much is lost in translation.

All you did was ask about the singing outside the doors of your 'room'--the retrofitted gym pool at the Avengers compound, the one is the basement without windows for your highly sensitive eyes--but he...could never have predicted why you were so curious.

"They're just enjoying themselves," he'd chuckled, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Do you sing?"

The look on your face, jaw slack and head tilting in contemplation, it should have warned him. You unfurled from your relaxed posture, the stance where your arms cross behind your back and fit atop the swell of your--he'd say tail, but it's more like your ass--rump, the rest of your body bent in a curve until your fin nearly touches the surface, and inched closer to his feet in the deep end.

"Yessssss," you hissed slowly through three rows of sharp teeth, crawling up his legs, out of the water, dripping over his lap as you braced large, webbed hands on either side of his hips.

Even in the very low light of damp room, he could see the lavender of your stare drop to his crotch.

"You sing too?"

Steve's an idiot. He didn't understand yet, so that dumbass actually began humming 'You Are My Sunshine' because nothing else occurred to him.

Then he noticed your tail glowing beneath the scales.

Then he realized you were pressing yourself to his legs.

Aaaand then Steve Rogers looked down your body to witness his knee disappearing in a spongy spot where the armoring swelled apart.

Oh god.

"What?" he now asks like an frightened teen seeing boobs for the first time.

"I make you sing?" Your broad green lips turn up in a smile. "Show me."

Suddenly, Steve's forgotten more english than you've learned. "Huh?"

Your flowing, textured hair, shapely even out of the water, sways when you cock your head to the side, looking through your lashes at him.

"How Stevie sing?"

He shivers for the first time in the cool water and lets an involuntary grunt leave his lips.

He's tried to stop himself from imagining your body and how it works to...ya know, and how he might...oh god, he's going to hell, but apparently, you've already been imagining that humans are either masturbating or fucking outside your door at all hours all the time--

--and oh shit, that means you sing as a part of sex.

He turns his head to the almost black ceiling and fails to think of anything else as the light from your body reflects in waves on every wall. He whimpers when he feels a ripple of muscle through the wet cotton of his jeans.

"Doll make Stevie sing?" Your voice is hoarse, and just as quickly as you say that by his throat, you flip back into the water. You can only breathe air for so long without hurting your throat and lungs.

He thinks he's off the hook, praying the tightness in his pants dissipates faster than they'll take to dry, but he lowers his head to find you peeking from the water, intent as ever on learning his ways.

He should be ashamed, so very fucking ashamed, of how badly he wants to take himself out of his pants and watch the wonder of those pretty eyes as he comes at the thought of you, but Steve's drowning in the hope that he can have you. It's been so long that he's wanted this, even in the most innocent ways.

Your final plea bubbles to the surface.

"Show?"

Steve inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

This is wrong, he thinks. You should not be doing this.

Yet he does it anyway because he wants to; he wants to so badly.

He sits up straight at the edge of the concrete, popping the button of his jeans and aches as he lowers the zipper. He can't meet your eye while he pulls out his semi-hard cock and fists it harshly.

You're so long that even looking away leaves your shimmering tail in sight, and he thinks he sees you rattle in excitement. It makes him shiver again, and the vibration shakes the moan escaping his tight chest.

Yikes, it does sound a bit like he's singing...

What the hell are you even doing?

Of course, he knows he's touching himself and he knows well enough how to do that, but he shouldn't be doing this in front of you, much less enjoying it. His blood is running so hot beneath his skin, though, the chilly pool feels soothing over his shins where he rolled up his pants (to no avail).

The heat floods his veins and mind to the point rational thought quiets, and Steve's eyes slither up your demure form.

Your eyes get wider and wider the more noise he makes, and his rampant imagination feeds off the sight of that gap in your scales visible as it undulates in the refraction beneath his feet.

He leans his head back and closes his own eyes at just the wrong moment.

Mid-whine, he misses the splashing sound that would have warned him you were coming, and instead Steve is pummeled by the end of your tail and topples into the pool, shocked and sputtering salty water until his body is pinned to the flat of the concrete wall he used to be perch on.

As he scrambles to toss his arms over the ledge, he feels claws dragging his jeans farther down his legs, and the fabric hangs like an anchor while the silky-slick webbing of your fingers glides up and down his thighs.

Then your tongue runs the length of his cock, making Steve moan embarrassingly loud and thrust his hips forward. If he weren't in the water, he'd be a puddle.

Pleasure races up and down his spine, fighting for dominance over the feeling of cold when he slips from the ledge and submerges briefly.

He barely registers the loss of your tongue and your quick lap of swimming before you're backing into him again.

It's on your ass, too, the soft entrance like you rubbed against his knee, but he could not have imagined what it could do--what you could do--how you could manipulate your muscles inside your tail.

He has no brainpower left to describe it. Steve just lets go, trusting your body to hold his weight as one hand grips the mossy softness of your waist and the other hand spreads over your lower back. Out of instinct, he tries to get leverage to push himself in and out of you, but that's useless.

There's a strong ripple of muscle that pulls him in, and in, and in, delicately tight on his sensitive cock and wide enough to slowly suck his balls into the massaging cavern.

Steve's eyes roll far into his head. He's going to pass out if this keeps up.

"Doll," he gasps, but it's too quiet in the slosh of the water. "Please, I'm--"

A clear, high note crescendos from the deep below, something disturbingly pure and paralyzing, and Steve can't move. He can only feel and experience a siren's song in action.

His body twitches violently before his cum is milked sensually, desperately, methodically from his cradled and ravaged pelvis, and never in Steve's long life has he ever been so fucking spent.

He whimpers when your cunt releases him, only faintly aware that he's propped on your back by his elbows as you swim to the shallow end and let him 'stand' on his shaky legs.

The screeching hinge of the door startles him.

"Cap," the junior agent yells over your hiss from the bright light spraying in, "everything okay? I heard..."

Yeah, I couldn't describe it either, Steve thinks.

He spits water from his mouth. "Fine," he huffs back, "we were...singing, and I fell in."

"Oh. Alright. Sorry to disturb you, Miss G." The man nods his apology at your hand-covered eyes and leaves.

Steve can't help but laugh like an insane person, laying to properly float in the water, uncaring what you're up to until he gently hits the stairs leading out of the pool.

Your head rises out of the water hopefully, and he cups your cheeks, still chuckling. He has zero words to describe...anything at the moment, but he can show you a human tradition of affection in return.

Shifting as easily as a feather in the water, he pulls you two together and sweetly presses his salmon lips to your seaweed pout, letting your long locs fall over his own shoulders.

Soon, he's gasping for air again, yet just before you dunk below the surface, you grin and coo at him.

"Stevie sings lovely."

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

what...the hell have i done. *hits post before final two braincells protest*

@fandom-has-taken-me-hostage @leah2901 @blogbog710 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @jamneuromain

[princess-ibri]

Darkside Disney: Anna and Elsa

The Darkside tale of these two sisters begins when Anna, with so many years of confusion and hurt, decides to take Elsa up on her hurdled order of “then leave”

She turns on her heel then and there, never reaching out for Elsa, never causing Elsa to unleash her powers. She decides that if Elsa wants to close a door between them, she’ll finally stop knocking.

Anna leaves with Hans back to the Southern Isles that night

They're married onboard the ship, and Hans spends the honeymoon and proceeding three years of marriage carefully stoking Anna smoldering hurt into a true fire of resentment

By the time word comes from Southern Isles spies that the Queen of Arendelle has begun to show signs of madness, Anna is more than ready to step up and take the throne. She might have been content to stay in the Southern Isles before, but as her husband points out, Elsa is unfit, Elsa never engages with her people, they’d be much better under someone who actually cares about Arendelle. After all, with Elsa unwed Anna is the next heir, she’s the one who’ll be carrying on the bloodline. Don’t the people of Arendelle deserve security, attention, love? Doesn’t she deserve all that as well?

The people of Arendelle would indeed welcome their exiled princess as their new queen, but things aren't that simple…

After Anna left, Elsa tried to do her best to run the kingdom, to make the memory of her parents proud. But her powers continue to grow stronger, and stronger. The stresses of rule begin to take their toll, and she’s only able to keep her powers hidden by once more withdrawing from the public eye.

When she was still under age, this could be overlooked as the Regency Council trying to protect the royal heirs, but now her reluctance to engage with her people begins to rankle and sour the populace’s opinion of their new queen

And things only get worse when, in the third year of her reign, on top of her growing powers, Elsa begins to hear things…

A voice, calling to her, begging her to just let go, to unleash her powers and step into the unknown

And the harder she fights to conceal her powers, the stronger they—and the voice—become

The strain begins to be too much, the cracks in Elsa’s frozen facade begin to show, and whispers grow of a madness plaguing the Queen

And finally, the day comes that brings the sisters face to face again. Anna demanding that Elsa step down, she has the people’s support, she has the support of Han’s navy connections. She has more right the throne then Elsa has, Elsa who never cared for the people, who never cared for anyone.

“Anna that’s not true! I care—“

“You never cared! You shut me out, you shut the world out! You left me to bury our parents alone! So don’t stand there and claim to care now Elsa! Life’s too short to waste on hearing excuses from someone as cold hearted as you!”

It’s all too much. Her powers, the voices, the hatred in her sister’s eyes. Something in Elsa’s mind—in her heart—breaks. All her life she’s tried not too feel, and now she can’t stop feeling. All the heartache, confusion, anger, loneliness, fear

It all comes crashing out, a dam bursting over, a storm long healed at bay now barreling down in full force

Elsa flees in the cover of the onslaught of snow and ice, barely aware of what she’s doing, just knowing she can’t bear to see Anna, her only family, looking at her like that. All she seems to know how to do is run, and run, and run. Away from the voices, away from the pressure, away from Anna

She doesn’t realize she’s trapped Arendelle in an eternal winter, one that begins to spread out across the land, barely held back by the sea

She doesn’t realize the initial blast has killed the man her sister loved

Anna takes the throne of a kingdom in turmoil as a widow, her own heart broken, bleeding, freezing over under the weight of all that she has lost. The only thing keeping her going is trying to save her people—and the child she carries

The storm over Arendelle never breaks though, and the entire kingdom is forced to flee wherever they or face becoming another frozen statue in the growing wasteland, where nothing walks but the wailing form of their former Queen.

A figure with skin covered in frost, hair whipped about in the perpetual storm, tears frozen to her cheeks. Forever trying to run from the voices calling calling calling to her

Anna returns to the Southern Isles in disgrace, her kingdom and husband lost, her in-laws having no interest in harboring her now she has nothing to offer them. So they send her and her child—so sickly, so frail, never having overcome the cold they were born into—off to the farthest and poorest of their Isles. And there, her heart becomes as frozen as if her sister really had struck it all those years ago…

DisneyVerse After Credits under the Cut

One year later, Anna finds herself approached by a strange wandering soldier, who offers her the power to regain her kingdom, to give her child the life they deserve, to gain vengeance on the one who caused all of this…if she’s willing to make a deal

[marvelstars]

I was thinking about the worst part when it comes to Obi-Wan and Anakin´s relationship issues wasn´t the tragic end in ROTS but those seeds planted at the start of their story where Obi-Wan resented Qui-Gon´s attention for Anakin while he felt the boy wasn´t much to look at and a future issue for his master with the Council in the long run which made Obi-Wan worried for his master reputation and how this would be affected while he could care less about Anakin´s well being or his pov or even his feelings on the matter.

The worst part is that Anakin didn´t just listen to Obi-Wan´s words, he could feel all of this from Obi-Wan as sensible as he was with the force and he could deal with Obi-Wan seeing him as a problem as long as Qui-Gon was alive and seemed to genuinely care for him even if nobody else at the Jedi Temple seemed to care but when Qui-Gon died he should have felt very lonely with a new guardian grieving his master who saw him more like a promise to his master legacy than a person.

Imagine all those times 9 year old Anakin missed his Mom or cried himself to sleep thinking about her, wondering if she was alright while other padawans teased him about his former slave status, his lack of formal education or his difficulty understanding concepts they have been told since they were babies, while not having any close relationship for the mere fact he didn´t grow up with them and his master more or less agreed with them even if he didn´t openly said it.

Anakin didn´t even have someone to have his back while he was growing up at the temple, because from their perspective those were issues he had to get over, no need for someone to support him emotinally or simply showed him some empathy, those were the same issues Obi-Wan had with Anakin since the moment they meet and while Anakin certainly did his best to grow into his potential, stydying hard and doing well on his studies, he was hardly recognized by his master, when his efforts were seen as arrogance instead of efforts to get the approval of his master and his peers.

Imagine that level of loneliness that your only company during your development years were the droids who helped you remember home and your Mom while at the same time feeling guilty for not feeling welcome at the temple because you were free and feed while your mother and friends were slaves and often lacked food and no one in the area could even begin to understand how Anakin felt and why except "Palpatine" but instead of helping Anakin he used this to manipulate him, get his trust and later make him fall to madness and the darkside.

The Sith Lord master understood better than anybody else at the Jedi temple that Anakin needed a father figure, not a master or a cold envoirment because that was familiar to him, that gave him emotional strenght and stability and more importantly, that make Anakin trust them and give his loyalty, no wonder he decided leaving Anakin to train as a Jedi in such circunstances were proper eteps towards becoming his sith apprentice and that irony probably didn´t escape him or Vader once he fell to the darkside but I don´t think Obi-Wan quite got that understanding until later when he saw Luke grow up with the Lars family but certainly not in the first few years post ROTS, he probably just reflected on where did he go wrong with Anakin.

[david-talks-sw]

I got a good feeling about "The Acolyte"

Not even kidding. Like, I've spoken before about why I'm wary of it.

George Lucas' Star Wars is something that intentionally has black and white morality, rather than shades of gray. Those movies are meant for kids and projecting a "gray" morality onto them then proclaiming it was George's vision all along is doing so in bad faith.

The narrative of the Prequels doesn't frame the Prequel Jedi in as negative a light as Leslye Headland, Dave Filoni, etc etc do.

See here for more details, but bottom line: yeah, a show that has a darksider as the underdog is bound to demonize the Jedi (who are the actual underdogs in the Prequels), and obviously that rubs me the wrong way.

BUT.

The trailer looks fucking cool. It really really does.

And more importantly? I've done some research... and Leslye Headland is ticking a lot of good boxes, in my book.

1. The Acolyte won't be a 10-hour movie.

I've criticized Disney Plus shows before, explaining that a big source for most of their issues is that these series are being structured as "long movies" rather than, y'know, actual shows.

But in this interview with Collider, Headland addresses that: it'll be a series. Not a long movie that you need to watch across four weeks.

Thank God. You have no idea how much that comforts me. Finally a showrunner who's, y'know, actually running a show.

And this goes hand in hand with what she told IGN, here, about how she's going about building suspense.

Yes! Exactly! That's how it's supposed to be!

Like, compare this to Baylan Skoll's storyline in Ahsoka.

