#you can tell it really hit its stride a few more chapters in

[untilyouremember]

My Love Story with Yamada-kun at LV999

Available digitally through Mangamo

Available for preorder

[cherrrydragon]

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: HOME

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SUMMARY ↳ Home is where the heart is. Tony's eyes study you carefully. "You sure you're okay?" "I'm home, Tony," is all you say." pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none wc: 3.2k

all of your replies from last chapter really made me chuckle, glad to see that the writing hit like it was supposed to lol

Miguel refuses to let you go anywhere without getting checked out by somebody. A Spider-Doctor looks you over, poking and prodding at you. She asks you a bunch of questions, some miniscule and some strange.

“Does it hurt when I press here?”

“Is your vision blurry?”

“Does your body feel different on an atomic level?”

She deems you good to go. Your friends are all waiting for you outside the office. Miguel immediately hands you a Web-Watch before stalking off somewhere (grump, you swear). It feels heavenly in your grip. Man, how you missed it. You quickly wear it, placing it just under your web-shooters. The weight of it is reassuring.

With a glance at your friends, you feel a surge of gratitude for their unwavering support. “I should…”

Peter smiles, waving you off. “Go, kid.” The rest of them nod encouragingly. You almost want to cry at their understanding expressions. The watch beeps as you put in your destination. That familiar hum of the universe greets you as the portal opens up. With one last wave to them, you enter it.

Earth-143258

Queens, New York.

Home. You’re finally home.

You breathe in the air. It’s night time now. Avengers tower stands tall, a lighthouse providing a way home. The cool night air swirls around you, carrying with it echoes of past memories. You decide you’ll walk there.

As you walk through the familiar streets, the city feels simultaneously unchanged and yet subtly different. The sounds of the city—distant traffic, people chatting, the occasional siren—blend with the comforting hum of all that New York is.

The familiar sights and sounds evoke visuals, reminding you of the countless times you've swung through these very streets, fighting crime and protecting the innocent.

Passing by old haunts and familiar landmarks, your heart swells with a mix of nostalgia and determination. You catch glimpses of everyday life—families out for an evening stroll, street vendors closing up shop, and the occasional patrol car passing by. Each step feels like a reunion with a part of yourself that you've missed during your time away.

Avengers Tower looms ahead, its imposing silhouette against the night sky serving as a beacon of hope and security. With each stride, you feel more grounded, more connected to this world than ever before. As you approach the entrance to the main lobby, you pause for a moment, taking in the scene before stepping inside.

“Welcome home, [Name],” greets FRIDAY. It sounds like she’s smiling. The warmth in her voice is noticeable, almost as if the building itself is happy to see you return. The spacious, modern interior of the lobby feels like a sanctuary, a place where you've spent countless hours.

“Where’s… where’s everyone?”

“Would you like me to tell them you’re here?”

You swallow. “No, can you just. Can you tell me where they are?”

FRIDAY's voice, smooth and comforting, responds immediately, "Of course. Tony is in his lab, working on a new project. Natasha and Clint are in the training room, sparring. Steve is in the gym, and Bruce is in the kitchen.”

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation. It’s been too long since you’ve seen them, but you need a moment to gather yourself before facing even one of them. After a few moments of reflection, you stand up, feeling more grounded. It’s time to reconnect with your team, your family. You decide to head to the lab first. You have to see Tony first.

The lab is a hive of activity, filled with the hum of machinery and the soft glow of various screens. The familiar sights and sounds embrace you like a well-worn glove. Tony is hunched over a workbench, tinkering with what looks like a new piece of tech. For a moment, you simply watch him, the flickering lights casting shadows on his face.

“Hey, Tony,” you call out softly, your voice carrying a mix of emotions.

Tony freezes, pausing his work. He turns around slowly, and for a heartbeat, his expression is unreadable. “I’ve officially gone crazy. I’m seeing things.”

You step further into the lab, your heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and excitement. Tony's gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to discern whether you're real or a figment of his imagination.

You chuckle softly, trying to ease the tension. "If you're seeing things, then we both are, because I'm definitely standing right here."

Tony sets down his tools, his eyes scrutinizing. "Well, I'll be damned. Look who decided to drop back in from the multiverse." His sass seems infinite.

He strides over, and before you know it, you're enveloped in a bear hug that speaks volumes of relief and genuine affection. "You’re here," he murmurs, his voice gruff and wavering. “You came back.”

You smile, eyes watering. “Miss me?”

“Every damn day,” he replies fiercely. “It’s been months, kid.”

Your heart tightens at his words, and suddenly the dam breaks. A choked sob escapes you without your permission. You bury yourself deeper in Tony’s embrace. Tony only holds you tighter. The weight of everything comes crashing down on account of you finally letting go of everything you’ve been holding in for far too long.

Tony feels like a lifeline, grounding you in a flood of emotions built up. You’ve longed to feel this safe since you first landed in the other universe. His silent reassurance speaks volumes. There is no need for words in this moment, only the warmth in familiarity.

Tony doesn’t pull back until you do, brushing a hand down your face to wipe away your tears. “You wanna go see the others?”

You nod, feeling a rush of gratitude for Tony's understanding as you sniffle. Tony asks FRIDAY to gather your folk into the common room. He fills the silence with mindless chatter about what’s happened since you’ve been away—small little missions here and there, new tech he demanded Miguel to learn about.

“Oh, I’ve gotta let Wanda and Strange know you’re back. Wanda especially has been a little restless.”

“You asked them for help?”

He looks at you. “You were suddenly stranded in the multiverse. Why wouldn’t I?”

Your legs feel so numb you’re not sure how they still work. “Right.” A realization overwhelms you with a sense of belonging. It’s a feeling you haven’t felt in a while.

When you enter the common room, a wave of nostalgia hits you. You just want to sink into the comfy couches and take a three year nap. It feels like stepping back into a cherished memory. Natasha and Clint are already there, looking up as you and Tony walk in. Natasha’s eyes widen imperceptibly, you’re surprised you catch it. Clint’s usual expression breaks into a warm smile.

“Hey, stranger,” Clint says, voice barely above a whisper. His smile is warm, genuine, and it feels like coming home.

“We were starting to think you were avoiding us.” Natasha’s steps toward you are careful and coordinated, everything about her is. But her eyes are softened.

You manage a watery laugh. “Missed you guys too.”

Natasha is the first to move, closing the distance between you with her characteristic grace. She wraps you in a hug that is both gentle and firm, conveying unspoken words of relief and joy. It surprised you greatly, her willingness to openly show affection like this.  Clint follows suit, patting you on the back with a warm hand.

“Steve’s on his way,” Natasha says, stepping back but keeping a hand on your shoulder. “He’s been worried sick.”

Bruce arrives next, hair messy. His eyes dart around the room, landing on you. He breathes a sigh of disbelief, crossing the room to get to you. Bruce's hug is tentative at first, as if he's afraid you might disappear. But when he feels the solid warmth of your form, his grip tightens.

“Hey, kid.” It’s all you need to hear. You smile and wrap your arms around him. 

“Hi.”

Before long, Steve bursts into the room, his expression a mixture of disbelief and joy. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, and for a moment, he seems rooted to the spot. Then, with a few long strides, he closes the distance between you.. “You’re really here,” he says, pulling you into a hug that almost lifts you off your feet.

You return the hug with equal fervor, feeling the tension and weight of your absence melt away in the embrace of your friends, your family. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Currently breaking several traffic laws to get here,” he chuckles, letting you go reluctantly. 

“And Pepper?” you ask Tony, looking over Steve’s shoulder at him.

Tony blinks. “FRIDAY, please tell Pepper [Name]’s back.” You roll your eyes, not really surprised. “She’s out right now,” Tony says, giving a winning smile. “Nevermind that, let’s throw a party.”

Chuckles fill the room as Tony rounds behind the bar. Typical Tony, ever the partygoer. “Can I drink too?”

Tony squints at you, so you pull out the puppy eyes. “Come on, I deserve it. I was so far from home,” you pout. 

“One drink. One,” he points at you, turning to grab you a bottle to pour.

“They’re not legal, Tony–” cuts in Steve, because of course.

“Don’t be a party pooper, Cap.” Tony passes you your drink. You grin at Steve as you sip it. “You’re a bit of a rule breaker yourself.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head in mock disapproval as he takes a seat nearby. You imagine a warm blanket settling on you after a long night. Everyone gathers around, sharing stories and catching up on what has transpired during your absence.

Sam shows up with Bucky, walking towards you with a grin and his arms out. You don’t think you’ve ever received so many hugs in one night before. Bucky awkwardly pats your head, then pokes it for “leaving us so long.”

Wanda shows up next, dragging Vision behind her. She smiles widely upon seeing you, looking a little wistful. You kind of wish the drinks you’d been sneaking could take effect. Cursed super metabolism. Too many emotions have been felt tonight.

"Wanda," you say warmly, reaching out to embrace her. She returns the hug with a heartfelt squeeze, her voice tinged with relief. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Vision nods, a faint smile on his lips as he greets you warmly. Wanda’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she embraces you tightly, whispering how much she missed you. “Strange sends his regards,” sniffles Wanda, fondly brushing her fingers against your forehead.

The doors to the common room slide open again, and this time, it's Pepper who walks in. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of you standing there, and she rushes forward, enveloping you in a tight hug. "I can't believe it," she murmurs, her voice trembling with emotion. "Welcome home."

You feel your heart squeeze. You would’ve thought she wouldn’t be able to meet you tonight, since she had prior plans, but here she is. For you.

Throughout the night, amidst the laughter and shared stories, you find yourself reconnecting not just with your friends (read: family), but with a part of yourself that had felt lost. Tony asks FRIDAY to play your favorite song. 

Tony's eyes study you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"

“I’m home, Tony,” is all you say.

He seems to relax at that, nodding slowly. “You are, and we’re not letting you out of our sight anytime soon."

The night outside is calm, New York’s lights twinkling like stars. The moment feels precious. You wish you had your camera to capture it.

Your camera that was gifted to you back in the other universe.

Hm.

You're fingers start to fidget with your green and blue bracelet.

Eventually, the revelry winds down. Everyone bids their goodnights, and you find yourself standing on the balcony of Avengers Tower, gazing out at the cityscape that stretches before you.

The night air is cool against your skin, carrying with it a sense of peace and contentment. You take a deep breath, letting the moment wash over you. In the quiet of the night, with the city bustling below, you feel a renewed sense of self.

You will all your worries away. You’re right where you need to be. You’re heart must truly lie here.

You find that your room is the same as you left—comfortable, familiar, and filled with reminders of your life here. Pictures litter the walls, ones of you, of your friends, you with your friends. The bed is inviting, and you collapse onto it, exhaustion mingling with the exhilaration of being back home.

You reach for your Web-Watch, now resting beside you on the bedside table. It's a tangible reminder of where you've been and where you are now. In the other universe, you felt like you were constantly flying. Never a moment’s rest. At the very least, you were flying with people you liked.

But here, in this room, surrounded by mementos and the quiet hum of the city outside, you feel grounded. This is your home, your family, and they've welcomed you back with open arms. 

No matter, now you just want to sleep. You nestle into the softness of the pillows, allowing the weariness of your journey and the emotional release to finally catch up with you. Your thoughts are a jumble of faces and voices, memories and new beginnings.

Sleep comes easily, cradling you in its embrace as you drift off into a deep, restful slumber. 

Gwen’s Earth has always been pretty. Soft hues captivate you. It’s a world where the sky seems perpetually painted in pastels, casting a serene glow over the city below. Since you dipped on them last time to go home, they’ve decided that today is hang out time.

It’s always a sort of dance, swinging with the others. You and Gwen are more effortless in your grace, Pav comes close. The two of you twirl around each other, feeling the rush of wind and the freedom of the swing. The cityscape blurs past, a vibrant tapestry of lights and shadows.

“Show offs!” yells Miles, a ways behind you. Gwen's laughter rings out beside you, a melody of happiness that lifts your spirits even higher. The two of you share a glance, matching grins under your masks.

Miles zips past with a playful whoop, joining in the aerial dance with his own unique flair. He’s getting faster with his swinging. Hobie passes by as well, bumping you with his shoulder teasingly. You all swing through the cityscape, weaving between skyscrapers and navigating the intricate web of New York's skyline. 

As the night winds down, you find yourselves perched atop a familiar rooftop, looking out over the city sprawled beneath you. The lights of the city twinkle like stars, a breathtaking sight that never fails to inspire awe.

"I missed you guys," you admit, the words carrying a weight of sentimentality. "Being here, with all of you."

“Awe,” coos Pav, hands squishing his cheeks.

Miles grins, nudging you playfully. "You’re the one that disappeared on us.”

You laugh, feeling a surge of gratitude for these friends who have become your family across dimensions. "I promise, no more disappearing acts without warning."

With a final glance at the city below, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. In this moment, you’re surrounded by friends who care about you. Who could ask for more?

Together, you watch the sunrise paint the sky in hues of orange and pink, a new day dawning over the city that never sleeps.

“So…” hums Gwen, hands behind her back. You raise an eyebrow at her. “What was it like?”

You shake your head good-naturedly at her. Pav nods at her, looking at you. “Yeah, what did you do there?”

“Well for starters,” you clap your hands together, turning to face them all. “You guys got DC comics in your universe?”

“Like, Superman and stuff?” ask Miles.

You nod. He blinks. “No way.”

“Yes way,” you chuckle at their reactions, enjoying the disbelief on their faces. “Yeah, and guess where I landed.”

“Central City?”

“Themyscira!”

“Metropolis?”

You suck in air through your teeth dramatically. “Gotham.” They share a wince. Seems about right. "It's like someone took the grittiest, darkest parts of New York and turned them up to eleven," you explain, gesturing animatedly. "Never a dull moment. You've got Batman and the whole Batfamily running around. Don’t go to a carnival because Poison Ivy will attack it.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow. "Wait, you hung out with the Batfamily?"

You nod. “Yeah, I got like, initiated. I got myself enrolled in school, and Damian Wayne got involved. That snowballed into me getting involved with their superhero world, ‘cause you know, I wasn’t gonna stop being Spinnerette.”

Hobie fist bumps you in agreement. “Met Superboy, he’s a real sweetie. Consequently met his parents, and holy shit, Lois Lane is so cool.” Gwen nods hard in agreement. “I also technically made history when I remade Tony Stark's new element.”

You shrug at their stares. “I was trying to build a watch to get back home!” you defend, then turn to Hobie. “Which, by the way, you have to teach me how you did it. I’d rather not get stranded again, thank you.”

“Sounds like you had a blast over there,” teases Gwen, hooking her arm around you.

You scoff. “Once I got past the looming realization that I could be stuck there forever and never see my friends and family again, sure.” It’s a joke, but not really. “It was a bit unfair, I guess. I knew just about everything about them and they knew nothing about me. But I did… make friends there.”

“Just friends?” Pav leans in. You gulp, remembering what happened just before Miguel found you.

“Just friends,” you huff, shoving Pav back playfully. “Damian’s about as complicated as you’d expect, but he’s a good friend. Touchier than I thought he’d be. Intense, blunt, but still kind. And Jon’s… Jon’s Jon,” you continue, thinking back on your life in Gotham. “Real sweet, like I said. Earnest, kind, and desperately needs some brown contacts,” you chuckle fondly. “They’ve got a dynamic going on. But they’re also… just people. Like us.”