In no possible way was that emotionally-fulfilling. For 8 episodes we had no idea what he was after, and the season ended where we still don't know. What does he want? What is he after? Your guess is as good as mine, it's something Mortis-related.

So yeah. Maybe getting the Emmy-nominated trained screenwriter on board to run this was a good idea.

2. Maybe the Jedi will not be as demonized as I originally thought.

Don't get me wrong. 80% of what she says about the Jedi makes me cringe. It's the typical fan's interpretation and y'all know I disagree with that interpretation.

It's painful to see her refer to the Jedi as an institution (not how the Prequels' narrative frames them) and to see her frame "Balance" in the "oh there's so many of them and just two Sith, that means the Force is out of balance" meaning... but at least she acknowledges the Jedi are a benevolent institution.

They're not an "elitist force hiding in their ivory tower" as others have described the Jedi.

Moreover, there'll be a variety of Jedi POVs, many personalities.

Yord Fandar, is described as a strictly by-the-book Jedi Knight and guardian from the Jedi Temple, is an overachiever and a rule follower.

The question now becomes: will the narrative frame him as "your typical Jedi" or is it just this one guy? I'm hoping it's the latter.

I also like how her reasoning goes re: Jedi drawing their lightsabers.

Which explains the hand-to-hand combat seen in the trailer.

This teenager is coming at Carrie-Ann Moss with a dagger, of course the Jedi won't draw her saber.

3. She's a fan of Star Wars... but a screenwriter first.

You can tell in the interviews she's a fan. She's using words like "BBY" and "EU" casually. In the above-linked interviews she's bringing up the Nightsisters, Timothy Zahn, The Clone Wars, she mentions she has a tattoo of Ralph McQuarrie's concept art of Leia, the High Republic books, etc.

She's done her homework. She's a fan.

But the vibe I'm getting from these interviews is that she's weaving in these various lore-elements in a more organic way, rather than in the "fan-servicey" way Dave Filoni has been doing in his shows.

The references and Easter Eggs will be there, but the narrative won't bend over itself just so you can get it. Crafting a good story comes first, and Andor is a beautiful illustration of why this is true.

Which is why I was never bothered about one of the writers never having watched Star Wars before getting the job. You need those fresh eyes when you're tackling something of this scale.

That makes sense to me. Maybe it's because of my own screenwriting experience, but yeah. That out-of-the box perspective is precious.

And like, obviously, that writer watched the films eventually, but for some reason everyone who bitched about Headland omitted that detail and opted for a more bad faith interpretation.

Hm. Wonder why.

Maybe it's the same reason that months ago this clipped audio circulated socials without context, in which she debates whether Star Wars only came from George Lucas and only Lucas is the key.

The FULL context of that interview reveals that she's actually:

debating the "autheur director" myth and positing that it was achieved by a collective of excellent filmmakers and craftspeople that George was skilled and smart enough to recruit...

the studios now think it's a simple as hiring one guy and throwing money at him, because they have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. See Napoleon (2023) for example.

Yes, she also does a jab to the Prequels, which speaks to the generation of fans she's a part of... but overall she's giving Lucas props whilst also stating an ideological difference, that's it!

George is a proponent of the "autheur" theory, Leslye isn't.

However, guess what, in like half the talks George gave post-selling Star Wars? He's giving shoutouts to everyone who helped make the first film, even remembering their names.

So I'm not even sure he'd vehemently disagree with Leslye, in fact they'd prolly have a conversation about it and immediately bitch about how stupid studio executives are :D

But that's not as incendiary, is it? Again, the more I do the research, the more it feels like the reason most of these influencers are hating on her is purely sexist.

I mean, on IGN she's even acknowledging that she does plan on taking stock of fan reactions for Season 2.

It's not a guarantee that she'll incorporate the feedback, but at least that's more consideration than, say, JJ Abrams or Rian Johnson gave the fandom.

She's even bringing the moral ambiguity that the Gray Jedi-loving edge-lords love so much.

"No, she's a woke feminist! Anything she does is evil! Eww, girls!"

🙄

Needless to say... I'm gonna give it a shot.

I think it's gonna be a good show, I think it's gonna be a solid story.

I'm crossing my fingers that they won't as biased against the Jedi as it seems they'll be. Even if they are... if it's still an enjoyable experience, I'll gloss over it.

As @gffa states in this post:

Worst case? It's not a story from George. I can dismiss it from my headcanon without a moment's hesitation :D

[weebsinstash]

My yandere Invincible posts have been getting notes recently now that season 2 is starting and there's a specific idea I have in my head for platonic yandere dad Nolan x daughter Reader because of a scene from the first episode, the scene from Mark's past where (small spoiler I guess) Nolan visibly heavily contemplates killing Mark and Debbie (because Mark might not get his powers and, he doesnt want to fail his mission) but quickly stops himself and is clearly ashamed for what he almost did

I keep thinking of a specific scenario. Reader is his second-born daughter who is a couple years younger than Mark and you're his little princess and you're just, outside playing while your parents occasionally peek out at you through the glass door/window to the backyard and, you're like 5 or 6 when things just, suddenly change, it hits you like lightning. Things look differently, they smell different, the sun on your skin feels different, the toys in your hands feel lighter and weirder than before, and when you start to slowly squeeze them, they start to break, but, you're smart and fast enough to stop.

But it's not JUST your body. It's your MIND. Suddenly you're remembering all those cartoons you've ever watched, practically every memory you have, every experience, every fact.

Temporarily, ever so briefly, you start to float, and you easily figure out how to put yourself down.

You're so excited you can't even make a sound-- you've got your powers like Dad!-- and you go to tell your parents, and you see then talking inside. You don't want to interrupt and wait outside patiently, deciding you'll go in when they're done talking even ss you're bouncing in excitement. And, you see everything from Ducktape Man to Mom and Dad talking to that menacing movement your father made, where some animalistic instinct inside of you knew it was HOSTILE and, in just a few moments, you're putting it all together, like either some gullible kid who believes everything in cartoons, or, perhaps, someone who just became a lot, lot smarter: you start hypothesizing that Nolan must be evil and has some hidden ulterior motive. Why would Nolan be so mad at Mark not having powers to the point of violence, murder? Oh, because if Mark didn't have powers, he wouldn't be like dad, he'd be a human? Does dad not like humans? Does dad want to hurt humans? Is there any other reason Dad seems to almost NEED his offspring to be Viltrumites too?

Oh, is Dad a bad alien who wants his children to leave Earth and human culture behind for their roots? And if he doesn't succeed, he'll snap? Is it like in those cartoons where the evil father tries to bring his kid to the darkside and the hero has to fight and defeat them even if it hurts?

The whole theory and coming into your powers is surreal, it's inhuman, but it's the new you, the new Viltrumite you. You burst into tears as you become overwhelmed and stressed at the idea you might have to fight your evil dad, lying to your father, no, Nolan, that you were crying because you broke your toy on accident and he has to shush you as he promises you a new one but your chubby little kid arms aren't squeezing him as tight as they used to

You start keeping secrets. You start watching him all the time, the things he does, the things he says, and the more and more, you become convinced. He never stops treating you as his little angel, and you even notice, he's, for some reason, gentler with you than Mark and, as you grow older, you realize it's because you're a girl and for whatever reason he's falling into the very stereotypical role of, treating both you and Mark very well overall, but, also being more lenient with you, telling Mark he has to be a good brother and protect his baby sister, Nolan always trying to buy you little sweets, but, after you saw what you did, your behavior towards him immediately shifts. You try to act the same to avoid arousing suspicion but you aren't nearly as affectionate and, as you get older, you take advantage of using puberty and needing independence as an excuse to put emotional walls up and distance yourself from him, even as he constantly tries to engage and spend time with you

Your family is worried what's wrong with you when you start calling him Nolan instead of dad, you suddenly don't want to spend time with him, your mom, and even your brother. You start working the second you're legally old enough, but, despite how bright and inquisitive you were as a kid, your grades are. Average. As in, deliberately average. You can never let Nolan know what you are. As you age and hear more and more of his comments where you can tell he's insulting not just anyone in particular, but the entire human race, you steel yourself, because you know, you know this man cannot be your father anymore, and you may even have to kill him. But you're so overly cautious about him and anyone else not finding out that you're limited at training options. You can't just fly anywhere, you can't just practice martial arts against normal humans, but, you find ways to make it work. You work manual labor jobs your father scoffs at, you wait until night and/or you know he's off planet to practice flying in one single field where you can see for miles all around you and see any witnesses or planes coming

You are a daughter with every intention of either abandoning her family and leaving the planet, or killing her father. Once you realized that you were an alien, unlike Mark and unbeknownst to Nolan, you're more like your father than you realize. You become more apathetic to humanity, more nonchalant about where you are in life. Suddenly you don't have to worry about your grades or college or things like that because, well, what good will earth stuff do you in outer space? Maybe you'll pick up some more practical knowledge but, really, the only reason you don't leave the planet once you start getting older is literally just that, one you're still attached to Mark and Debbie, and two, you don't have a flight suit and know your clothes will burn up and. You wanna get out of here but you don't want to be naked in space!!

Like picture this. Mark has just gotten his powers and you're heartbroken because, over the last decade your father started spending significantly more focus on Mark instead of you, inviting him to things he doesn't even mention to you, finally shifting almost his exclusive attention to his son, and, now Mark is "just like dad", already starting to get full of himself because hes stronger and "better", which worries you because, you eventually deduce Nolan is some kind of invader who is having kids to be soldiers. Like imagine sitting at the dinner table and Mark is all "don't worry sis, I bet you're a late bloomer too :) youll get your powers soon" and Nolan pipes in like "yeah and then we can all go out flying together" and you just look him dead in the eyes and don't reply. You're constantly having to temper your anger and keep up your ruse because if you're too openly hostile, he'll figure it out, and you have literally not a single doubt in your mind that he'll kill you for his mission, which is funny because you've actually adapted a lot of the "don't care I'm an alien" mindset that he wanted Mark to have

Nolan has no idea why you clearly hate him, why you fake smiles, why you stopped spending time with him. He still remembers when you were a toddler and you were running around, skinning your knees all the time and picking yourself up with little sniffles like nothing happened because you just wanted to keep running and exploring and playing SO bad. You used to be so bright. He had such high hopes for you. Honestly he always thought you would potentially outmatch Mark and be his strongest child, but. Here you are, a straight C student, working manual labor jobs, completely average, and refusing to bond with him in any way. He can tell you're keeping some sort of secret from him, but whenever he goes to confront you about it, you're... surprisingly scared, but, not as scared as you should be, in the nuanced ways one would shrink away as a child being scolded by their parent. It's almost like... you're holding some sort of grudge against him

I couldn't decide which version I prefer in terms of Reader finally being exposed. Maybe you don't realize Mark is trailing you and he finds out and tells Nolan behind your back under the mistaken impression you recently got your powers and was training in secret to make it a surprise. Or there's some sort of attack or disaster or accident where you're shot by a robber or they attempt to stab you and it just, dents against your skin. Or even, you start disrespecting Debbie because you're frustrated about being an alien that can't die and she let this man into her bed without truly knowing who or what he was and you're resenting her for it and you make a really awful comment and get in an argument with her and in anger she moves to slap you and fractures her hand against your invulnerable face, or you have to catch her wrist so she doesn't hurt herself and Nolan can tell by your reflexes that you're not fully human

I also just like the idea of. You're 18 and you make it very extremely clear you're moving out and your family is like, REFUSING but they technically can't stop you (although the idea of Omniman going full yandere dad and physically locking you up so his baby girl doesn't leave the nest certainly IS a nice thought) and they notice, instead of packing your things, you're donating them, getting rid of them. The day of your move happens and you're standing there with only a backpack and you haven't told them Any details about where you're going or, just, ANYTHING, and Nolan is looking at you like a big sad hound dog "can't I at least drive you 🥺" and you're like " :) no that's OK, I've got my own ride" AND JUST FLYING AWAY. I just think it'd be extremely relatable and hilarious if you keep up the ruse for so many years and you finally blow your cover because you lose your temper or because you've been hurt emotionally. Nolan tries to ground you, "March upstairs right now young lady!" and you're just like "march?" As you start levitating away just to spite him and he's picking his jaw off the floor. Mark sees you acting out one day "You're just jealous because dad likes spending time with me over you and you don't have any powers" and youre so hurt at seeing your big brother who you've been wanting to protect all this time become a pawn of your father that you just start hovering in the air right then and there, "you can have dad. You can have everything. I'm not even staying on this planet anymore"

I dunno, I kinda like the idea of Reader being this kind of, you know, still kind and all that, but a really almost, inhuman figure in the sense that your specific alien genetics or mutation causes you to kind of snap onto Genius Mode and you become sort of this calculating detached figure who pretends to be human and is openly hateful to your entire family because, as you see it, you're on your own and don't need or want them, you're different than them, your mental abilities are different even from Nolan's, and, meanwhile, said superhero is desperate to find out why his little girl hates her Daddy so much. He's still, you know, got that Viltrum in him, but Debbie and Earth has drawn out more of his humanity and he does love you, he does want you in his life, and it HURTS for you to reject him

But then he finds out about your powers and. Suddenly you're just supposed to magically forget how he started pushing you away too as he wants to bond with you again, teach you, train you. He has no idea he's proving your years of theories right as, he is overjoyed at discovering you have powers, like, you very clearly detect the "oh thank GOD you're not ACTUALLY a lowly human" energy oozing off of him and you realize you were right all along, you really were never more than just an extension of this narcissistic man from his freak species of savages, that he came to Earth with ulterior motives and it's dangerous for you to continue to be around him

You can try to pull away from him all you want, but even if he never found out about your powers, Nolan won't ever let you slip through his fingers. He knows how heartless and cruel this galaxy can be, and, if you're really truly such a fragile little eggshell of a human, then, clearly you need your doting dad looking after you until you're a little old lady passing away of old age while he looks exactly the same as the day you were born. But. That's not what's going to happen because even if that scenario came to pass he would quickly see that you aren't aging. There's no way you can fake that.

I just imagine a Reader who hardens herself into a true soldier and starts planning for the day you kill your father. You lure him out one day into a certain area and you jump him with like Homura vs Walpurgisnacht levels of preparation, hurling all sorts of materials and chemicals and objects at him, testing what works yet nothing does, coming at him with all sorts of different attacks and techniques you've had to teach yourself and pick up on your own, but, he's older than you, FAR older, and much more experienced, and he finally has to do something he hates and punches you in the gut so hard it makes you collapse and start throwing up but, he's just. POSITIVELY EUPHORIC. you just tried to kill your own father at like 17, 18, 20 years old and he's standing here "I KNEW IT, I knew you were special! Did you plan all this? Wow! you even tried to pierce my heart! where did you even get explosives from, did you make these?" Like he's THRILLED at the absolute sheer brutality, like, you just tried to KILL HIM kill him and he's like "Awwww I'm so proud 🥰🥰🥰 my little baby girl is a true viltrumite" and now YOU'RE FUCKED because now he loves you more than ever and, he was lowkey becoming massively depressed at the idea of outliving you, losing you, having to see you die, and now he doesn't have to, so. Now he can have both of his kids for rhe next hundreds and thousands of years 🥰 he has so many things he wants to show and teach you, so, now that he's seen how truly capable you are, it's time to start your training, but also, making up for all that lost bonding time you spent pushing dear old dad away ❤️

[darkdemeter]

Hey hey, could i please have a request?

So imagine that the reader is traveling with death to restore the humanity and they get along so well and are kind of flirty and the reader is falling for him. One day they meet Vulgrim and she out of curiosity falls into his serpent hole and is transported to the past to meet the young and unruly death, who we know was a menace when younger. And then they have their interactions the reader goes back to the current version of death. How do you think that would go?

Have a lovely day and thank you for your work!

EVEN DEATH WAS ONCE YOUNG

◤✘DARKSIDERS COLUMN | Death x Female Reader

NOTES: ↳ OH. MY. GOSH. ANON! Writing this was the bomb!! Interesting concept, a wonderful opportunity to explore pre-horseman "younger" Death. I tried to keep a balance between his more mature personality while also having some fun with giving him a bit of spunk -- I couldn't stop giggling! WARNINGS! ↳ Just death being a bit of a young menace, but he kinda cute doing it sooo.... but like there's also fluff/hurt stuff?

✎5.4k ────────────────

When people used to say: “I wish I could meet the younger version of you.” They don’t actually know what they’re asking for. Because who in their right mind would want to meet Death in the prime of his bloodlust? 

The thought struck a fancy with you after your encounter with the demoness, Lilith. Her presence exotic and threatening without explicitly doing anything remotely violent. It was the sensual octave that carried her words like a lullaby you had found forbidding to hear, yet you fall prey to the temptation to hear just one more word.

That didn’t stop you from hiding behind Death, his back rigid to the point the knocks of his spine straightened slightly when her hand lingered a little too close to brush a stray framing of hair out from your face. 

But it was what she recounted that piqued your curiosity. Her children. Enriching lore of a species most loathed from long ago, a bloody crusade where they met their end by Death’s hands. From her retelling and the mystical pulse of life that beats in the embedded shards in his chest, even speaking of them appeared to pain him both physically and mentally. A burden you could never carry for him nor tell him to abandon. 

For a human, whose patience often wanes at the smallest of inconvenience, you show a lot of compassion and understanding for the weight on his shoulders. And never would you know exactly how thankful Death has become for your company. At times almost yearning for it whenever you are but a few feet away, or the thought crosses his mind to take you back to the Tri-Forge and leave you in the Maker’s care. Your fragility means more to him now than it has before, sometimes just looking at you eases just a fraction of that guilt he pushes deeper down. 

You’d both formed far too much of a bond so unnatural to the opinion of others, yet it fell into some assortment of right for you. 

You can’t possibly imagine being left behind, not now. Not after how far you have come all this way together. 

But yes, that saying. Did people ever realise what it was they were saying? 

“Meeting the mother-in-law already, baby albums and all.” Your voice crackles on the hot, muggy wind that travels through this slice of inferno, sky a spiral of darkness and hellfire smog. “Dare I say it, I wish I could meet the younger—”

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” he warns with a low and thorough rasp that rattled in his chest. 

You cannot help but spare him a teasing wrinkle of your nose and puckering your tongue out between your teeth, body twisting from side to side innocently.

You can’t help but chuckle with a slight bounce in your step. “Sounds like you were quite the bad boy.”

You merely roll your eyes as he gruffly replies with a huff, “Your perception cannot possibly begin to fathom the prime of my youth… or handle it.”

Despite his attempt of coming off cool and collected, you could hear the bitter coil of something else underline his words. 

Oh, how mystical and dark and brooding he always was and portrayed himself to be. You’re sure that there is something a little less grim beneath that rough exterior. Hell — and that saying excludes your current locale — you have witnessed it before in the engagements of fun conversation that go back and forth to the point that a victor who gets the last say is indeterminable sometimes. So he’s not completely a lost cause of being impenetrable, he’s entertained you before with quite a few situations that you classified as flirting. Who knew that Death himself could make you blush bright and red?

He was close to claiming that title of victory this time, until you pad along to stop right in the middle of his tracks, his chest barely able to stop from bumping into you and causing your balance off kilter for a moment. 

“Come on, Death, at this point of travelling together, I can handle anything.”

He looks past your nonchalant grin and over your shoulder, seeming to cock a brow beneath the greying bone of his mask.

“Really now?” he hums, “Duck.”

“Wh—” you dare not finish to question him as you immediately take to assuming position, ducking low to the ground in preparation of an oncoming ambush unseen by you.

But it never comes. You hear a gravelly rumble of a chuckle emit from the reaper before you, his shoulders jostling a little with the motion. Your lips purse together and you scowl at him with everything you can muster to no avail of affecting him.

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny,” you snark back, walking alongside him as he continues to set your traversing pace. 

Noticing that he was heading back the way you came, you jutt a thumb to point behind you “Aren’t we meant to be going that way?” 

“Your sense of direction has improved astonishingly, girl,” Death snickers dryly, the slur of flirty endearment almost lost in his words. He continues, “We’re paying a visit to Vulgrim.” 

Ugh, even saying that name brings a ghoulish, slimy chill to climb your spine uncomfortably. 

“Horseman,” The greenish bulbs of his eyes shrink behind a wrinkling brow of pale, craggily skin. Then his eyes see you and the form in which they almost bulge from their sockets sickens you. “And your little human companion! Your scent is just as… lovely as ever, my dear.” 

The gaping maw of his lipless mouth twists into a creeping grin so unnerving it causes knots of fear to tie in your gut. 

“Uh, no,” you say with an adamant shake of your head. No way in this life or the next would you trade your soul to Vulgrim of all fiends. Death had warned you to just keep your soul to yourself in general if offered to sell it for a little something in return. 

“Your dealings are with me, Vulgrim.” Death is clear and quick to establish your presence before the serpent hole. The demon trader, sighing grimly with a black, slimy tongue ringing over his cracked and deformed fangs, addresses Death. 

“Very well. Let us see what I have to offer… and what you can afford.”

Vulgrim usually dances about his serpent hole but never ventured too far if he can help it, usually to usher you away from it with a warning, “If you know what is best for your longevity, stay away from there.” 

And most of the time, Death kept a watchful eye on you to keep you from falling face first into the next trap of trouble. However, this time around, the pool of green mist is left surprisingly unguarded. With a curious tilt of your head and scrunch of your nose, your boots pad on over as you walk towards it. 

You can’t make out a bottom through the wafting cloud of mist that rises from the hole. Still you arch your body to peer over the edge and down into it as though you’d find something soon enough if you just inch that little bit—

“Human!” Death bellows as he rushes to you, only just seeing your form stumble and fall forward. A yelp of surprise turns into a blood-curdling scream as you sink into the smoggy abyss. The green haze around you fades into a darker shade until all around you is black nothingness. Your voice throws over into a thousand echoes that follow you. You’re still falling. At least it feels that way and for a moment you think you’ve closed your eyes; it’s hard to tell with the inky black around you.

A bright tone paints onto the surface of your closed eyes and you fall onto ground, dusty and hard, small rocks jab and scrape as you land. The brunt of the fall knocks the wind from you and you take a moment to recover your bearings, soon to rise to your feet and brush off the smears of dirt on your clothes.

“Okay. Duly noted: do not go anywhere near serpent holes,” you affirm strongly with newfound belief, only to be met by silence.

No scolding words that apprehend your actions. Not the familiar grasp of a cold, large hand that strangely warms you and causes your heart rate to pick up a little faster. No, you turn and shift on your heel to scan all directions about you. 

“Uhm… Death? Vulgrim?” You’ve spun yourself into a circle a million times over by now. “Anyone? Hello?”

For certain this is not the same slice of hell you had accompanied Death to and no serpent hole was in sight. Instead, you're in some cavernous valley of dust land and patches of grass and foliage, in the distance stands the mounds of high reaching cliff sides. 

Where exactly are you? 

As a human evidently from earth, you had never once had the ability to traverse any realm unfamiliar. In fact, you never knew of the possible existence of them. And after meeting Death, you were strictly told to stay close. Realms harboured dangers of their own, a breed of some civilisation that undoubtedly hurt you if you ran off by yourself. 

And now you’re beginning to feel that seeping dread of despair dawn within you. That sulking hopelessness that you have cast yourself to some unknown corner of the cosmos, and Death has no idea where you dropped off to. 

“Death?” You ask aloud again. Were you lost forever? 

You begin to head off in a direction, putting the sun to your left as you look around for ideally any serpent holes that can hopefully drop you back where you belong. With Death. Without him here, you feel like a newborn fawn stumbling on its legs. He always made you feel safe, always ensured he was between you and whatever threat that tried to get you, even if he got hurt because of it. 

You continue to call out to the wind that sweeps over you, the sun beating down hard. You brush aside a flurry of hair from your face, your pace slowing exponentially as you practically stumble through this unknown territory.

That’s when that sixth sense kicks in. You’re not sure if you had been ignoring the signs before or if the feeling just came, but all the same you feel that you’re being watched.

You’ve barely dived out of the way before something large crashes behind you, the scraping of claws digging into the crusty soil and the shifting balance of weight kicks up a cloud of dust behind the force of the leaping attack. Turning to face whatever it was, you grimace at the sight of a mangy looking hound that dwarfs you. Its skin is a burnt hue of reddish pink like it suffered constant exposure to the sun, what matted fur that lined its spine and cuffed around its ribs was a dark, sandy brown with dark, faded stripes. Its ears twitch as a high pitched wheeze passes through its open jaw that pries open like a snake. Rows of black teeth are coated in an oily surface of dripping saliva. 

You see another grapple down the cliff face to join the first, this one notably smaller, but not by much. Then another of the same size joins the second, each one stalking closer to corner you in. 

A piercing sharpness fills your chest and your hand grasps at the handle of your dagger. A simple form of defence, highly unlikely to fend off the predators easily, but better than nothing. 

Right about now, that favourable reaper of yours would be excellent company. There were so many things you wished you had said, times you procrastinated moving that bit closer to his side by the evening campfire meant for your safety and sanity. You fear that this is your end. For your quest in restoring humanity, one more human will be lost today, and Death will have to bear that burden. It saddens you in a way. That the guilt would eat away at him. 

One of the smaller hounds takes no more than a few steps forward, just about ready to pounce at you before a humming force sings through the air and with a meaty crunch of bone and mushed brain, an all familiar scythe fatally sheathed in its skull. 

You fall back on your arse, a relieved grin digs deep into your cheeks as you think Death has somehow found you. 

You look around, eager to see him, barely catching something fast cut through the corner of your vision. The next thing you know, the head of the second smaller hound rolls over, its tongue hanging loosely between its jaws, the decapitated appendage just resting at the heel of your boots. The sight makes you grumble in dull disgust.

However, you are brought into the shadow of the larger creature that now towers above you, caught with a gulp in your throat. By your lucky stars, its attention diverts from you and to your rescuer and dives forward. 

You only just turn your head when a pained shriek howls through the air and a severed limb flies some distance away. Followed by another and then a third limb, leaving the defeated creature to begin crawling away with a distorted whine. 

His silhouette bathed in the scorching sun is a sight of relief, though his attire had changed. Not the draping tabard of violet tied about his waist or the deep purple scarf hung over his shoulders. Mostly an assortment of bandages wrapped and woven around his arms, clad in iron fittings. He steps after the beast, following along the weeping trail of blood smeared into the dirt, scythes coming together as the long staff of Harvester and placed to his back. 

Your face contorts in response to the sheer brutality before you, visage twitching in your frazzled comprehension. Yes, Death had a very violent tendency to be dangerously savage, but he was well versed in being precise, but never at this level. Seeing him utilise naught but his inhuman strength at his disposal and his hands, he rips the hound’s upper jaw clean off until sheets of sinew and muscle were reduced to hair-thin threads. 

He drops the unhinged part to his feet with a wet, clumpy thump. Even you have to internally argue that Death may have lost himself a little there. When his head turns over his shoulder, the flicker of an amber glow catching you in his sights, you cannot help the reaction to freeze as you roll onto your belly. 

Something unfamiliar resides in his gaze like he’s seeing you for the first time. But rather than the confusion of an older entity seeing one of the many souls still alive, there is a frenzy of anger – adrenaline running a high river through him, driving him bloodmad. 

His upper body then begins to turn only to halt when you utter his name, form rigid in his study of you. Again, you try, “Death? Hey, it’s me.”

Immediately you’re met by the unsheathed blade of Harvester aimed against you and you skitter back with a hiss as the massive blade knicks your cheek. 

“Hey! Careful with that— what’s gotten into you?”

“Who are you?” 

Your face scrunches, a morphed complaint of your confusion. He only attempts to raise his scythe to your neck with a threat to render you headless at his whim. 

“I-it’s me, hello!” you laugh with bitter nervousness, “you know me. Y/N, the human you’ve been travelling with.”

He gives no form of recollection. Not that he’s easy to read with that mask of his, hiding all but the expression in his eyes. Or the way he narrows them upon hearing one word: Human. Call it intuition, a gut feeling, a divine touch; you feel that that word held some powerful trigger to the Horseman before you. And none that you had seen in him before. Almost a zeal of intense excitement flourishes in the furnace heart of his eyes. 

“A human?” Harvester balances in his grasp to lean against his shoulder, a curious tilt of his head somehow influences you to mimic the action with an affirmative hum.

“Uh-huh. We were on our way to restore humanity. We went extinct, remember?” 

“Really now?” 

When he begins to stalk closer and inching the gap between you shorter, you find yourself taking a few steps back. Something was… off. Death isn’t like his usual self. The concept of humans didn’t really phase him in such a way before. He just thought of humanity and their restoration as a mere key to gaining his brother’s freedom. Somehow integral to the balance but never once serving importance to him. But now, before your very eyes, he appears with a dark excitement as he looks you over. Like your very existence piques him. 

Was he flirting with his leash ten yards behind him? 

Now that’s very unlike your old reaper—

There’s a thought: he is not… that old. Sure, old by some standard in the scheme of time, but compared to when you were travelling together, you come to realise how noticeably younger he is. And still, he advances towards you until his shadow overthrows you, drowning you in it. 

Even if you wanted to chalk up your thoughts to some conspiracy, you also notice that there is a sore lack of soul-cursed shards embedded into the taut muscle of his chest. 

Alright. Now you’re beginning to put the pieces of this puzzle together. You have somehow landed in the great, great past.

It’s like your wish became a manifested reality. 

Bathed in the sunless dark of his shadow, your feet intend to shuffle back, only for his arm that handles his massive scythe extends forth, the pole of it acting as some guard that keeps you from moving any further away. 