“Sounds like a really crazy telenovela,” hums Miles.

“Trust me, it was,” you agree, thinking of the rollercoaster of emotions and events you experienced. “But it was also… eye-opening. I learned a lot about myself, about what I’m capable of, and about what really matters to me.”

You lean back on your hands. “I just hope everything's okay. I kind of just… left.”

“You wanna go back?”

You hesitate, considering the question carefully. “Part of me does. I left things unfinished. But another part of me…” You glance at your friends, feeling a swell of warmth in your chest. “Another part of me knows that this is where I belong. With you guys. With my family.”

“Damn right,” says Gwen, punching you lightly in the arm.

“They don’t need me, anyway. I just hope they’re not too worried.” The sunrise bathes the rooftop in golden light, casting long shadows and warming the cool morning air. You take a deep breath, feeling at peace with your decision. For now, in this moment, you’re exactly where you need to be.

notes: if you don't know, '143' is slang for 'i love you', each number corresponds to the number of letter in each word of the phrase. reader's universe, earth-143258 means 'i love you in every universe', same rules.

[alpacaparkaseok]

How to Steal Moonlight |2|

Chapter 2. The Brawl

→ Pairing: mafia!BTS x reader (not poly)

→ word count: 3.1k (yes she's itty bitty)

→ warnings/tags: SFW, we're angry and fighting but we're also really thirsty?

→ a/n: hellloooo, it's me. updating with just a little chapter that's been sitting in my drafts for almost a year. pls accept this humble offering. for those of you still reading this, ily.

“Where is she?”  

Tearing across the room, you rip the card from the lilies, taking a handful of the flowers along with you. Jungkook stares at you, a hint of fear in his eyes.  

You’ve cracked. Shattered, and the pieces of you that were still intact are scattering across the ground until the only thing that’s left are the mangled lilies hanging from your hand.  

“Who? What’s…tell me what’s going on!” He calls after you, wincing from the effort it took to yell. “Hey!” 

You’re gone, out the door and striding down the corridor with death in your eyes. Namjoon and Hoseok appear, guns drawn. “What’s wrong?” Namjoon asks. 

Fire licks up your veins just looking at him. All you can see is her, reflected in his eyes.  

“Where’s Victoria?”  

He stiffens, jaw set at the mere mention of her name. “What did she do?” 

“Where is she?”  

Hoseok answers after seeing the stricken look on Namjoon’s face. “Kitchen.” 

It’s all the answer you need, already breaking out into a run. Hoseok hangs back, ducking his head into Jungkook’s room. Namjoon is hot on your heels, looking for all the world as though he’s trying to come up with an explanation but doesn’t dare hope for one.  

“Victoria!” Shout echoing down the staircase, you take the stairs two at a time. The kitchen light is on, the voices inside quieting. All you see is red as you jump down to the landing. Free hand fumbling for something – anything. A knife, a gun, an old newspaper.  

A pack of gum is all you can find in your pockets, but you hold it as if it’s your preferred weapon as you burst into the kitchen. Both Yoongi and Jimin sit at the island, the latter holding a spoon of cereal to his mouth.  

Victoria sits at the table, feet up, face hiding behind a book. Her eyes are icy as they flick up to your form, sliding to the hulking figure of Namjoon behind you.  

Taking advantage of the distraction, you huck the pack of gum with every ounce of power you have.  

It flies through the air, spiraling as it shoots like a torpedo before connecting square with Victoria’s exposed forehead.  

“You little-” she drops the book, massaging the already red welt. “Did you just hit me with a pack of gum?”  

Legs carrying you over to the table, you sidestep a bemused Yoongi and yank Victoria’s chair out. “Recognize this?” The card hits the table along with the lilies, crest facing the ceiling. Victoria has the good sense to flinch away from it as if it were a live snake baring its fangs.  

“What are you on about this time?” Her eyes meet yours, that insufferable smirk eating up her face. You have half a mind to slap it off, raising your hand to do so, but something holds you back. 

No, not something. Someone.  

“Let me go,” you hiss, yanking your hand from Namjoon’s grasp. He stares down at you with a stony expression, jaw twitching. “And you,” stepping closer, you block off any escape route. “You have ten seconds to tell me how this got here before I pick a bone to break.” 

Namjoon shuffles closer, eyes lit from the inside with an unholy flame. “Skipping straight to violence, capa? Since when were you the one to get their hands dirty?” 

“Don’t think I’m about to start paying you for your opinion.” 

Yoongi appears at Namjoon’s shoulder. “Step back, Namjoon.” 

“Are you kidding me right now? She’s gonna kill her!” 

“That’s sweet, Joon,” Victoria croons, sparing him a withering look. “Glad to see you still care when it’s convenient.” 

Yoongi pulls Namjoon back a few steps, the job considerably easier now that he’s been impaled on Victoria’s barbed words. Jimin remains at the island, pouring more cereal into his bowl while he watches the show. 

“Ten seconds,” you remind Victoria. She rolls her eyes, grabbing the crest and holding it up to the light. “Did Yadiel teach you the easiest way to break a clavicle, too?” 

She snarls, throwing the card back onto the table. “He taught me lots of things, kid, though I doubt he dared touch you. His precious little student could never stoop to such lows, could she?”  

Seokjin has wandered in now, taking in the view with an air of boredom. He approaches the island, tapping Jimin’s shoulder. “This seat taken?” 

“All yours.”  

“Your nose might be the better choice,” you muse, cold fury sludging through your bloodstream. “It might be an improvement.” 

Victoria laughs, the sound high and shrill. It grates against your ears. “You really think you’re something, don’t you? I’m absolutely terrified. Look, I’m shaking.” She extends her arm out in a mock show-and-tell, and you seize it, holding her elbow straight.  

Voice dropping into a lover’s murmur, you approach a different tactic. “Shaking like you do when you let yourself fall asleep?” Victoria’s face flickers between resentment and shock as you speak. “I’ve heard you calling out, Victoria. What are you dreaming about?” She shuts down, expression turning impassive in a last-ditch effort to avoid showing her hand. “Do you lie to yourself and say that you would’ve killed him if you had the chance? Is the fact that I’m the one that did it what keeps you up at night?” 

One moment, you’re standing before her, and the next she’s pinning you to the ground. Stars dance in your vision as your skull hits the tile, the world a mess of gnashing teeth and hair. You struggle to get a hand free, distracting her as you suddenly flip your weight, sending her toppling to the floor beneath you. Somehow you clamber to your feet, momentum churning. 

“You ran away!” She accuses, kicking out as you lunge for her. Blinded by rage, you receive the kick square in the stomach. “You shot him, and all this time, you’ve probably thought that he was afraid of you. That he never sought you out for fear that you’d finish what you started.” 

“I did,” you wheeze. Around the kitchen, everyone stands frozen. Seokjin keeps twitching in his seat, jaw set. “I killed him, in the end.” 

“Only because Taehyung let you.”  

Your head snaps up to see the expression on her face. Braid undone; Victoria’s greasy hair frames the exhausted expression on her face. “He didn’t…” but you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Victoria nods before lashing out once more, going for your legs. This time you expect it, spinning out and tripping her. Instead of dropping to the ground she grunts, pulling you down with her. Your teeth sing with the impact.  

“Yadiel waited for Taehyung’s order to return like a good dog. Why do you think that was? He wanted you back, Bianchi. Talked about it all the time.” She laughs as you elbow her, causing her to lose her grip. “I almost killed him myself a couple times purely because he wouldn’t shut up about his little Bianchi princess!” 

The thought makes your stomach flip, recalling the feeling of his breath curling over your ear – the prolonged touches along your hips as he adjusted your stance.  