You mumble to yourself then, resigning in your compliance to remain where you stand. He may not be trying to directly hurt you now, but if given the motivation, you could yet stand corrected. 

He continues to stare at you, long and hard pressing, you feel like an ant under the heated blink of a glass scope that is threatened to burn. A matter of curiosity is all you can surmise it to the way his neck extends forward, bending down until the bone form of his masked nose hovers over you, near deathly silent but still largely inhaling your scent.

The act is enough for that heated flush to deep into your skin. 

“Hey—hey, easy there, big guy,” you warn, voice wavering from the way he merely tilts his head before leaning in again. “No, I said n-no! Stop that—no, that tickles!” 

Upon you practically beating him away with the ferocity of your mitten gloves, he then circles you like a predatory beast. 

“How is this possible? Humanity’s creation has not yet come,” he inquisitively says. 

You give a shrug, choosing to be a little more careful of your words. Would anything you do or say alter time itself and affect your supposed present? 

Just with you being here would be enough to do just that if Death’s claim that humans weren’t born yet is true. 

“Uh, well… it’s not so simple to explain. You see, I er—”

Shit this was getting more and more difficult to explain with the growing anxiety dangerously lurking over you like a foreboding cloud. 

“I’m not from here.”

You can almost see his brow curve upward under the mask. “Evidently,” he drawls deeply in response. 

With a roll of your eyes you try again. 

“All I know is that I somehow fell through some serpent hole and got transported back in time. Now, I gotta find a way back.” 

“You mean to leave?” 

Already turning your back on him – unaware of such a grave mistake – you only nod in response, your eyes last to leave him. Who knows how much longer you will have to endure here before Death finds and rescues you from his younger self. 

But that just isn’t in your stack of cards. Again you’re almost blown to the four winds and land on the cushion of your arse, grumbling in pain as you stare up at him, standing right in the way of your path.

Your lips purse tightly together, you hiss, “Death!” 

He crouches in front of you, ignoring the way you attempt to pry him and push him away as he moves a hand forward. He holds your wrist at bay before you can land a firm push to his mask to shove him away, his amber eyes dance with a certain level of intrigue and his head tilting to the side leaves his raven hair to saddle alongside the motion. 

He peels the grubby article off your hand to reveal the bareness of your skin and you find yourself holding your own breath. 

His own hand measures yours, palm to palm and you feel the roughened contour of his skin. His body radiates with an off-centred heat, not entirely cold as he is in the present with you but the morph of warmth isn’t so smothering unlike some infernal realm you know. You almost see the softness that crosses his features beneath the boney helm of his mask, like the cracks of emotion are being revealed without your exact know-how. 

But you’ve known Death for some time now. You’ve been in his company. If this is some revelation of a breakthrough, then you see it before your very eyes. 

Each finger lines to one another. A curtain of silence falls over the both of you until your eyes meet. A smile creeps over your lips then. 

“Must you truly go?” he’s sudden to ask beneath the gravel baritone of his chords. With a sigh, you only nod your head. 

His eyes harden at this, something distraught lines his concealed face only to be betrayed by the levelled glow of his eyes, but nevertheless he stands, no longer keeping you from running off. As you make your way to stand on your own two feet, brushing off the particles of dirt off your clothes, you notice Death’s prolonged stare. 

“What is it?” 

He only shakes his head, a gruff response of, “Nothing.” 

Though his reply is suspiciously vague, you both venture off into the great unknown, however much you believe that Death is more accustomed to the land than you. 

Hours pass as the sun begins to ride your backs and no sight of any serpent holes, leaving you with a feeling of exhausted anguish. As the night creeps in as a shadowy blanket over the sky and turns the humid air colder, you pull your shawl over your body as a chill licks your spine. 

Death — no not your Death, the younger one — takes notice, eying you from the side of his vision. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You jerk your head in his direction with eyes wide in your perked alertness. “Hm? Oh, I’m just cold is all. Usually I’d have a fire set up by now to rest…”

Would it be wise to add that it was him — older him — beside you and ensuring you settle into your makeshift camp? Unsure, you keep that to yourself. 

When he places an overly large hand to your shoulder, you stumble on your heel and pause, watching Death’s head scan the horizon and the upper cliff faces until he stops. You turn your head and notice just in the crevice of shadow and fading sunlight the blackened mouth of a cave. 

Your eyes light up at the thought of rest despite your circumstances and you already begin your trek towards the rocky climb, though you now see the rather steep slope it resides to reach the haven. With a grumble, your determination steers you to climb anyways, your feet stumbling and causing small pebbles to scatter down the face. 

Hands then grab hold of you and before you’re able to fight or protest, Death scuttles up in a matter of seconds with you hanging on for dear life. After he sets you down, you huff out, “Thanks.” 

He gives a gruff sound in response with a curt nod, then turns to scour the new site of camp. It wasn’t so much as a cave as you thought, moreso of a sheltered crop in the rocks, providing enough area to protect you from the elements but also invites the cool winds to breeze on past. 

Making a fire was a challenge than it usually was, making due with what you had on hand, and Death sets Harvester to his side, leaning it against the wall. He doesn’t think you pose that much of a threat to warrant its persistent sheath. 

He however finds some interest in how you kindle the birth of flames, crafting it from almost nothing. 

Looking up at him from your position, you laugh softly to yourself. “Yeah, I know. Humans are so weak and strange. But it’s what we do. How we were made, I guess.”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” Death says with a clearly risen brow. His answer does bring you surprise. After all, Death had many times sighed and chuffed about how humans did the most silly of things – things that were key to your survival, keeping that in mind. 

“Well… you will. Someday.”

“How is it that you know me?” he asks, crouching on the fire’s opposite side, facing you. As much as you think it unwise to share anymore knowledge, you cannot deny that you feel almost safe around him, no matter the fact that he’s younger. In the prime of his bloodlust. 

But he hasn’t killed me yet. Tried to, but hasn’t. 

“It’s going to sound strange but… I’m from the future. And in that future, we are travelling together.”

“Because you said something of Humanity’s demise.” 

He’s Death alright. A keen observant to detail. You nod in reply before continuing, “and as I said, I fell through some sort of timeline and landed here in the past. The way, way past. So far that humans aren’t even created yet, as you’ve said.”

To this, he nods in turn and it brings you to smile. You feel as though he silently applauds your own recollection for detail. 

“Death, how old are you?” 

Yes, it is indeed perhaps a very stupid decision to ask his age, but the nature of curiosity humans are notoriously known for gets the better of you. His eyes flicker with momentary stutter, taken aback by such a question, but one he doesn’t ultimately deny in answering. 

“Today is my day of creation… I’m a thousand-and-one—”

Your eyes go wide and you shoot up to your feet with a cheer. “What? Happy Birthday!” 

Your voice is a loud noise to the shell of his hearing and it spurns him to the defence, beckoning Harvester to fly to his hand within an instant. You’re quickly covering your mouth, uttering your apologies at spooking him. 

Settling back down, this time to his side, you flash him a shy, toothy grin. “But that’s exciting!”

“What is a ‘birthday’?”

You gasp at the shocking revelation. “It’s a celebration. When humans are born on a certain day, it’s a tradition to celebrate it every year.”

Then it pops into your mind, again sending the nephilim beside you to flinch at your motion, you stir up a fuss of plucking a twig from the flames before it’s entirely devoured. Holding it, single flame slow to eat away the kindle, you beam as you stare at Death with large, doe-like eyes. 

“Make a wish!”

“A what?” He scoffs, only to see you dramatically roll your eyes until they’re nearly rolling out of their sockets. “A wish. You make a wish, something you really want, and then blow out the flame. Another tradition on your birthday.”

His eyes narrow to thin points, sceptical that perhaps you were using something to your advantage. When he sees that you don’t have any ill intent to deceive him, he shuffles in his spot slightly to face you, body arching ever so over yours; his height even at this level towers over you. 

You whisper softly, “Like this.” 

Making the motion of blowing out the makeshift candle with your mouth, the campfire casting an orange hue to your skin paints you in a fine detail that the nephilim cannot help but study closely until a there’s a skip in his chest.

His hand raises to his mask but stops and you see the hesitance to continue any further. Understanding that it very well could be because of your presence, you tilt your chin down and squeeze your eyes shut. 

A gust beats across your face, skirting the wisps of hair away and then just as promptly as he’d lifted his mask, he’d lowered it just in time for you to peel your eyes open. Again, you smile. 

He’s the first to crack through the veil of tension between you both, standing on his feet. 

“Get some rest, girl.”

The next day, you finally see in the distance the familiar halo of green and sick looking mists, but it is your ticket home nonetheless. You skip ahead and towards it, laughing at the thought of reuniting with Death and telling him of your adventure.

But then you stop. Not another skip in your step. You turn around to see Death, body rigid but his chin is aimed down and his eyes don’t exactly meet yours. Approaching him cautiously, you halt a few feet before him, hands pinned behind you. 

“I guess this is goodbye…”

You don’t very much like the eternal sound to your farewell. Like you’re losing him forever. 

He drawls out, low and lessened of any sort of emotion, but you swear you note a hint of sadness in his tone. “My wish didn’t come true.”

“What was your wish?”

His eyes rise to meet yours and you feel your heart splinter. Why did it feel so wrong to want to go back to Death in the future? Why did everything that wasn’t with him feel so, so wrong?

“I wish that you would stay here.”

“I can’t stay. I’m not from this time.” Your words do little to ease that which internally troubles him. Your hands coax his jaw to lift upwards until he stands, prouder and much taller over you that you have to balance on the toes of your feet. Then, you sweep your arms around him. His body is stiff to meet your hug but you care little in that regard. He’s always been one less evident of his affections, a tendency you’re completely fine with. 

“But I promise that we will meet again in the future. After all, that’s who I’m going back to through the serpent hole. To you.”

There it is, that flicker in his eyes that reveals in them a shiny glow of fire that you feel warms your heart in many ways. Pressing a chaste kiss to the toughened chin of his mask, you offer one last smile and bid your farewells with a wave, promising that you will see each other again before you jump into the serpent hole, disappearing into the green mists. 

You yelp as the void sends you crashing yet again and you fear that you have stumbled into yet another realm in another time. But for the first time, you find yourself relieved to hear Vulgrim’s slimy voice announce your arrival. 

“Ah! And there she is, the curious little mouse who doesn’t keep away from serpent holes,” he snides with a raspy coil like a snake getting ready to strike. 

“Vulgrim,” you poke your tongue out, brushing your hair from your face and you look to see Death charging his way to you. 

“There you are,” he says almost wistfully, hands pressed to your shoulders. A tender action even with the glare clear in his gaze. “What were you thinking? What happened to you?”

You know that beneath the roughness of his callous tone, he means well. He was worried and the look upon his younger self’s face as you left, you find yourself pulling yourself into him and embracing him. 

“I promised you that we’d meet again.”

His arms weave themselves around your waist, holding you to bear you closer in his embrace. “Yes, you did.”

[amariaamaris]

I'm convinced that if the Jedi were a little more unhinged and thirsty that the clone wars never would have happened. Hear me out!

My timeline is more than likely going to be completely off on this, but just follow me here.

Like imagine that Mace Windu - or another jedi - for instance is a Senior Padawan or freshly knighted and he comes across the Haat Mando'ade. Let's say he sees Mand'alor Mereel and is just like "smash". Then he sneaks a picture and posts it onto the Jedi.net or whatever and with the picture puts "Smash" and then a poll that has two options: "Smash" and "Pass". Then lets say he sees Montross and is like "Hard Pass" and sneaks a picture of him as well and puts it up with "PASS" and adds in the comments that he has some rancid-ass vibes.

Then all the jedi respond by choosing "Pass" in the poll thingy and they all follow it up in the comments with "100% rancid vibes" and like "stay away" and "danger". Then there is one particular unhinged, thirsty Jedi that's like. "100% PASS... but also like, I could fix him though". And the other Jedi are like "Soldier down!" and "Force-speed Pilgrim!" and "RIP in the chat". Then that same Jedi and like "Okay, maybe I couldn't fix him, but like.... he could fix me!". The follow up responses are just like "RRRIIIIPPP" and "No, don't go to the darkside!" and like "You're taste just went and burned alive on Mustafar."

And like random people will be so confused because they'll hear random Jedi that are on missions together just out of nowhere say "Smash" or they'll randomly hear "Pass" and have no karking clue as to what they mean by that. 'Cause it's so out of context and the entire galaxy beliefs that they're magical celibate monks.

Then somehow the jedi's habit of doing that with just random ass people in the galaxy gets leaked and/or the Haat Mando'ade hack into their system and find it and they end up in tears of laughter and confusion. Somehow that happening saves the universe or something.

Like a Jedi sees Palpatine and is just like "such a hard PASS" and like "puking in my mouth and crying" and posts that the the Jedi.net and the poll blows up within like an hour with everyone dragging Palpatine in the mud for having "rancid vibes" and "looking like he sells children laced candy" and "big stranger danger energy" and like "hide your kids, hide your wife..." Somehow this leads to them figuring out that he's a sith lord and they off him with the help of the Haat Mando'ade that are just kind of there. 'Cause, these Jedi are unhinged, need an actual night of sleep, like a three month vacation at minimum, and obviously need at least one Haat Mando'ade around to keep them from getting themselves killed by throwing themselves off of karking 300+ story buildings without a jetpack and refusing to wear armor! So, they've decided to adopt/marry the lot of them and are refusing to return them to the Republic. The Jedi Order now belong to the Haat Mando'ade now and they will fight you to keep them.

And yeah, they all just kinda vibe together and save the universe and go on to kark some slavers up.

[imagine-darksiders]

Eden's Heir, chapter 5 - First Blood

Darksiders, War X Reader X Strife.

--------

“What is this place anyway?”

Standing at the edge of the iron bars that stretch like rot-black teeth across the platform's surface, War raises his head at your question, letting his eyes roam sideways to cast a surreptitious once-over of the human hovering anxiously just a few paces to his left.

Skin that he now knows is thin as a sheet of parchment glistens with sweat, and your strange, expressive eyes flit about the cavern on a constant search for danger. You certainly are a jumpy little thing, the Horseman decides, regarding the soft, pink tongue that darts out to wet your lips for the umpteenth time. Not that his brother's reckless stunt helped much.

“If…” Your voice trails off and your body turns stiff as Strife brushes past you to circle the grate, his helm tipped down at the light glowing under the bars.

Once he’s moved beyond your immediate vicinity however, your limbs slacken by a notable margin, something that doesn’t go unseen by War, who doubts it slips his brother’s attention either.

“If it’s a dungeon… then, where are the guards?” you finish, eyeing the emptiness with new sense of unease. Then again, perhaps guards weren't deemed necessary here, what with the open space, the towering ceiling of rock bearing down on your head and the inescapable moat of lava surrounding the platform with no conceivable way off. Those factors alone might be adequate to deter any unwanted trespassers. They sure as hell would have deterred you if you weren't bullied here by two Horsemen who wouldn't take no for an answer.

With a gentle clinking of his bandolier, Strife comes to a halt on the opposite side of the iron bars and returns his full attention to you, studying you briefly before he starts to swivel his head about, copying your inspection of the chamber.

“Mm… That was starting to cross my mind as well,” he admits, shooting a blink-and-you-miss-it glance at his brother. He knows his fellow Horseman’s frosty glare well enough to recognise that War had been thinking along the very same lines.

Good. So they’re both on edge.

Truthfully though, neither of them were expecting you to notice. You’re more observant than War was prepared to give you credit for, at least.

“Plenty of space for a fight,” Strife points out. And with that thought now at the forefront of his mind, he starts to sidle back around the edge of the grate as inconspicuously as he can, none-too subtly drawing closer to you whilst pretending – poorly – that he isn’t moving in your general direction.

Somehow, War’s brows knit together even more firmly across his forehead.

For a Horseman who was, only minutes ago, very blasé about your safety, Strife certainly seems concerned about the distance between you now.

Unimpressed by his brother’s odd behaviour and borderline boyish curiosity regarding a human, War simply brushes it from his mind and instead lowers his chin to gauge the sturdiness of the grate. It looks, in a word, durable. Probably even unbreakable… For anyone other than the Red Rider.

The softly glowing light that emanates from within comes from nothing more than a small, pink crystal, floating in the gloom of its subterranean cell just near enough to the top of the grate that he could simply reach in and slide it through the bars. He could… if his gauntlets weren’t twice the width of the gaps.

A quick glance confirms that even Strife’s hands wouldn’t fit.

Fine. Brute force was always more their style anyway.

Flexing his metal fists, War starts to bend down, reaching out and wrapping his metal fingers around two of the bars, muscles clenched, ready to test their strength.

But no sooner has he secured a grip against the solid iron than a distant, but very unbidden sound floats over the gurgle of lava and drifts into his well-attuned ears, faint, but audible enough to serve as the forewarning he’s been expecting ever since he, his brother and their unwilling tagalong arrived.

Flinching, you jerk back a step as War suddenly and without preamble wrenches himself upright and twists towards you until he’s sending a rock-ribbed glare right over the top of your head, his steely eyes trained on the far side of the platform.

In an instant, Strife has followed his brother’s lead, turning his armoured back to you and straining his own ears to hear anything above the lava murmuring its course through the mountain.

“What’s the problem?” he asks, stepping backwards until his heels nearly tread on the hem of your dress, prompting an indignant noise from you that goes ignored, “Heard somethin’?”

His question remains unanswered for several, terrible beats, during which your pulse makes a steady rise from thumping to jackhammering.

At last, War narrows his eyes and grumbles, “Perhaps…”

He doesn’t mention that he’s been hearing things ever since you all set foot in this accursed keep, nor how suspicious it is that in travelling through the halls and chambers, there hasn’t been a single glimpse of another life.

Nostrils flaring, he grunts to catch his brother’s attention and adds, “Keep your guard up. Demons have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Strife wasn’t wrong when he noted that there’s plenty of space in here for a fight…

There’s plenty of space for an ambush too.

“Demons!?” you squeak, kneading the chain strap of your bag between white-knuckled fists, “You mean there’s more?”

“Yeah kid. A lot more. Whole Hell of a lot.” Strife spares a chuckle at his own joke, doing little to assuage your trepidation.

For a second, as War watches you toss his brother an exasperated look, you nearly manage to appear half as unimpressed as he does, something the giant admittedly takes a bit of vindication in.

“Stick to knock-knock jokes,” you suggest, swallowing thickly and eyeing the ledges, “They’re funnier.”

You know something is wrong – very, very wrong – when Strife suddenly has nothing witty or inflammatory to say in response.

With a gulp, you try leaning sideways to see past the armour-clad Horseman, more than a little perturbed that they’re both aiming a narrow glare in the same direction, both of their shoulders locked back like rearing vipers.

Just as you start to get the sinking feeling that you’re missing something extremely vital, a resounding growl suddenly spills out of War’s boxcar of a chest right behind your ear, forcing his lips up over his teeth and just about scaring the living daylights out of you. Whipping your head over a shoulder, you find him standing barely a foot from your back, near enough that his armoured chest takes up the entirety of your view.

How the Hell had he moved so close without you hearing it?

You wrench your mouth open to ask why the Hell he thinks making loud, unexpected noises is necessary when you’re already wound up tighter than a miser’s purse, but before you can utter a single syllable, War’s unconventional noises become the least of your worries.

From out of absolutely nowhere, the entire cavern explodes into a dreadful cacophony of chitters, high-pitched snarls and yips that send you ducking your head instinctively, tossing it back and forth with wild abandon to try and pinpoint the source of the sounds.

“What the Hell!?” you bleat, alarmed that you struggle to hear your own voice. Somewhere below the awful orchestration, the platform shudders, and a new noise emerges, the scrabbling of numerous claws frenetically fighting for purchase on a sheer rock-face.

“Ah, there it is,” Strife’s muffled voice cuts through to you over the ruckus, “Bout time the welcoming committee arrived.”

“What!?” you blurt, feeling for all the world like a record stuck on repeat, “What is that!? What’s going on!?”

Neither Horseman responds, which, you suppose, doesn’t much matter, given the answer helpfully reveals itself to you just moments later.

Louder and louder, closer and closer, the jaw-clenching clamour closes in on you from all sides of the platform until finally, just as you raise your hands to press them over your ears… the cavern is plunged into a shocking and unexpected silence. And your heart just about drops out of the bottom of your shoes.

Everything remains in a state of inertia. Nothing moves. The Horsemen don’t seem to waver an inch, even with their hands poised statuesquely on the hilts of their respective weapons. And you don’t move a muscle either. Even the breath stays trapped in your lungs, turning hot and stagnant as the seconds crawl by.

War and Strife stand on either side of you, each facing the far end of the platform.

Squinting around latter of the two, you train your eyes at the distant drop off, both trying and dreading to see what they’ve seen.

And then, slightly to the left, something hauls itself up and over the ledge.

You can’t help yourself. You wish you could stay as stoic and unaffected as the bristling giants, but you’re just too human, too fraught and unprepared, and your nerves are too shot to clench down on the muscles of your throat and stop the startled exclamation from bursting out of you.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Strife and War visibly jump at your outburst.

Standing before you on the edge of the platform, supported by two stumpy legs, is a creature plucked straight from the pages of a horror novella. Eyes of the same liquid fire that churns far below you leer out of their sunken sockets, luminous against dark, charcoal scales. You stare back at it agog, reminded first and foremost of some fanged, hairless ape with arms too long to suit its rotund little body, and a torso that feeds directly into an oversized chin, completely forgoing any semblance of a neck.

Despite its diminutive stature putting it at least a foot shorter than you, the beast sports a jaw large and wide enough to fit your entire head between fangs that jut from blackened gums like crooked stalagmites.

You think you might just pass out. Hopefully you’ll wake up when this is all over.

Through the gaps of its scaly underbelly, a burning light spews forth, orange and red and scalding like the glow in its bulging eyes. It’s mouth cranks open, and at the back of its throat, that same light seems to emanate from somewhere deep down inside its guts, as if the thing has just swallowed a bellyful of lava.

“Holy shit,” you croak, ungluing your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

Despite your hushed tone, the thing’s ragged ears twitch towards you and it lowers its head – and half its body – to jeer across the platform at you, arms splayed wide, and claws extended in threat. And then, as if you weren’t already on the verge of losing your mind, the damn thing laughs.

At least you think it laughs.

The sound that gurgles from the back of its glowing throat reminds you more of tyres on a gravel driveway.

“What in the name of god is that thing?” you whisper, secretly glad that there’s a wall of living armour standing between you and it.

“An imp,” Strife replies darkly, “And if there’s one thing you gotta know about imps-“

“-There’s never just one,” War finishes in a snarl.

As if that’s just the cue they’ve been waiting for, the cavern comes alive once more as the caterwauling starts up again, and all around you, to your left, right and even to your rear, a surging horde of those same, stocky beasts come scrambling over the lip of the platform.

Using meaty fists tipped with claws, they heave their robust bodies up, growling and chirping in excitement, their too-large fangs protruding from exposed, glistening gums.

In a perfectly rational manner, you let out a spineless shriek and whirl yourself around to face those hovering behind you, your heels clacking noisily on the stone underfoot. “Holy shit, they’re everywhere!” you gasp, so fixated on the ‘imps’ that you’ve all but backed up into the front of War’s bulwark of a leg without even realising it.

In the span of a few seconds, you find yourself utterly surrounded on all sides by a dozen… no, two dozen of the little beasts. Maybe more.

Unseen by you, War and Strife share a quick but meaningful look over the top of your head.

In a moment of clarity that often precedes their numerous battles, an understanding passes between the apocalyptic beings, a unified acknowledgement conveyed in the shadows lining War’s stone-like features and Strife’s hard, determined stare.

Your small, helpless shape huddling against a leg nearly as tall as yourself, is enough to spark a blaze in both their chests.

Together, without a word passing from one to the other, the Horsemen suddenly spring into action.

You nearly topple over backwards when the leg you’d been pressed against abruptly disappears as War spins on his heel and places his spine to you, mirroring his brother’s stance. Chaoseater’s dark blade glints in the firelight as it swings in a wide arch from the Horseman’s back, over his shoulder and finally out in front of him, held at the ready in one, powerful gauntlet.

At the same time, Strife’s revolvers are out of their holsters faster than you can blink.

Hauling them up, he levels his sights at the imps and takes a slow, measured step backwards, then another, glowering menacingly as he all but corrals you into the meagre space between their armoured legs.

You’d probably be more concerned about having a pair of Horsemen bearing down on you like this if your attention hadn’t been snagged by another figure looming out of the darkness of the pathway you’d just been thrown down from.

In swiftly mounting horror, you lift your eyes to track the newcomer as it draws closer to the precipice.

You might not have even noticed it amongst the rabble of demons clamouring at the edges of the platform. After all, you’re currently surrounded on all sides by two dozen snarling, chittering beasts, what’s one more card on the table?

But the newcomer has one, unignorable facet that distinguishes it immediately from the imps…

… It has to stand over ten feet tall.

All the moisture dries up on your tongue, and you realise with a punch to the gut that neither of the Horsemen have yet noticed the figure looking down on you from above.

The shadowed escarpment grants you no clues as to its immediate features. But the sheer size… the implied weight that sends loose pieces of stone tumbling from the bottom of the overhang and out of sight as the creature clomps heavily up to the edge…

It cuts a broad silhouette. Wider than a car. Wider than a bus. And taller than Strife and War combined.

“Uh, guys?” you whisper hoarsely, your lungs as dry and empty as a dead lakebed.

The colossal shape crouches, and whatever hope you might have had at getting out of this in one piece is shattered like glass on a marble floor.

With a physics defying kick of tree-trunk legs, it jumps.

War and Strife turn their heads just in time to witness the sinister figure leap from the edge of the overhang, hurtle across the space the Horsemen – and you – had just cleared, and land with a resounding ‘boom!’ on the platform with enough force to send shockwaves rippling outwards through the solid stone underfoot.

You’re almost shaken right out of your heels by the impact, barely sparing yourself a tumble by grabbing the edge of War’s steel faulds and hauling yourself upright again, not even budging the Horsemen an inch. If he cares at all, he doesn’t react, and you could almost believe your strength is so insignificant to him that he didn’t even feel you use him as leverage at all.

Straining your neck back, you take your first proper look at the beast that just threw itself down here with you…. And then you nearly collapse all over again.

You thought it looked big up on the escarpment, but seeing it now a mere dozen feet or so in front of you, you couldn’t have underestimated its size more dreadfully if you’d tried.

“This isn’t happening,” you ramble to yourself, eyes bulging in their sockets as you tip your head back to take in the gruesome sight towering over you, “Please God, tell me this isn’t happening.”

Not that you really believe a god had any hand in making this scary son of a bitch.

The monstrous creature walks like a man, upright and bipedal, with swollen, musclebound arms and a small head perched upon its neck. But there, the differences diverge. Dull, leathery scales the colour of rust shine under the firelight, entirely hairless like the imps. Its immense bulk is supported by strong, digitigrade legs that bend inhumanly at the knees and ankle, carrying it forwards as it tromps noisily across the stone towards you.

Roving your stare up the length of its body, you audibly gulp at the sight of two, inverse wings protruding from somewhere between its robust shoulder blades, a layer of bulging fat stretched between the bones like a membrane to evoke the twisted image of a gargantuan, oversized bat.

From the top of its skull, a pair of horns sweep forwards in threat, black as charcoal and pointed at their tips.

Perfect for impaling or goring, you note with a swirl of dread.

But perhaps worst of all, more-so than the bear-trap jaws and the honest-to-god Morningstar fused to the end of a powerful tail, is the weapon it carries in one of its meaty fists that makes War’s sword seem comically small in comparison.

It looks like some sort of club. Albeit one made entirely of metal, with spikes protruding from rotating cylinders that churn mechanically as the beast spins them idly with its free hand, showing off a nauseating array of skulls engraved in the surface.

Well, if you weren’t dead before, you soon will be.

As if the demon weren’t already unconquerable enough, everything above its rotund waist is protected by a layer of medieval, grey armour, which begs the question; What could possibly be out here that would prompt a beast like this to wear armour?

You’d wondered the same about War and Strife when you took a moment to consider them properly.

There’s always a bigger fish…

And if there is a merciful god in this ever-expanding universe, you can only pray to it that the fish don’t come any bigger than this.

You can’t tear your eyes off the demon – for a demon it must be - not even as War takes a deliberate and unexpected step in front of you, obscuring you from its sight, but leaving your flank exposed. The doesn’t stop you from peeking around his side of course, quaking with each of its footfalls as you gape up at those crushing teeth.

Imps scatter left and right as their apparent champion tromps a path through their ranks, defying any to get caught underfoot.

Then, with its armour clanking and its bulbous tail swinging lazily from side to side, the beast lumbers to a halt, nostrils flared with interest.

Suddenly, that massive, terrible jaw falls open and –

“Horsemen.”

A voice as deep as Earth’s molten core booms out of the demon’s throat, buzzing through your chest and spreading from the tips of your fingers to the soles of your feet.

Honestly, you hadn’t expected it to be able to talk…

At your side, Strife shifts his weight, muttering a foreign, gruff word under his breath, his eyes narrowed so thinly, they only permit a crack of golden light to shine through. His guns remain poised at some of the imps, but you’ve no doubt they could easily be redirected at the slightest provocation.

“I’m glad you decided to drop by,” the monster continues, its booming voice rivalling War’s for volume, low and rough as if it’s spent a lifetime gargling rocks, “My pets were starting to get hungry.”