You try to roll away, but Victoria is faster. She pulls you back, sitting on your spine as your face digs into the floor. “You wonder why he dressed me up in red? Have you ever thought about that? Red dresses, red nails, red lips. Everything red – I think it helped him forget that I was just a consolation prize. Something Taehyung gifted him to keep him quiet.” 

The humiliation of being pummeled in front of your crew makes your cheeks burn a sharper scarlet, but try as you might to break free, Victoria holds on all the tighter. She isn’t done. 

“You have no idea what he had planned for you, do you? The life he wanted. All the things he was going to…” Victoria stumbles over her own words, her breath catching. 

The truth is staring you in the face, and you think you’re going to be sick on the kitchen floor. Swallowing hard, you close your eyes against the thought.  

“I’m you.” She rises with one last push off your body, sneering. Even with your blurred vision you can see the tear tracks on her cheeks. “I’m the version that couldn’t get away. Better looking, smarter. Not quite as noble as his little Bianchi. But you all the same.” 

Victoria walks back to the table, ignoring you as you flip onto your back. Grabbing the lilies and the card, she stands above you. You stare back up at her, having the distinct feeling that you’re six feet under, staring up from your grave as she throws flowers down.  

“If you think for even one second that I’d do anything for Kim Taehyung, I’ll personally dig your grave next to Yadiel’s. Understood?” 

Nobody speaks as she storms from the kitchen, leaving you still on your back. You can hear every step she takes up the stairs, stomping away back to whatever hole it is she hides in when she wishes to disappear. The kitchen is silent as a mouse as everyone sits in shock, staring down at your prone body.  

“She’s got spirit, Namjoon,” you spit out. “I’ll give you that.” 

Namjoon looks disheveled despite the fact that Victoria never laid a finger on him. He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from your glare.  

“I’m…” 

“Don’t apologize.” You roll up onto your knees, back screaming in protest. No serious damage, but enough to bruise more than your pride. “Run a perimeter around the building.” 

He doesn’t stick around long enough to say anything more, Yoongi hot on his heels. Jimin’s eyes dance between their retreating figures and you. “Er…So, I’m gonna go see a guy about some hubcaps…” 

As soon as he vanishes, you become ultra-aware of being alone here with Seokjin. He strides over, kneeling in front of you so he’s eye level.  

“Where’d you find this?” He asks, picking the discarded card up from off the floor. The sight of it makes you nauseas.  

“Flowers. On Jungkook’s side table.” 

“Oh.” He lets it flutter back to the ground, fingers finding your hair as he pushes it back gently. “How’d that feel?” 

Your eyes shut, forcing yourself to see nothing but black. “Which part? The part when I realized that our security measures are an absolute joke? Or when I got laid out by Namjoon’s ex?” 

Seokjin cracks a smile that quickly turns into a sympathetic wince. “If it makes you feel any better, you just got more action than Namjoon’s had in years.” 

Croaking out a laugh, you lean heavily on the side of the table and rise to your feet. Seokjin watches your every breath, something hard and calculating hiding behind those dark eyes of his.  

“Spit it out,” you say, although it comes out as more of a whisper than anything.  

“I just…” he shakes his head. “Not sure this is the appropriate moment to say this-” 

“Seokjin.” He meets your eyes at your firm tone. “Out with it.” 

He frowns, staring down at the table. It strikes you at that moment just how tall he is. He certainly towers over you, but it’s the way he’s ever so slightly hunched over, as if shielding you from what lies beyond these four walls. It makes you lean in a little closer, hand reaching out to grasp the sleeve of his sweater.  

Seokjin’s eyes flash as you sway into view, latching onto yours with an electric shock. He visibly swallows before he speaks.  

“If you’re going to fight,” he murmurs, “you need to avoid getting so beat up.” 

You can’t help but scoff. “Are you seriously telling me to win next time?” 

“And if I am?” 

“Well,” you shrug. “It couldn’t be helped. She was better. Angrier.” 

Seokjin shakes his head, eyes dropping to the ground as he steps closer, effectively trapping you against the table. You rest against it, arching a brow.  

This man. You don’t know where you two stand, or where you’re going. Everything since that night you kissed is a blur – a memory that you find playing on repeat at all hours of the day. Whatever this is, it’s impossible not to feel as if you’re being pulled in by his personal magnetic field.  

He grasps your hands only to plant them firmly on the tabletop, making you lean back even farther. Any hope that he didn’t hear your faint gasp is diminished when he grins, cheeks reddening.  

“Next time, it’s ok to play a little dirty,” he whispers. He clamps down on his smile long enough to nose along your throat. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding as he pauses, lips trailing just below your jaw.  

Your eyes slip shut as you frown. “That’s hardly fair,” you respond, lungs no longer functioning as Seokjin plants an obscenely innocent kiss to your neck. It’s quickly followed by another, this one much slower.  

You can feel his smile against your skin, sending goosebumps racing along your flesh. “You’re seriously concerned about fair? In our line of work?” 

It’s silly, you know that. To be concerned about keeping score while working as a glorified thief. Yet it’s how you’ve always worked. Keeping track of the hits, as though counting cards in a casino.  

A part of you had always thought that you could anticipate when the next blow would come. Now, you can hardly get back up again before Taehyung strikes again. 

Seokjin pauses, straightening up until he meets your eyes. 

“You’re thinking about him again.” 

Not a question – not that it needs to be. He seems to be able to sense it whenever you get sidetracked like this. It’s certainly not the first time that it’s come between you and what you want.  

Which is Seokjin. Your heart seems to beat out his name as you frown. Seok-jin, Seok-jin. Seok-jin. 

It’s a struggle to not lean forward, lose yourself in his touch rather than have to face the issue nipping at your skin. 

“I don’t want to be,” you whisper, eyes closing. “I hate this. Everything he’s left behind.” 

“What will you do?” 

There’s his lips again, whispering into your hair. He’s pulling you against him, letting you rest in his arms. Your mind flicks back to your earlier revelation. Seokjin, coming into your bedroom. Checking on you. Just making sure you’re still there.  

You’re both too broken for this. 

“Tonight? Start looking into staff. Doctors, nurses, janitors. Whoever might be on his side. Someone here must have planted the card.” 

A pause. “And then?” 

“Seokjin, I...” you chew on the inside of your cheek as the truth roils through your veins. Leaning back, you look up into his dark eyes. See the fear that sometimes grips him in the middle of the night, lingering just below the surface. The something else that you never know what to make of.

You let out a long breath. The something else in his eyes wins out. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

Killing a man has consequences. Of the bad sort, typically. Jail time, guilty conscience, a trail of blood and tears left behind. Nasty business. 

Yet standing here, now, you just can’t find it in yourself to care.  

“Jungkook, lay down.”  

He obliges, bed creaking. The glare he directs toward the end of his nose is most likely directed your way, although you can’t be sure. It could be for the chocolate pudding, now out of reach.  

Hoseok, sitting on the edge of his bed, reaches it and passes it back to him. “So...how do you want to go about this?” 

Everyone is here, even Victoria. She sits in the back, near the door. There’s a bruise blooming along her jaw. This you add to the list of things you don’t care about. Besides, you’re fairly certain she gave you a concussion.  

“Do we even have eyes on his location?” Jimin asks. “Did he actually go home?” 

Yoongi clears his throat. “He was last spotted five days ago. Looks like he’s holed up in his family’s estate for the moment.” 

Like the rat he is. 

You clap your hands together, wincing at the loud sound. “Great. Here’s the thing – we can’t all hop on a plane and jet over to Italy-” 

“Sicily,” Jimin and Hoseok speak in unison. 

“Same thing. We can’t all show up looking for him. We’d be caught out in no time. So – here's the deal. Yoongi, you’re here. We have business with the Genovese family, which you’ll be heading up. Don’t look at me like that – we've talked about this. Jimin, Hoseok, you’ll be helping him.” 