On cue, the imps perk up with gleeful snaps of their teeth, eyeing you greedily between the bridling Horsemen.

Breathing out a quiet whimper, you’re so entrenched in staring at the larger creature that you don’t even register War squaring his stance, sliding one of his legs back to cover your exposed flank.

“Oh yeah, they look real famished,” Strife drawls, his eyes sweeping the room continuously, “Bet I can guess what’s on the menu…”

Gnashing his teeth impatiently, War brandishes his sword and raises his voice to issue a thunderous command. “Give us the artifact, demon! Or I shall be the one feeding you and your pets to my blade!”

In his hand, Chaoseater thrums eagerly in anticipation.

Meanwhile, still trying to swallow your heart, you don’t dare speak, petrified that you might draw attention to yourself, but even so, there still exists the smallest part of you that vies to apply some sort of order to this circumstance, an explanation or – Hell – just a plain old escape plan. You’re not in the know here, you’re completely out of your depth. You realise, with some ironic twist of fate, that you have little choice now but to trust these two, unpredictable Horsemen, because in a situation that spans entire universes beyond your understanding, you have to look to them to know what comes next.

Peeling your tongue off the roof of your mouth, you manage to squeak out a thin, reedy, “What… what do we do?”

At the sound of your voice, Strife’s helm twists ever so slightly over his shoulder to send you a fleeting glance, only to immediately do a double take, his scowl lifting as he catches a glimpse of your haggard face and glistening lashes.

Creator... Did you always look that small?

“…Hey,” he utters, his voice a note gentler in addressing you, “Just sit tight, Sweetheart. We’ll take care of this.”

Startled by the unexpected softness, your eyes snap sideways, blinking desperately up into his.

You want to believe him, so, so badly. Because if they can’t fend off these demons, then you haven’t got an ice-cube’s chance in Hell of getting back to your father, or Earth at all, for that matter.

But even you can see how awfully the odds are stacked against you.

Not only are the Horsemen outnumbered, but they’re also outsized, outgunned, and outmatched in every conceivable way. All of this, you convey in your pinched brows and clenched teeth, practically broadcasting your doubt to Strife, who meets it with his own gaze, steady and fearless, everything you’re not.

You still don’t understand why he and his brother dragged you here, nor why they’d bother to keep you alive.

Who are you to them?

Who are humans to them?

“Oh…?” That dreadful, rumbling cadence utters, drawing Strife’s furious glare back into place once more as the demon inhales deeply through its nostrils, exhaling sparks of fire. “That smell…”

You see the Horsemen physically tense around you. War’s shoulders nearly double in size as if he’s making a concerted effort to appear larger than he is, and a reverberating growl vibrates the heart thrashing behind your ribcage.

Whipping forwards again, you dare to poke your head a little further out past War’s faulds, only to immediately lose the colour in your face, regretting your decision the moment it’s too late to withdraw it.

Your eyes have locked with the cold, jaundiced stare of the demon.

Trapped by the hypnotic allure of something that had, until now, been completely unknowable to you, you watch as it peels its black lips aside to unsheathe the extent of its jagged, gleaming fangs, spilling orange light from the back of its throat. “Ah,” it breathes, exhaling insidious satisfaction, “I see you’ve brought me an appetiser.”

Where your heart had been lodged in your throat, suddenly it plummets into your stomach again, sinking with a heavy stone of dread. You let out a gasp, only to have your choked exclamation drowned out by Strife’s sharp retort.

“Hey!” he yells, pulling the demon’s gaze away from you.

Snarling, it twitches its head in his direction, fangs bared in threat.

Undeterred, the Horseman lets out a throaty noise of his own and growls, “How about you pick on someone your own size?”

While you’re somewhat taken aback by his interference, you don’t really think you need to point out that neither he, nor his brother are anywhere near the size this demon boasts.

Apparently, it agrees with you.

Throwing its head back, it lets out a raucous, bone-chilling laugh, its fleshy chin wobbling with the force. “I will pick you from my teeth, Horsemen!” it chortles, lowering its head to flash a bestial grin, “And when I’m done with you, I’ll wash the taste of your flesh down with this tender morsel’s blood!”

The crimson and grey bulwark in front of you draws himself up, proverbial hackles rising with his boiling temper. The reverberation that spills from his chest is as inhuman as he is. 

Legs like jelly beneath your hips, you unconsciously reach out and grasp for the back of War’s faulds again, steadying yourself on the cumbersome armour.

Sucking a breath in through his teeth, Strife pretends to be pensive for all of a second as he bounces one of his revolvers and responds, “Ah. No. Sorry, big guy, but that’s not really gonna work for us. Y’see my brother and I-“ He notches his head sideways at War. “-Just agreed to keep an eye on the human, so it’s gonna make us look real bad if you go and kill her now.”

If War wasn’t so busy taking stock of the battle ground, he’d spare just a few seconds to slap a palm to his forehead.

All around you, the excitable chatter falls silent and still as each and every pair of demonic eyes swivel around to look directly at you.

The juggernaut’s crooked jaw twitches. “Did you say… human?”

A heavy weight seems to drape itself over the platform, bearing down on your head until the blood screams through your ears.

“Uhm…” Strife falters, his eyes darting from left to right until he at last lets out an eloquent, “Shit.”

Just as you start to wonder – again – why your humanity is such a point of interest, without warning, the demon hoists its weapon into one hand and aims the end of its bludgeon at you.

“KILL THE HORSEMEN!” it bellows at the top of its lungs, shaking the stalactites that dangle from the ceiling, “But leave the human to me.”

In response, the imps start to howl and bay like dogs on the hunt, slamming their fleshy fists against their chests whilst the demon turns its fetid gaze down to you once more, and you can’t do anything but watch on in horror as a thick, fat tongue slides out from behind its lips and sweeps across crooked fangs, leaving a trail of drool trickling down its chin. “I want to have the first taste.”

A pitiful noise falls out of your mouth, but once again, it’s swallowed by the sharp ‘click’ of Strife cocking the hammers back on his guns.

“Over my dead body,” he spits, then raises his voice and calls out to War, “You wanna take the big one!?”

Grunting in affirmation, the larger Horseman gives a roll of his almighty shoulders and huffs, “Gladly. It seems more fitting.”

“Why?” Strife quips, sending a sly grin at his brother, “Cause he’s mean and ugly?”

Curling his lip, War snarls at the smaller demons as they begin to rush forwards as one shrieking horde, ushered by the trumpeting of their master. “Yes, and you can take the imps,” he retorts, ramping up his volume as he breaks into a slow, forward charge that rips your hand from his faulds, building momentum with each, pounding footstep, “They’re loud and bothersome!”

Unleashing its most primal roar yet, the demon lurches into motion seconds later, following the weight of its head and horns as it lumbers towards a frontal collision with War, who meets its challenge with a battle cry so fierce, you wonder how it doesn’t rip the flesh from his throat.

“He can’t fight that thing!” you exclaim, incredulous. As much as you don’t like the surly giant, you’re not exactly vying to see him flattened by one swing of the demon’s fist. He might be your ticket out of here, after all. And if he goes down, there’s no way Strife could take on every demon in here and keep you alive.

You’re suddenly broken from your fretting when a towering, silver silhouette steps in front of you, filling War’s vacated spot with another wall of gleaming battle armour.

“Don’t worry about War,” Strife calls down to you over his shoulder, taking aim at two imps who have broken away from the ranks in the vain hopes of getting to you first, “He’s a professional, he does this all the time.”

You find it hard to imagine any profession where charging headfirst at a colossal demon is considered the norm, but then there are a lot of things about this world that fly straight over your head.

Around the edge of Strife’s armour, you can see the imps scurrying closer, and every synapse of your brain suddenly jolts, sending a shot of adrenaline down through your blood vessels, waking up your overwrought muscles and telling you to take flight.

That, of course, is when the first bullet is fired.

Instinctively, you yelp and duck your head as a veritable explosion sounds out across the chamber, amplified by the high ceiling and hard surroundings. Somewhere up ahead, an imp’s beady little eyes roll back into its skull, and it crumples to the floor, sporting a clean hole straight through the centre of its forehead.

“Holy shit,” you breathe aloud, privately impressed. But you hope he has more than one round in the chamber because there are a lot of –

‘BANG!’

Again, you flinch, while Strife’s arm barely jerks as another round erupts from one of the guns, this time finding its mark through an imp’s eyeball. Blood explodes out the back of its head, and your stomach lurches, forcing you to retreat behind Strife’s back again lest you start dry heaving all over the floor.

Swinging your gaze around, you blurt out a sudden shriek, thoughtlessly plastering your spine to the Horseman’s backside and slapping frantically at his leg, screeching, “Behind you!”

With a grunt of surprise, Strife flicks a look over his shoulder and sees the other half of the impish army swiftly closing in from the rear.

A second passes, the briefest interval in which he’s struck by the humbling realisation that you’re sticking close to a Nephilim for safety.

And then suddenly, Strife comes alive.

Deft fingers flex rapidly against the triggers of Mercy and Redemption as he sweeps them in a wide, graceful arc, squeezing round after round out through their chambers and into the heads of the oncoming horde. Vibrating with glee, Strife lets his muscles do the work. They remember the motions. He revels in the familiar buzz of tingling nerves and the roar of gunfire thrumming in his ears.

There isn’t even a second between one shot and the next. His torso twists lithely despite all of his armour to shoot over your head, taking out a line of imps in the span of a few seconds. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. The demons don’t even pause to take stock of their dead, too confident that their sheer numbers will be enough to overwhelm the Horsemen. They simply clamber over the one that falls in front and continue, salivating, mad with blood lust.

It’s almost too easy.

Strife tips his head back, yawning obnoxiously as he whips Mercy towards an imp that’s made it just a bit too close to the human for his liking. A blast to its gut is powerful enough to send it flying back into some of its brethren, knocking them off their stubby feet.

Yes, he’s big enough to admit that he might be showing off, just a little, but with the eyes of a fabled human on him, Strife can hardly help himself.

He has to resist the urge to glance down and check that you’re watching.

Unbeknownst to the Horseman however, you’re not so much impressed by the display as you are downright horrified. Mouth hanging ajar, you forget to breathe as you watch Strife move. Precise twitches of his arms and wrists bring another target into the firing line, minute adjustments that happen too quickly and too numerously for you to keep track of.

You remember watching some old Westerns with your father when you were very small, gathered in his favourite armchair to witness the skill of Hollywood actors who posed as gunslingers and desperados, each claiming to be the ‘quickest draw in the West.’ You used to believe you were seeing the best of the best, back before you grew older and learned that magic can easily be faked by special camera angles and cuts and fine editing.

But even if it was real, even if all those actors and stuntmen were authentic and really could shoot a man’s dime out of the air blindfolded with one hand tied behind their back, they wouldn’t have held a candle to the skill you’re witnessing first hand.

Calm as an old oak tree and with the grace and power of a machine, Strife stands fast against the braying swarm, never missing his mark, never stopping to reload, never even flinching from the recoil.

In what has to be under ten seconds, Strife has thinned two dozen imps down to the last four, leaving scores of small, rotund bodies dotted around the chamber. The survivors don’t even slow as they reach him. You brace yourself, still cowering in the Horseman’s shadow as the imps launch themselves at you, their claws outstretched and unsheathed ready to slash, to fight.

… Only to end up having their skulls caved in by a bullet before they can even come close to scratching you or the Horseman’s armour, too stupid to break ranks and try to come at him from different angles. But even if they’d tried flanking him, you doubt they’d have had much more luck.

It’s over before it ever truly began.

The last of the imps drops dead to the floor, its forward momentum sending it skidding to a halt on the stony ground, inches from the toes of your heels.

 You almost fall over yourself stumbling away from it, cringing at the rivulet of blood that dribbles out between its teeth.

“See?” Strife boasts as he turns himself around to face you, flashing a cocksure grin down at you before he remembers it’s hidden behind his visor. Huh. Disappointing… Heaving a mental shrug, he carries on, “Nothing to it.”

Nothing to it, he says, as if you hadn’t just watched him massacre a small army without so much as a ‘by your leave.’

Strife seems to notice that your face is drawn back in trepidation instead of awe, and his grin falters slightly beneath his helm.

Breathing hard, you gulp past a stone in your throat and peer around the Horseman, jutting your chin at the demon currently trying to crush his brother into pulp.

“Uh, okay, sure - but what about him!?” you sputter.

Turning to look, Strife silently observes War’s attempt at getting in close enough to land a hit on the leathery behemoth. To its credit, the demon is far quicker on its feet that either of them seem to have anticipated.

To your astonishment, Strife lets out an honest-to-goodness chuckle and cups a hand around where you assume his mouth is, calling, “Having trouble, War?! Come on, I just killed like, fifty demons and you’re still on your first!?”

There were nowhere near fifty, and you wonder if he thinks humans don’t know how to count.

Your head cranks around to stare at him, aghast. “Strife!” you exclaim, his name sounding awkward and unnatural on your tongue.

“What?” comes his breezy reply.

Setting aside the fact that he’s probably distracting War, you’re more astounded that he’s just… standing here, cracking jokes whilst his own brother tries to fend off an adversary nearly three times his size.

If it were your father there, fighting on his own… you’d….

“That-!” you splutter, throwing an arm out and gesturing wildly across the platform, “That’s your brother!” Christ alive, how often have they been in these situations that such casual indifference is warranted?

Strife must see the abhorrence etched across your features because he’s quick to change tactics, realising that he isn’t impressing you by acting aloof.

Holding up his hands, still with a revolver clutched in each, he bobs them back and forth at you mollifyingly. “Okay, okay, take it easy,” he acquiesces, “I’m on it.”

Bemused that you’ve taken such a sudden, unexpected turn towards his brother’s safety, Strife spins neatly on his heel, pauses, then twists around once more to level a contrastingly stern glare down at you. You blink at the abrupt change, recoiling slightly as he extends one of his forefingers and points it between your eyes.

“Stay. Here,” he tells you firmly, no trace of a joke in this order.

“But-!”

“Ah!” he interrupts, “No buts! Just stay there and don’t move!”

In response, you lift your hands indicatively and give him a look that screams, ‘where the hell would I move to?’

Satisfied, the Horseman nods once, and then he’s off, jogging briskly across platform towards the pair of titans battling it out.

Another of the demon’s blows misses War, striking the ground where he'd been standing seconds before, and shaking the platform under your feet.

Hovering here, helpless and useless, you bring your hands up to your chest, wringing them over one another, suddenly feeling a lot more vulnerable out in the open sans a Horseman to act as a buffer.

It’s a selfish thing to think, that your first instinct is to see them as a pair of shields against the horrors of this place, but you’re well past pretending to be a selfless person. It’s easy to act heroic when situations that require a hero aren’t foisted upon you. Survival should be paramount for you now.

You won’t leave your father alone on his death bed.

You won’t leave him without saying goodbye.