Hoseok frowns, but it’s Jimin that complains. “There’s no way you’re leaving me behind. You’ve already broken the terms of our contract-” 

Your ears burn bright red as you recall that Jimin – Jimin, the gods-forsaken heathen – is the one who found out about you and Seokjin. And now he’s blackmailing you with it.  

“- and I’ll do much worse than that if you don’t do as I ask,” you finish for him, offering up a sickly sweet smile. “Namjoon, Seokjin, with me. We’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow for Italy-” 

“Sicily,” Jimin groans forlornly. 

“- so pack your bags. We’ll go over the details on the plane and fill the rest of you in.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of protest from his bed, and struggles to sit up on his elbows. “Take me with you!” 

“No.” 

“Sorry, I meant to say, I’m going with you.”  

You turn your back on him, heading toward the door. “No, you’re not. You’re not in any state to go anywhere right now, Kook. You’ll stay here. When you’re ready, you’ll join Yoongi and assist him here.” 

“But I-” 

His protests are cut off by an icy voice. “I’m going with you.” 

You stop in your tracks. “You don’t want that.” 

Victoria rises from her seat. The fire in her eyes hasn’t gone down yet. If anything, it’s burning brighter than before. As she nudges past Namjoon, she tilts her chin up a bit higher.  

“Take me with you.” 

She stops right in front of you, and you see it, then. What she needs. All the pent up anger and the sheer sense of loss she must feel after losing herself to Yadiel.  

All of it is Taehyung’s fault.  

I’m you, she’d said in the kitchen. As she gazes into your eyes unflinchingly, you can’t help but know she’s right.  

“One condition.” 

Her head tllts to the side, interested. “Name your price.” 

The smile threatening to break through is difficult to contain. Still, you manage it. “Teach me how to fight like you.” 

Victoria grins, and the sight is unnerving. Feral.  

A reflection of yourself.  

“Deal.” 

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[imtryingmybeskar]

Come Home Chapter 5

Joel Miller x F!Reader.

Angsty slow burn. Your first day in Jackson goes as well as expected. Word count 3255.

Warnings for descriptions of the effects of PTSD and battling panic attacks (these are PURELY based on my own personal experiences).

I had to split this chapter into two so Joel isn't here much, but from next chapter he will be very present. Thank you for reading and sticking with it!

Come Home

Chapter Five - Asphyxiated

Welcome warmth hits your face as the girl pushes the door of the town’s watering hole open, and you stamp your boots free of snow and slush before crossing the threshold.

The Tipsy Bison is an old fashioned, homespun kind of place. With its mix of wood panelled and stone walls, decorative antlers and soft, yellow lighting it could be straight out of an old Western - although thankfully the low level of chatter does not fall to silence as you enter. There are more than a few curious glances directed your way, though. The girl seems not to notice and makes a beeline straight for Maria who is talking with someone - presumably the barman, given that he is behind the bar and polishing glasses with a dishcloth. He is an older man with a shock of white hair and a dour expression.

“-you’ll be okay to do that, Seth?” you hear Maria ask as you approach. The barman nods once, firmly and then jerks his head extremely unsubtly toward you, clearly warning her of your approach. They were discussing something to do with you then. Or the group you came in with. It didn’t really matter. You were planning to stay well out of the politics and machinations of this place.

Maria turns to you, a tiny smile curling the edges of her mouth. “How’s it going?” she enquires, supremely unconcerned that she has been caught talking about you.

“Good. Weird. The Christmas tree. Is weird.” You sound like an idiot to your own ears, unable to form a proper sentence, but Maria takes it in her stride.

“Guess it is if you’ve not seen one in a while,” she concedes gracefully. “Have you had a look around elsewhere? Seen anywhere you might want to sleep other than the barn tonight?”

“Uh…yeah. I think. There’s those houses down near the cemetery-“

“Oh shit! That’s where I live!” interjects the girl excitedly. You can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

“You like it there?” you ask.

“Its ok,” she replies, tempering her early exuberance with a now-casual air. “Not too many people around. I like it that way.”

“Me too,” you confess. “So I think I’d like to take one of those houses…if that’s okay with you,” you add hastily, talking to Maria this time.

She nods. “Joel said you might be asking about a house round there-“ she begins. The girl interrupts her, speaking to you and sounding excited once more.

“You spoke to Joel?”

“She sure did.” That voice again. Deep and dark and threatening to drown you in its sin. You peer past Maria toward the end of the bar and how did you not spot him before? That imposing form was still mightily broad even when it was stood mostly out of sight behind a wooden pillar. Now that you had noticed him, you saw that half smile make an appearance again and he raised a mug of something hot in a gentle toast in your direction. “Told ya I’d put in a good word,” he grins.

So. He’s Joel. And when the girl approaches him to talk and playfully punches him on the arm in response to some quiet remark he makes, you hear him call her Ellie. Joel and Ellie. Your new neighbours. They seem to be very friendly together and you wonder if they too are family.

As promised, you’re able to get some food from the bar, though when faced with the prospect of actually drinking alcohol you swiftly go off the idea. Better to keep your wits about you, especially so soon after arriving. Everyone seems happy and well-adjusted here, but you can never really tell. When you ask Maria how you would go about paying for what you’ve eaten the discussion evolves into talking about what you would be willing to do to contribute to Jackson and what skills you can offer.

“I’m a good cook,” you shrug. “And I can knit. I’ve never farmed before, but I had quite the flourishing garden growing once upon a time. I’m not afraid to explore and map places. And I can kill infected.”

Movement catches your eye as Ellie departs, and you return her brief wave with a smile as she heads back outside into the freezing afternoon. Your eyes slide back over to Joel to find him looking pensive but happy, now sitting at the bar and staring into the depths of his mug as he swirls its contents around.

“We’ll trial you with a scouting group for now.” Maria’s voice breaks into your thoughts and your attention snaps back to her. “If all goes well you can be paired with someone and they can show you the trails we keep clear and the outposts we have. We never go out solo. Always at least two. But for now, we want you to settle in. Rest. Recuperate. Get your strength up. So eat. Please.”

You do as you’re told, savouring the steaming bowl of winter vegetable soup and thick slices of fresh bread. Appetite - as opposed to hunger - was something you thought had been cut off, left behind somewhere as you travelled across the wasteland of what once was. But in this setting you could feel yourself relax and begin to actually enjoy what was in front of you. Maybe it was just the novelty of not eating the contents of a tin for once.

As you eat, Maria continues to speak. “Once you’re done we’ll get you sorted with some fresh linen, towels, clothes, food, toiletries. The basics. I’d like for us to check in with each other once a day for the first week or so. Just to see how you’re settling in.”

To your surprise hearing this offer brings a tightening of your throat. It sounds…genuine. Like this woman actually gives a shit about your wellbeing even though she just met you. You swallow the lump away and tune back into what she’s saying. “-could just check in with Joel if you want. He’ll look out for you.”

Upon hearing his name you sneak yet another look over only to find the space vacant, the only sign he was ever there at all the mug left on the bar. A brief brush of disappointment hits you before you pull yourself together to focus on the conversation.

“He mentioned the garage,” you interject. “I mean, he mentioned someone lives in his garage. That they made it into a living space. If its possible I’d like to do something similar.”

“What you do with your house is your business,” Maria replies, and though the words are abrupt, the tone is soft. “Joel’s garage had been remodelled before everything went sideways. We just had to clean it up. If you want to remodel too, feel free. As long as it doesn’t interfere with whatever work you’re assigned.”

Your heart sinks a little at her words. Maria notices but misunderstands. “Hey, those houses are really nice,” she says, smiling encouragingly. “I’m sure you’ll be happy in whichever once you choose. And if you need a DIY project to keep you busy, there are plenty of people in this town who would be happy to help.”

All too soon you’re standing back in the cold, on the porch of a beautiful two storey house, indistinguishable from the other two storey houses in the neighbourhood except for yours has a coat of relatively fresh green paint over its timbered front. When you touch a gloved hand to it and give Maria a questioning look, she shrugs.

“Other people sometimes need DIY projects to keep busy too. Its why we have a pool of empty houses so readily available. Not everyone feels comfortable going outside the walls. So they keep busy inside them.” She opens the door and you step inside.

Its…a lot. And yet not enough. You’ve raided plenty of houses for supplies over the past twenty years. Most of them were decrepit or broken in some way, a few stood tall, layers of grime and cobwebs the only clue to the time that had passed. This one is clean and tidy, though it still smells a little like dust and disuse.

An open plan living room is to your left and you can see where the wooden floor turns to pale kitchen tile beyond. To your right and through a doorway is what was once presumably a dining room, though its table and chairs are notable by their absence. Some mismatched and basic furniture has been supplied – a peach coloured couch, two dark blue squashy looking chairs, a small wooden coffee table, a few lamps resting on various surfaces, a bookcase with some pre-chosen literature on it. An open fireplace is against one wall, a stack of chopped wood waiting next to it. Stairs directly ahead of you lead up to the next floor and you can feel the weight of the empty rooms up there, each doorway leading to a black rectangle of the unknown –

“You okay?” Maria’s question is brief but loaded with meaning. You inhale deeply and do your best to release your fears along with your breath.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m good. Its just going to take a while to get used to this again. I haven’t lived alone since…I-I mean I haven’t lived in a proper house since…” You trail off for a second time, both unwilling and unable to complete the thought paths necessary to finish your sentences.

“Joel and Ellie are right next door,” Maria says comfortingly. “Go to them if it gets difficult. You have my permission.” You were right. They are family.

“Don’t I need Joel and Ellie’s permission?” you joke weakly.

“Didn’t I tell you I was in charge?” she jokes back. “Come, look.”

She steps back on to the porch and points at the white-painted building next to yours. You had recognised the property earlier as the one Joel had emerged from when you had been exploring and would be lying to yourself if you said that the green paint was the only thing that had attracted you to this particular house. Wanting to be away from people didn’t mean you wanted to be completely alone. The four years spent with Chris had sometimes actually been fun in between the struggle for survival. Before that…well you knew you didn’t want to go back to a completely solitary existence.

“Right next door,” Maria repeats, and you nod as you try to quell the nerves in your stomach. They only get worse when she departs, holding an arm up in a farewell before she disappears back into the centre of Jackson. You close the door, but can’t seem to release the handle afterwards, standing there with your forehead pressed against the cool wood, eyes closed and trying to breathe normally.

A whole house. A real house. Of your own. Not a tiny cabin, or a barricaded room, or a tent exposed to the elements, or a hastily made camp in an old office building, or an abandoned military truck. A house.

A home?

Exhaling a shaky breath you finally turn your back to the door and slump against it as you survey your tiny kingdom. No, not a home. But a safe place to eat and sleep, and that was a good start on one. Before you step away from the door, you bolt and lock everything that can be bolted and locked. Just in case.

The pale, washed out grey of the winter afternoon sun was now struggling to pierce the gloom of the interior and though you could still just about see, the kitchen was starting to look decidedly shadowy. As if drawn by some unseen entity, your eyes once more travel upward. Where the stairs begin to reject the fading light and transmute into pure blackness…

With a shudder, you tear your gaze away and step further into the living room. Your breath is coming faster again and you realise that the darkening space around you is starting to feel suffocating and absolutely unbearable. Hurriedly, you rush to the kitchen to lock up the back door too, switching the lamps on as you go and checking every window is secure before closing the curtains against the outside world. You close the door to the dining room too, but only once you have checked inside it. It wasn’t likely that a bloater was lurking undetected, but at least now you knew for sure.

You build the fire, for something to do as much as to ward away the cold, and while its settling into the grate you make some…well tea is perhaps too strong a word for the weak brew you manage to eke out of the tiny bit of dried peppermint that you allow yourself to use from the supplies you have been gifted. But you make it on the hob, not over a fire, and the novelty of that is enough to keep the shadows at bay a little while longer.

Unpacking is another good distraction - putting the tins in the cupboards, the perishables(!) in the fridge(!!) and putting the toiletries off to one side, trying once more to ignore the stairs, the thought of a whole other floor of the house, and the inevitable time when you would have to go up there.

It loomed but somehow also lurked. The rooms. The darkness…Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about that. Just focus on the tea. The tea and the fire and a sofa and a book. Like a human being and not a cowering, broken thing.

And after a couple of hours of relative peace, once your bladder is painful and can no longer be ignored, you stand at the foot of those stairs and again stare up into the unknown. Your gun is now in its customary place at your hip. The biggest kitchen knife you could find is in your hand. The small torch you use to explore the world outside Jackson is affixed to your shirt.

A large part of you knows that this is foolish, that this house would have been cleared and checked not just once but many times over. The person who painted it, the person who ensured the plumbing and the electrics worked, the person who placed those books on the bookcase, the person who swept the dust from the floor – all of them moved through here. All of them would have noticed infected roaming around. Hell, Joel and Ellie have lived around here for a while and you doubted they would put up with neighbours like that for long.

And yet you know you won’t be able to sleep until you’ve checked every room yourself. Until you’re certain that the noises that have occasionally broken into your concentration are of the house settling and not footsteps. It is foolish. But it will hopefully bring a certain peace of mind that you desperately need.

The first creaking step up sends an unpleasant tingle across your scalp, goosebumps erupting across your skin as you force away the feeling of wrongness you’re battling. You force yourself to move. One more step. Another. You trail your fingers along the wall, the feeling of stippled paint under your fingertips the slimmest of tethers to reality. The light behind you is fading and ahead your world narrows to the powerful beam of your torch - your only guiding light. The thoughts running through your mind become clipped as you try to quell the feeling of nauseous panic that is threatening to overtake you.

A little further.

Nothing wrong.

Your house.

No one else here.

Of course, the upstairs was entirely ordinary. Old world ordinary true, but nothing was hiding in the shadows or tried to eat or shoot you. As soon as you reach the top landing you lean across to flick the light switch, noting the five doors that are now illuminated by the sickly yellow light coming from behind the ancient lampshade - three ajar, two closed.

The one directly in front of you is a bathroom – you can see the tell-tale gleam of white porcelain within. The two doors to your left lead into bedrooms where you can see carpets and beds and dressers and all the other furnishings you would expect. You explore them as thoroughly as you had the dining room and discover the hitherto unseen ensuite that resides in one of them, before drawing their curtains and closing their doors, your mind only a little less frantic than before.

That left two.

The first is easy - the set of slatted double doors gives it away. A closet with some random detritus inside – an ironing board leaning against one wall, a pathetic looking abandoned scarf draped across a hanger, some old cardboard boxes that you have no intention of looking in.

Then there was one.

Your hand hovers over that doorknob for seconds that pass to minutes.

The corridor

No.

The endless black.

No!

The thin beam of light from your torch when you flicked it on, barely even able to illuminate a halo around what is closest to you.

Nonono!

The shine. The gleam of light on the remnants of gloss paint and broken glass in the door ahead-

NO!

You wrench your shaking hand away and pound back downstairs to the merrily blazing fire, throwing yourself face first into the soft embrace of the sofa, heart racing as you stare into the orange of the crackling flames as if they could burn your memories away through your eyes. Two words run through your mind, trying to blank out the encroaching terror.

Nothingtherenothingtherenothingtherenothingthere

Eventually you control your breathing. Eventually your heart rate reduces and you don’t feel as if you might keel over at any moment, though your mind is still numbly racing. You had lived out there. With the monsters and the bandits and the cannibals and the warlords. So why did this somehow feel worse?