Stumbling backwards away from the grate at the centre of the platform, you allow your tired feet to carry you as far from the battle as possible, keeping your gaze locked on the Horsemen as you pick your way blindly around the decimated corpses of the imps until at last, you stop, casting a brief glance over your shoulder to find you’re as close to the ledge as you dare to get. On the corner, furthest from the fight, you watch the Horsemen with your stomach twisting itself into anxious knots.

“Need a hand!?” Strife shouts as he skids to a stop near the demon’s flank, raising Mercy and firing off a shot that ricochets off its metal helmet.

The beast’s head jerks forwards before whirling around to roar at its new opponent.

Quick as a whipcrack, Strife fires another two rounds, the twin retorts echoing around the chamber.

Wrenching its head to the side just in time, the demon manages to catch each bullet on its horns instead of its face. They bounce harmlessly off the solid bone, their casings falling to the ground with smoke trailing from the hollow ends.

Letting out a rumbling growl, War uses the momentary distraction to charge for its legs, aiming a lunge at the beast’s exposed belly.

It’s size, however, is deceptive. With just milliseconds to spare, the demon heaves itself backwards, retreating just out of range of the arching blade. In retaliation, it lifts its bludgeon high overhead and glares down at War, sparks flying from its maw when it bellows, bringing the long weapon down on a direct collision course with the Horseman’s skull.

Unseen across the platform, you slap your hands over your eyes, teeth bared in terrified anticipation.

War’s head snaps up to see the weapon rapidly bearing down on him, and merely curls his lip in response, more vexed than alarmed.

Muscles bunching, he suddenly kicks off on his boots and throws his body to the side, rolling over his shoulder and using the momentum to spring to his feet once more, further away from the beast, and not a moment too soon.

‘WHAM!’

With the force of an asteroid impact, the bludgeon crashes into the hard floor, exerting enough force to crack the rock and send splinters spiderwebbing out from the point of contact.

“Nice move!” Strife praises his brother, only to let out a short bark of shock when the demon swings its tail around towards him as it recovers from the missed blow.

Ducking his head, the huge appendage skims over him, so close that the softer under-scales ruffle the tips of his spiked hair.

“Shit!” he exclaims, eyes tracking the tail when it starts sweeping back towards him, leaving the Horseman with little else to do except throw himself to the ground, stomach first, flattening his body into the hard stone.

“Son of a…” Not his most dignified position…

Hopefully you didn’t see that…

Baring his teeth, he braces himself, waiting to feel the air rush past above him, and then, with a grunt, he rolls onto his side and raises the arm that isn’t pressed into the grit, firing several rounds at the underside of its tail.

A deafening howl erupts from the demon’s lungs as his bullets embed themselves into the spongey flesh, drawing forth thick, oily blood that spatters from the wounds and joins the imp blood on the stone slabs.

The demon snorts furiously through its nostrils, slamming the bulbous end of its tail against the ground in a way that promises retribution as it stumbles backwards, putting a little more distance between it and the Horsemen.

Unbeknownst to you and your unorthodox kidnappers, something has finally occurred to the brute.

Maybe it really is on the backfoot here.

It knows these Horsemen. Word travelled fast after the massacre at Eden, of how four Nephilim were able and willing to eradicate the rest of their species…

The demon had, perhaps foolishly, assumed that with only one half of a quartet, it would stand a chance. But one Horseman alone has already proven more of a challenge than it anticipated. The second, the one with the loud mouth, was supposed to be overwhelmed by the imps… Now that the pair of them have entered the fray though…

The demon’s twisted mind chugs into gear, cobbling together a desperate strategy. Its yellow eyes flit from the red-cloaked Horseman to the one toting guns who’s hauling himself to his feet, its nostrils opening wide in agitation.

It draws in a deep, ragged breath…

... And freezes.

Only for a second, mind. Plenty of time to process the scent whilst the Nephilim regroup.

Below the stench of brimstone, below the freshly spilled imp blood seeping into the stone underfoot, it catches that smell once again.

It’s mouth-watering.

Meat made tender by fear.

Forbidden meat. Exotic… Something no demon has ever had the chance to taste.

Its crooked jaws split open in a wide, cruel grin, and all at once, it whips its head around, beady eyes locking fast onto the tiny morsel wrapped in white, standing near the ledge.

‘There,’ it concludes, zeroing in on its unsuspecting little boon, ‘is how to gain the upper hand.’

Strife’s brows snap together when the demon’s entire demeanour shifts.

Picking himself up, he shares a glance with his brother on the beast’s opposite flank.

‘The Hell is it looking-‘

He connects the dots a few moments too late.

“Strife!” War bellows as the demon heaves its bulk around, away from the Horsemen, and there’s an unbidden hint of urgency in his tone, “The human!”

‘No,’ Strife mouths silently, looking beyond the demon to find you frozen near the platform’s edge, paralysed with fear.

Then, aloud, in a voice that grows stronger with each word, he growls, “No… No! NO!”

He’s moving before he’s even finished the last word.

Two sets of metal boots slam against the ground as two Horsemen hurl themselves into a breakneck gallop, tearing after their adversary as if a fire has been lit under their heels.

War’s hood topples back off his head, leaving his long, white-blonde hair to whip madly through the air behind him as he sprints, only slightly slower than his brother, whose guns are aimed at the demon’s retreating back.

“LEAVE HER ALONE!” Strife roars, unleashing a maelstrom of bullets that strike the tougher scales on its exposed legs, doing nothing to slow its forward charge.

Neither of them understands why there rises such a ferocious surge of rage at the prospect of the demon threatening their human charge, but regardless of why, War’s sigil scar still blazes hotly in the open air, streaking orange across his forehead, and Strife’s golden eyes burn like sparks off a blacksmith’s forge.

The unspoken agreement that had passed between them earlier, connects them again now.

You haven’t moved from your spot in the corner, hunkered down in a half crouch, half cower with your legs locked in place and a swirling, empty abyss carving a hole straight out of your stomach. Your entire body jumps with each of the demon’s footsteps.

It passes the grate, in long, loping strides, hurtling towards you at a breakneck pace, leaving you no time to gather your wits.

Strife’s little stunt lies forgotten in the past where it happened.

This is how you really die.

‘So much for getting back to dad,’ a small, sardonic voice whispers in the back of your mind.

Behind the demon, War puts on a burst of speed, rocketing past the grate and keeping his eyes locked on you like you've lost your mind.

Why are you just standing there?

For a split second, his priorities shift, and in an unprecedented turn of events, it’s his mission that takes a backseat.

Later, he’ll berate himself for allowing his composure to slip enough that he opens his mouth and aims a harrowing order in your direction.

“HUMAN!”

Your bulging eyes meet his across the platform.

“RUN!”

‘Run?’ you grimace, effectively shaken from your stupor by the sheer absurdity of his demand, ‘In heels?’

But it’s as if that one, deafening order had adequately unglued your legs from solid cement.

War hadn’t told you what will happen if you don’t run but you’re smart enough to parse the consequences for yourself.

Run, or die.

Not fantastic options, but you know for a fact which of the two you like less.

Giving your head a rough shake, you suck down a breath and clumsily gather up the front of your skirts as the demon extends one of its hands towards you.

Like a bullet, you turn to the side and start to run, haring off across the platform and cursing with each step you take in your tottering heels. The tender soles of your feet burn with the pressure of running in them, and you’re half tempted to kick them off in favour of fleeing barefoot, but that would take time. Time you’ve stupidly allowed yourself to run low on.

You can hear the demon bearing down on you like a runaway train, feel its sulphurous breath raging against the back of your neck. Bullets twang off the metal armour, and behind you, Strife hollers something which gets lost under the cruel laugh that erupts from the monster chasing you and reverberates through your chest.

The platform’s opposite corner is rapidly approaching.

Blinking through the sweat clinging to your brow, you pump your legs even harder, thighs already burning as you haul your ungainly dress along after you and will the demon not to tread on the back of it as it trails through the dust in your wake.

Suddenly, just as you come to the corner and start to push off on your right foot to dart left, a rush of air whooshes by, bringing with it thick, meaty fingers and claws that appear in your peripheral vision and reach past you, curling into your path.

You know as soon as they appear that the jig is up.

You’re too late to slam on the brakes.

Regardless, you try to stop yourself anyway, pushing your weight down into the toes of your shoes to come to an awkward, staggering halt. But, thwarted by your own momentum, your weight comes unbalanced, and you totter forwards, throwing your hands up to catch yourself as you topple right into the demon’s waiting palm.

Clammy, rugged fingers snap shut around your waist and legs, and you barely have time to gasp in shock before you’re unceremoniously wrenched off the ground.

Triumphant, the demon digs its heels in and brings itself to a clumsy stop at the edge of the platform, a writhing, whimpering human squeezed viciously beneath its crushing fist.

“Ha!” it barks, whirling to face the Horsemen and bringing its struggling prize up in front of its face.

Collectively, Strife and War come careening to a stop several yards from the demon, the former’s guns shaking with rage as he aims them at the brute’s skull, his fingers stiff on the triggers. He’d been microseconds away from firing when it turned. He hadn’t expected it to raise you up to cover its head, leaving Mercy’s sights trained with terrifying precision right at the sweat-streaked furrow between your brows instead.

There are tears pouring down your cheeks, your blunt nails scrabble uselessly at the closest, scaly knuckle, and something hidden deep down inside Strife’s soul starts to raise its sleepy head.

Grinding his teeth together, he eases his fingers off the triggers and spits a venomous curse, though he doesn’t lower his weapons.

“Coward!” War seethes at the demon, Chaoseater humming against his palm, “You would use a human as your shield!?”

With a chortle that raises the hackles of both Horsemen, it bares its fangs into a malicious grin and utters a single, chilling demand. “Lower. Your. Weapons.”

You give up on scraping your nails against its toughened hide and take to thrashing madly in its hold instead, a swathe of distressed grunts and bleats tumbling from your constricting throat. It’s like trying to fight your way out of a concrete coffin. The flesh on its palm is spongey, softer than the rest of the brute, but still inescapable. No matter how hard you try to kick your legs or twist your torso around, the colossal fingers don’t budge an inch.

‘Not like this!’ a frightened voice screams inside your head, ‘Not like this!’

The demon seems content to ignore you. The struggles of its prey are hardly a thing of concern now that it has you in its grasp. Of far greater concern are the two Nephilim bristling like hell hounds with their meal stolen out from under their noses.

Their weapons remain raised, and when neither of them makes a move to do as asked, the demon simply shrugs one massive shoulder and gives its hand a demonstrative flex.

The cry that’s punched out of you breaks apart halfway through, turning into a wet, choked gurgle as your ribs squeeze against your lungs. Head thrown back, your jaw stretches open around a silent plea for mercy.

Strife is the first to react.

It wounds him greatly to do so, but with an effort that physically aches, he lowers his guns until they’re pointed at the ground.

The pressure around your chest loosens by a fraction.

War’s face is set like stone as he glowers up at the demon from underneath his creased eyebrows, white hair cascading around shoulders that heave up and down with unmitigated outrage.

The demon merely raises one of its cragged brow ridges, peering at him, expectant.

“War,” Strife breathes.

His brother’s canines glint wickedly in the light.

Slowly, as if Strife had just asked him to pluck out his own eyes, War begrudgingly allows Chaoseater to drift down, its tip thudding against the stone in front of him.

Another inch of space opens up around you, enough for you to noisily suck down a greedy lungful of air, coughing and spluttering as you try to get your precious breath back.

Above you, the demon’s throaty voice growls over your head like a roll of thunder. “Now… Place your weapons on the ground.”

Collapsed over the demon’s forefinger, you half hear Strife bark, “You put her down first!”

Something shiny glints in the corner of your eye.

Shuddering around each breath you take, you roll your head to the side, mouth ajar, and spot a familiar, silver chain falling over your shoulder. It takes you a second to recognise the significance of it, yet when the realisation hits, it hits hard.

You still have your bag…

“You are in no position to bargain, Horseman,” the demon snarls, lashing its tail aggressively, ignorant of your eyes snapping open and your shivering heart giving a hopeful jump.

You still have your bag!

The tiny, silver lifeline dangles over the side of the demon’s index finger, the chain still hot against your bare neck. It isn’t much. Hell, it’s barely anything.

But right now, it’s the only thing you have to work with.

Suddenly frantic, you stretch your arms out and scrabble for it, grabbing the chain and yanking the whole thing towards you.

‘Please, please, please!’ repeats in your head like a mantra as you fumble with the clasp and throw open the lid, plunging your hand inside, digging for something – anything – you can use.

You’re just lucky the demon is so focused on the Horsemen that it only equates your sudden liveliness with renewed attempts to free yourself.

“How about a deal?” Strife pipes up, he and his brother equally oblivious to your discovery, “Demons like deals, right?”

In response, its scowl deepens, and it bares its teeth at him, unconvinced.

Undeterred, the Horseman forges ahead. “So how about this. You-“ He points a finger up at the overgrown demon. “-Let the human go… And we-“ Here, he gestures between himself and his brother. “- promise to kill you nice and quickly. Sound good?”

You don’t even hear the beast’s response, you’re so fixated on the contents of your bag.

Blinking hard to try and clear away the tears on your lashes, you peer down into your bag, shoving aside notes, lipstick, your phone-

Your phone!?

You nearly drop the whole bag in shock.

Of all the…

How!? How could you have forgotten you put your phone in the bag before you left for church!?

It’s less than useless in this situation, of course, but if you make it out of here alive…

A surge of adrenaline smacks you square in the chest, filling you with a much-needed boost of determination to get out of this bastard’s clutches.

Pushing the phone aside, you can finally see all the way to the bottom of the bag.

There!

Your gorge rises with terrified excitement.

A slim, tiny object sits in your bag’s depths, almost lost amongst all the other bric-a-brac, stainless steel, tapered to a point at its tip…

It’s not a knife, nor truly a weapon of any kind. But right now, it’s the best you’ve got.

Nearing the very end of your frazzled tether, you slip your trembling fingers around the metal nail file and pull it from the confines of your bag, clutching it inside your fist with the sharp point sticking out beneath your curled pinkie.

Wriggling around to face the soft, unarmoured flesh in the juncture where the demon’s thumb and forefinger connect, you fill your lungs with a hot, steadying breath, and raise your fist high above your head.

You’re about to pit a few inches of metal meant for filing nails against a demon of biblical proportions.

This will either be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, or…

No. No, it’s only stupid.

Bravery is for other people, smarter people who would have figured a way out of this by now.

You’re just a desperate human who wants to go home.

Far below you on the ground, War’s eyes track movement near the demon’s head, and his sharp, blue gaze flies up to see your shaking arm poised high in the air above you.

Something small and silver flashes in the light, held in a vice-like grip between your tiny fingers.

Strife sees it just after his brother, and his jaw immediately goes slack.

The demon only sees your arm fall…

… And then all it sees is white.

A blinding pain sears up the length of its bulging forearm, forcing its head back to send a roar up at the stalactites quivering overhead.