Distantly, as though it was coming through a barrier of water, you hear a knock at the door.

Well, it was more of a brash thumping really. As if the person had been there a while and was getting impatient with being on the wrong side of it.

You lie there, momentarily frozen in the throes of your previous fear. Who could want to see you mere hours after you’d moved in?

Another, louder, round of thumping finally snaps you free of the paralysis. Pushing yourself up to a vertical position, you manage to stand on shaky legs. You decide that its probably Maria coming to check on how you’re settling in.

The thumping starts up again but swiftly abates once you begin the process of unbolting and unlocking the door. What could you say to her? That you were fine? That you had tea and a book and were warm and that all of that was objectively wonderful? That in reality it only served to make you feel more dead inside because you were also freaking out over doors and shadows, trying desperately to stave off another panic attack? No. Tell her what she wants to hear and then…then you can think about just getting through the night.

Taglist - @thisshipwillsail316 @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @elegantduckturtle @dihra-vesa @midwesternwitchery @just-here-for-the-moment @eri16 @readsalot73 @littlemisspascal @princessxkenobi @harriedandharassed @pagannightwitch @tentacruels @kirsteng42 @shirks-all-responsibilities @deadhumourist @pedrostories

As you pull the door open, you attempt to plaster a smile on your face to give credence to the lies you’re about to say. Instead it freezes into a rictus grin as you come face to face with deep brown eyes and shaggy dark waves.

Next chapter

[dimonds456]

Totally random question, but I need to ask this to people and you seem very smart when it comes to these things and I want to ask: do you think people should consume media critically? Like, be aware of all its flaws?

Oh yeah, absolutely. I think you should definitely be aware of a story's flaws- both plotwise and thematically- so you can better enjoy the story and engage with it, but that's not to say that media should be only consumed critically. It's entertainment, and if it's bad, then there is still value in it from a purely escapist perspective. But, you should be aware of flaws to learn from and understand in order to really engage with it.

Let me explain. Spoilers for Doki Doki Literature Club and Bendy and the Ink Machine / Dark Revival. Also mentioned is HTTYD: RTTE, Twilight, HP, and Little Nightmares.

I believe that your first watch / playthrough / read of a story should 100% be to enjoy the story and characters, engaging with the worldbuilding and just letting it take you for a ride. Now, some stories will have foreshadowing you pick up on and can figure out, but some stories will be pretty unpredictable going into them, but either way, you're letting a story tell itself.

For example, Doki Doki Literature Club (2017) is a dating sim horror game. For the first hour or so, you might forget the "disturbing imagery" warning at the front of the game, but the further you go on Sayori's path, the more you realize she's been struggling. Depression hits her hard, and she's barely holding on. As the Player, most felt bad for her and wanted to help her in some way, but it was already too late.

By the time you find out what happened, Sayori is dead. For both spoiler purposes and to make sure people who don't know this game and don't want to know what happened to her, I'm not going to say how she dies.

But, the game resets, this time without her in it. She's the heart of the group, and without her, things go to shit, even if the other Club members don't realize something is missing. There's an argument in both timelines, an argument Sayori is able to resolve peacefully in her timeline, but one that tears a deep gash in Yuri and Natsuki's relationship without her. This moment really hits if you engage with the story.

At the end of the game, which I won't say here (again, go play it and engage with the story yourself), you're left to make a pretty massive decision, which you could only figure out that that's what you need to do because of the game's meta look at itself by this point.

When I was first watching a playthrough of the game (I think through Jacksepticeye) I remember it helped me a lot since I was struggling just like Sayori was, and it turned me off from doing harm to myself for a long time. And understanding why goes into thinking about it critically.

Sayori's depression was almost word for word what mine was back when I first heard her talk about it. So, when she [REDACTED], it genuinely scared me. That could be me, I thought. It made me sure that I didn't want to go down the same path, and even helped me talk about my depression a bit more than I had been up to that point.

Does the game have flaws? Hell yes. A lot of the conversations go on a little long (but it's a dating sim, you signed up for dialogue lol), sometimes the scary bits can feel a bit out of place, there's a couple lines of dialogue that feel a bit off, ect.

However, I love DDLC despite its flaws simply because I love the story, it helped me, and it's just a good story with a powerful message. Critically, there are a few flaws, which I take in stride when I replay the game, but it doesn't hurt my experience.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, we have Bendy and the Ink Machine (2017). I remember being absolutely obsessed with Bendy, but looking back, the game is (subjectively) Not Good. So, why did I love it so much?

Well, for starters, the game released in 5 chapters from early 2017 to late 2018. This gave the fandom huge lengths of time to theorize, to fall in love with the characters, and engage with each other. By the time Chapter 2 came out, people already had an idea of what the story was going to be in its entirety because they filled in the blanks. And, we were half right, half wrong throughout the game, because the creators started centering plot points around things the fandom came up with rather than what they themselves came up with.

The primary example is Alice Angel from Chapter 3. In Chapter 2, all there was was one voice log explaining that there was a voice actress who liked playing the role, and a singular poster in which she starred in a short called "Sent from Above." That was it. But, the fans had her design, and without any knowledge of the character herself, suddenly there was fanart, shipping, character dynamics, and emotional attachment. So, the devs behind the game went and made her the focus of Chapter 3 simply because they thought that that's what the fandom wanted.

That was why I loved the game so much. It wasn't the game I loved, but the fandom and the fan stories created about the game.

However, I still have a soft spot for BATIM. I was hyperfixated on it for two whole years, and even had a fan story of my own called Demons Inside, which is still one of my better stories even if there are a lot of major flaws. And, despite how all over the place the game turned out, I still love it.

That's why, back in February, I got the idea to make a BATIM Rewritten video. I'd do something similar to what The Closer Look did for the Star Wars sequels and make a video explaining what went wrong, only to propose my own story and how they should have handled it.

However, that never came to pass. Bendy and the Dark Revival (2022) dropped not too long ago, and because the devs decided to release all the chapters at once instead of separately, there were no fandom points to go off of for this game. They had complete creative control, and used it well. When not doing what the fandom wants, these guys can create a genuinely good game. BATDR did a lot of what I wanted to do with the original, so making that Rewritten video is kinda a moot point now.

Back to BATIM, though, that game has a lot of flaws. Pacing, character inconsistency, introductions, set up, payoff, the whole thing. The voice acting, music, artwork, designs and stuff were all on-point, it was just mostly the story that was a mess lol. But despite that, BATIM and its fandom are like comfort food to me. I still go back and listen to BATIM fan songs constantly, and rewatching old comic dubs is like stepping into an old house. I still like BATIM, even if I constantly joke with my friends about how bad it is.

No piece of media will be perfect. You're allowed to like the Star Wars prequels and sequels, even if I cannot join you on that opinion (I think, it's been a literal decade since I've seen the prequels). You're allowed to like Twilight so long as you recognize that every single relationship in that series is toxic and you should not idolize any of them.

H*rry P*tter is nostalgic to a lot of us and I know I still love it, even if I cannot enjoy it because of what the creator is doing. HP is an exception because J. K. R*wling is an awful human being.

Even my favorite video game ever, Undertale, has its flaws. Quite a few of them, actually. People have complained that the battles get repetitive and it's annoying that they appear suddenly, and you can't choose whether you want to engage with them or not. People have complained about some of the characters, that there's individual character arcs that are bad (most commonly criticized is Alphys' and I strongly disagree, and I will defend her place in this story with my entire online existence), and stuff along those lines.

But, when Undertale made me cry that hard, when it said so many things I needed to hear, when it made me fall in love with so many of its characters, when it made me completely change my ENTIRE worldview... what else was I supposed to do but enjoy it?