Staggering backwards, the demon all but flings its hand open and allows its prey to tumble towards the hard ground with a yelp.

For a moment, all you know is the gut-wrenching sensation of gravity pulling you back down to the ground once again, and then, without warning, there’s a distant clatter of steel, and all of the air is knocked out of you for the second time in less than an hour by something brawny and powerful.

You’ve felt this before. Arms as thick and steady as tree trunks catch you before your back can hit the ground, stopping your descent in a manner that’s only slightly less jarring as it would be to crash into solid stone.

Your eyes fling open, and you once again find yourself blinking owlishly up into War’s rugged face, now completely exposed by the noticeable lack of his usual, scarlet hood.

Behind him, his sword lays patiently on the ground, dropped in favour of freeing up his hands to spare you from a bruised or broken spine.

He’s staring down at you with the same, open-mouthed shock you’re giving back to him. In a small, seldom visited corner of your mind, you realise that he’s a lot less terrifying without his hood.

“Nice… catch,” you wheeze breathlessly, and after a pause, you add, “Again.”

The sigil on his forehead flares brightly for a second as he inspects you from top to bottom, drawing in a breath like he’s about to speak.

Before he can utter a sound however, the platform around you judders under the power of the demon’s uproarious screech.

Wrenching his eyes up and away from you, the Horseman’s teeth snap together into a wordless snarl, and in another shocking turn, he promptly yanks you right underneath his chest, squashing you against armour that’s less forgiving than marble.

Wincing in discomfort, you nonetheless follow his line of sight until you find yourself staring up into the warped visage what might have been your murderer.

The demon’s eyes are rolling in their sockets, and although it might be small, you and the Horsemen can still make out a little splinter of metal jutting from the sensitive flesh at the base of its thumb.

Outraged, it uses the tips of its fingers to pluck your nail file from its wounded hand. A spurt of blood bursts from the wound once the metal is free of its confines, giving you a good indication of just how hard you’d shoved the implement into its skin.

Sparing the file a filthy growl, the demon cocks its arm back and hurls it spitefully to the ground, sending it skittering right over to the grate where it comes to a rest, the once silver blade dripping with unholy blood.

Rounding on you and War, the beast lets out a ferocious growl.

“You… You dare!?” it demands, raising its bludgeon, a fresh and frenzied hatred bursting into existence within its heartless chest. Blood spilled by a human - a creature so much lesser than itself - is a shameful humiliation that it doesn’t intend to let go unpunished. The only way to stymie the flow of its haemorrhaging pride is to kill you, ruthlessly, something that will bring it far more pleasure now than it would have before.

It will instil a fear in you so great, your human kin will know the terror of demon kind without having the privilege of meeting them.

Spine curved back, its arm reaches the apex of its swing, the bludgeon poised behind its head ready to come crashing down on top of you and a seething War.

It’s easy to forget about the long, pink scar trailing down the length of your arm in spite of the person who gave it to you clutching you against his broad, armoured chest. It’s easy to forget that War is supposedly a Horseman of the Apocalypse when there’s a creature here who has already shown so much more inclination to kill you than he has. For a moment, you’re not ashamed when you turn your head into his chest and twist your fingers tightly around the fabric of his cowl, tugging yourself as close to his silent safety as you can get. 

The Horseman jolts around you, somehow growing impossibly more solid, though whether that’s because of you or the giant club casting a shadow over his head, you couldn’t say.

You just don’t want to see your own death coming when it-

A single, deafening shot rips the air asunder, reverberating off the cavern walls.

The sound startles a sharp gasp from your mouth, and you can’t help but peek over your own shoulder to see that the demon’s body has gone stiff as a board.

It blinks once, the maniacal grin wiped clean off its face.

As you watch on in confusion and terror, slowly, from the centre of its forehead in the space between its rigid brows, a tiny bead of blood appears, blooming outwards like a rose unfurling crimson petals.

Still crushed against War’s chest, you stare up at the demon in disbelief, mouth flapping open and shut around words that refuse to come. From the corner of an eye, you see the light glint off silver armour as Strife lowers his smoking gun.

“Deal’s a deal,” he says gruffly, rolling a kink out of his shoulder, “Nice and quick.”

There’s something almost graceful in the way the demon starts to tip over backwards, its colossal weapon sliding from loosened fingers to plummet over the ledge and out of sight.

Its wielder doesn’t take long to follow suit.

Crumbling in on itself, its fleshy wings slump abruptly, as does its tail, and its beady, yellow eyes roll up into its skull as the brain gives out, severing any connection to its muscles. Gravity takes hold of the brute’s mass, and with an encouraging tug, it coaxes its prize down over the precipice.

Thousands of pounds of flesh are claimed in an instant. The demon’s feet slip out from under it, sending it toppling backwards into the pit, vanishing in the blink of an eye over the edge it had once held you upon so precariously.

In tentative silence, you and the Horsemen remain utterly motionless, your ears straining to hear over the high-pitched ringing that slowly fades with each passing second.

Then, at last, you hear a distant, muted ‘kersploosh,’ followed by the rather gruesome sounds of sizzling flesh and the near-satisfied gurgles of lava swallowing its latest victim.

Then, and only then, do the three of you at last breathe varying sighs of relief.

“That,” Strife remarks, turning towards you and his brother, hands planted squarely on his hips, “was awesome.”

If looks could kill, the one you shoot at him around War’s swollen bicep would bring the Horseman to his knees.

You don’t think you’ve ever disagreed with anyone so fervently in your entire life.

[miupow]

Omg, guess who Lia???

These days cockwarming with jjun thoughts are so on my mind, Lia... I mean just imagine how he'd just not move within you, and test if you like dirty talking, to see what stuff from his filthy mouth makes you clench, or actually some other teasing like touching and playing with your tits and nipples, or your clit but not moving in you is the best torment he can give you, when you're dripping so much and he feels so warm...

"jjun p-please," your small pleas are dead to him from the moment he actually stuffed his fat cock in you, the stretch even so pleasurable, all the thoughts in mind abandoning your conscience where all you see is to beg, but Yeonjun's not listening to his princess tonight as he stills your moments from gripping thighs hard and tight, restricting any friction/stimulation you try to get by squirming or moving yourself ever so slightly, but that's better than nothing, or so you thought, the feel of having him stay still in your warm heat, your core embracing his length, and actually squeezing him as tight as you can sometimes, oh Yeonjun really did enjoy that and deep inside as tormenting it is with the exciting butterflies dancing in your stomanch, you liked it when you shouldn't have. "you want me to fuck but you aren't letting me, baby. if you clench s-so tightly, I might break when I move, so what's it then? Fuck or.. this..?" damn cunning fox. He knows why he isn't moving, watching you fall apart from slightest stimulation by him, absolutely watch you go nuts for his slightest acts of service, he is so obsessed for interested in such a side of yours as his smirk does not falter a little, if anything, it only curves more. "What's wrong baby, cock not enough? What does my pretty slut want? I can see her losing her mind, just by cock huh, isnt it baby?" fuck, you weren't supposed to moan and clench at that. Yeonjun's eyebrows arch a little and he notices your sudden clench at his words, how your hands actually arch themselves along your back but he isn't fucking you, is he? "jjun please, do something." At this point, Yeonjun's lost count of how much you have said 'jjun please's to him tonight, but he just has begun. "Exactly, what do I do baby, when you're clenching at me and not letting me fuck, come one baby, slut up and say it." no. Not again you shouldn't clench but you do, why is he so lewd with his words that makes you wanna clench at him, is he having a control on your body? Oh yes he does but this. Fuck that laugh he lets out, as he grabs yours and cages them in his one hand and caresses your thighs, laying pressing and soothing touches as he reaches your inner thighs near your cunt, filled with his cock, the sight so fucking lewd to see, as his eyeballs curve into crescents and he smiles so heartily, his princess is perfectly sized for his cock, dripping exactly as he desires, "fuck... could you look at this, how dirty, you love my cock so much huh? Look at how well you've taken it all and yet dripping, clenching at my praises, ah, see that's exactly what I mean... f-fuck that's my slut." He is so lewdly articulate with his words, having you drip like taht, but he isn't getting enough, when you're trembling at his cock, him absorbing every tremor that your cunt exudes, your sweating face and your desperate face, just like he wants. "jjun, f-fuck me please." He shifts his gaze at you, with a pouty face that he makes, as he looks down at you pity, he tsks so much as he speaks so mockingly, "well, baby... no." As he teases your clit and gets you to squeeze him more, uh oh. It's so good, I want more. She is so perfect.

IS THIS NOULLI i am so sorry i've been sitting on this for ages gatekeeping this little drabble i almost wanted to keep it for myself it's so good but others have got to see it... i'm losing my mind i'm gonna be so embarrassed if this isn't noulli omg

i've been on such a yeonjun brainrot era this is wild and darksided and evil!!! my brain rn omg

[moodymisty]

Hello! I can not tell you how fERRAL I went when I discovered your blog a couple days ago, I've binged the fuck out of your Darksiders content and I just can't belive I havent found you sooner (where have you been fr ;7;) !! Your writing style and vocabulary are impeccable, and I can't wait to read moreeee ahhdjshdjsjdj I am eagerly awaiting the next chapter of 'Tree in Bloom' but if I may request also a continuation or conclusion of your 'Death returning to the one he abandoned post well of souls' fic cuz I'm a succer for your angst and fluff and everything else you do really jdjshdj<3 sfw or nsfw idc as long as I get to read more of your writing!<333

Lots of love and support from a long time Darksiders community member and fan <3

Part 1

Author's note: Sure fam, I think I can squeeze out a bit more for that one.

Relationships: Death/Gn!Reader

Warnings: none really

Death hadn't returned to you since the confrontation.

It's a rare feeling for him, but he honestly doesn't know what to do next. If you were missing, injured, he could formulate a plan, kill something, even bite his tongue and ask for assistance. But you're right here, and so unfathomably angry at him that the anger has morphed into something else entirely.

Apathy, perhaps. Death wouldn't be unfamiliar with that sort of transformation. He'd felt that change towards the fate of the Nephilim a long time ago.

But Death knows that he doesn't want to just leave you behind the way he does with everyone else. The way he had tried to with his death in the Well of Souls, and had failed to successfully do. He enjoyed having you beside him, enough so that it almost made him upset at how attached he was getting. It made him even angrier that it was becoming more than just acquaintanceship, or friendship. He shouldn't be having the sorts of thoughts he was about you, he didn't deserve them.

You didn't either; Not after what he did. He knows he had to, it's what he thought was best, it was the only way to save War and your race, but that doesn't mean he hasn't realized how it had hurt you.

But now he stands in front of you completely silent, and all the words he was thinking about saying suddenly sound so stupid.

"I told you Death, you can just leave. I don't know why you keep coming back."

His jaw shifts behind his mask. That sounds eerily similar to something that he would say, and he isn't a fan of being on the other side of it. Perhaps for a moment he understands a bit of how you feel when you try to speak with him.

You look up at him with raised eyebrows, wondering why he hasn't either talked, or just moved on. Your anger fades ever so slightly when you seem to realize that he's... nervous. Or at least something in a similar category.

"What is it, Death?" He swallows the knot in his throat. What he's going to say isn't something he's said in so long that he doesn't remember how the words taste, nor does he know if it's even the right thing to say.

"I wanted to apologize to you."

Your face changes from anger to surprise. He thinks he sees your lips mouth what, but your voice was silent. You cross your arms across your chest as if trying to give yourself a hug.

"Why?" At first he thinks you're asking why he's apologizing, but when he sees the watery shine in your eyes he realizes that you're asking why he did what he did. You just wanted an answer, this entire time, and he knows now that he at least owes you that.

"I thought it would be better to just leave than to drag it out."

You wanted to be angry at him still he can tell, demand that he explain himself more, but you know in the end that's all you'll get out of him in words. You could at least understand him; That it was easier to rip the bandaid off than to say goodbye and risk feeling hesitation over what he had to do.

You sigh, still crossing your arms over eachother.

"You don't have to apologize. Just, don't leave me like that again." Death watches you look away from him again, and your next words hit him harder than he's been hit by any weapon in awhile. "I don't know if I could take something like that a second time."

Death doesn't comment directly on it, on how you so easily show you're attached to him. Death had tried desperately to stop you from doing so, for your sake and his. You shouldn't attach yourself to someone like him, and someone like him doesn't deserve such upfront, vocal infatuation.

"Dust stayed with you this entire time?"

Death looks down on you with his familiar expression, though even you can tell behind the mask it's a bit softer. The bird warbles softly at his name being called, ruffling his feathers a bit but still staying mostly still. You nod at his question.

"Yes, ever since you left." Death looks at his left shoulder at the crow, watching the bird eye him.

"Good bird." You smile at his praise. Dust deserved it, after everything.

"I imagine I have plenty to catch up on," Death says. He knows you have a penchant for curiosity- as does your entire race it seems - along with the changes he himself brought not long ago. He's sure you've gotten into trouble under the Makers care, as well as anything that has changed since he brought Humanity back from the dead.

"You do." You take a breath and raise your tone to something more questioning, and more importantly expectant. "But I can bring you up to speed, if you can stay awhile?"

Death out of habit wanted to say no, but perhaps he can defeat a centuries old habit just for you.

He nods, and follows behind you as you go to sit down together with him, and tell him everything.

[tiredsurvivoronmain]

A few reasons why I love Chrisker is because there's so much to explore with them and years after RE5 (the last they were in together) there's still little connections to each other and new details being found; the photo of Chris on Wesker's screen in RE4R, the similarities with RE8 Chris and UC Wesker, Chris keeping Wesker's STARS knife in Darkside Chronicles (and likely still keeps it after Wesker died), both of them having quotes about 'fate' in regards to each other, Chris using a replica of Wesker's samurai edge in Death Island etc. There's many versions/eras of them to enjoy and mix (RE8 Chris and RE1 Wesker for example) and there's a ton of AUs that can be created, there's a lot you can do with them.

And there's depth to their relationship (in canon) it's not just a simple 'they are enemies that hate each other', both are complex characters that supress feelings/emotions and trauma they've endured. Wesker has an obsession, hatred and tunnel vision for Chris yet despite the many opportunities he has to kill or seriously hurt him, he doesn't. Whether it's because he merely enjoys toying and tormenting him (by hurting and killing those connected to Chris and even killing many innocent people to specifically make a BOW to kill Chris which of course fails like every other attempt) more than the idea of killing him, or there's something else that hasn't yet come to light. He's surprisingly easy on Chris with his attacks and doesn't fire his gun whenever it's aimed at him, and Wesker isn't shy about killing for Chris whether it be innocent people or to save his life (killing Enrico who was going to shoot Chris).

And there's then this strange need for Chris to understand him and his motives. He doesn't seem to want this for anybody else like Jill, Sheva or Ada (afaik), only Chris. Surely he must know that Chris doesn't care, why would he? Yet he persists.