Not to say that to enjoy a story, it must impact you, no. You can enjoy any piece of media without it impacting you. But, you should be able to connect with the characters, world, and story no matter what, despite its flaws. The mark of an enjoyable story is one that does that with you specifically. Now whether that's because you're crying or laughing at it is still up to you, but entertainment value ≠ objectively good.

You should be aware of flaws. You should be able to say "yeah they should have introduced Viggo Grimborne much earlier in Race to the Edge than they did, since he would be a much more looming threat" while still being able to enjoy Dragons: Race to the Edge. Recognizing flaws in a piece of media is pretty key to really connecting with it from an analytic standpoint, which I recommend doing with any story to really see how it works as a story.

But you don't have to.

Entertainment is escapism. You should watch or engage with it to let go of reality for a little while. I recommend being aware of flaws so you can learn from them and talk about the story to other people, but you don't have to do that. I've played Little Nightmares... never, but I've watched a bunch of playthroughs and it's a great game. I'm sure it has flaws, but I can't think of any off the top of my head. It's a great game with a lot of atmosphere, and it's told pretty much exclusively through worldbuilding, which is awesome, but I don't know everything there is to know and that's okay.

Enjoy a story however you want to. Everything has flaws, and although they should be taken into account, that doesn't define the experience.

[cheerfulmelancholies]

Mysterious New Member-Chapter 4

Tezz suppressed a yawn as he closed down his computer's windows. The program he'd been running couldn't quite interpret what the markings meant, but the closest it had come was comparing them to Greek, though even that was a stretch based on some of them. An odd finding for symbols found etched on the walls of an alien structure. He was certain to have quite a few sleepless nights trying to figure it out. Tonight, however, would not be one of them. He exited his lab to go get some shuteye.

The following morning saw the team able to eat breakfast and go about their morning routines before a Storm Shock opened later in the afternoon. Vert, Tezz, Sherman and Spinner, Agura, and Stanford blasted through the portal to find themselves in the middle of a jungle-like Zone. They were immediately greeted by Kalus and his Vandals, who wanted a rematch from their last fight and were rather at home in the environment.

Roughly forty minutes later, with some well-played moves on BF5's part, the Vandals were once again beaten and the team rode through the Earth portal with the Key.

Vert sealed the portal and returned to the Saber, spirits high.

"Man, kicking Vandal butt sure makes a guy hungry," Stanford commented. "Who's up for dinner at Zeke's?"

"Only if it's an extra large, everything topping pizza with anchovies and pickles," Sherman replied, licking his lips.

"Come on, little bro! You can't put anchovies on pizza. I can accept everything else but that."

As the rest of his team bickered about the best choice for pizza toppings, Vert led the way back to base. After dropping off the Key and gathering the others, they headed out to Zeke's Diner.

They finished two hours later and while they were still getting out of their usual booth, a deep, uneven rumble sounded from just outside.

Stanford, having been closest to the window, parted the blinds to take a look. He gasped.

"What's wrong?" Vert asked, turning round to see the red-head's face lose some of its color.

"Isn't that our little spitfire pulling up?"

Vert and Zoom moved between the others to look. There the jet black Camaro sat, a space away from the Tangler, engine grumbling. Its paint was freshly waxed and it looked pristine as ever.

The scout was the first to speak. "What should we do? I really don't wanna get in her way again after the last time."

"Just cool it, guys. This is just a diner, there's nothing weird about us being here. Act natural, okay?" Vert backed away from the blinds before she could spot him.

"I take it that's the girl you chased down by mistake?" Agura asked, not missing the way the three boys' expressions changed to sheepish.

"We told her it was just a misunderstanding," Vert explained. "Besides, this is all just a coincidence." Was it though? The town she was headed towards was in the opposite direction of Handler's Corners. There was no logical reason for her to be all the way out here. Still, he wouldn't lose his cool. They were in their street clothes and as far as anyone was concerned, they were nothing more than a bunch of young adults with project cars. As long as they didn't seem suspicious, she'd have little reason to confront them.

He led the way out of the diner, striding out like he hadn't just been spooked. He eyed the Camaro as it idled several spots down. He pretended not to take notice and hopped into the Saber. As the others got into their cars and Zoom his bike, Vert spared another glance at the odd one out. He could tell Agura was wary as the Tangler lowered her seat, and as she sat down she gave a not-so-subtle stare at the Camaro next to her.

The tinted windows revealed nothing.

Vert backed out and hit the road, the others following shortly after. When they were no longer in sight of the diner he relaxed.

"Well, that was weird," Spinner said when the silence became too much. "I thought you said she was mad at you."

"She was," Vert answered. "Maybe she got a little frightened at the sight of all of us."

"I'm just glad she didn't get out to confront us," said Stanford.

Agura hummed. "What was she even doing there though? She lives miles away from Handler's Corners."

"We have no proof she actually lives there," Tezz piped in. "Perhaps she was visiting family and stopped by at Zeke's on the way back. We don't know anything about her. It's possible she may live in Handler's Corners and we're just unaware of it."

"Let's just try not to let it get to us," Sherman warned. "After the last time..."

Vert didn't miss the dig. "You're right, Sherm. Let's just forget about it." They sped in the direction of home.

Sometime into the evening, Sage called them down. "I have picked up another anomaly," she said, bringing up a screen. "I'm sending the location to your cars. Be careful, whatever it is, it's mobile."

The team nodded and ran to their vehicles.

"It's heading East," Agura reported, eyes on her dash.

"Now it's going South," said Sherman.

"Northwest," Tezz said seconds later. He scrutinized his screens. "That can't be right... Its output is dropping. If we do not reach it soon, it will vanish again."

"Alright, guys, full throttle!" Vert charged ahead. He steered the Saber in the direction of the anomaly, changing course whenever it did. Eventually, his sensors stopped picking it up. "Speed up," he called, slamming the accelerator. He would not let them get away again.

Sherman frowned at his dash. "I got nothing, Vert. It's gone."

"Over there!" The Tangler swerved left and raced towards a car with its lights off. A black car.

"Is that...?" Vert turned on his high beams. It was a Camaro. He grit his teeth.

"Her trajectory matches that of the anomaly's last known location," Tezz supplied.

"I knew it... After her."

The entirety of the Battle Force was after her, perhaps that was why she slowed to a stop and allowed them to catch up. She kept the engine running just in case, though they made no move to surround her this time. She watched the leader–the blonde guy from before–take determined strides towards her. She rolled her window down.

"Having another identity crisis?" she questioned his disgruntled visage. "How many jet black Camaros do you know?"

"You've got some explaining to do," he responded. "We've been getting some weird readings out here and they're coming from you."

She quirked a brow. "What's the matter? Haven't you ever been rejected before?"

"Her car is still letting off some unusual energy," came Tezz as he approached. "It's strange, the frequency doesn't fully match that of the anomaly moments ago, but it is still impossible for an ordinary car to cause such a thing." He came to a stop next to Vert. "Perhaps you are not aware, but there is something different about your Camaro in particular."

She gave him an unimpressed look. "Yeah, no kidding. Every time I drive it I get chased down by a bunch of desert weirdos. Hell if I know why."

"We aren't trying to hurt you, it's just that-" He had to step back to avoid taking the door to the abdomen while she got out.

Tezz, who had been too busy fiddling with his scanner, wasn't so lucky.

"I don't know what you call running people off the road, but where I'm from that's a pretty hostile move." Slapping Tezz's arm, she added, "Get that thing away from me and my car or else I'll put it somewhere that was better left unknown." She gave them all a wary glance. "Who are you people?"

"We're just, uh, filming for a movie," Spinner said from atop the Buster. He gulped when she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Do you really think I'm that stupid? I'll ask you again. Who are you and why. Are. You. Chasing. Me?" She looked back at Vert. "What kind of 'readings' are you even talking about?"

"Um..."

"And what do you mean my car's abnormal? You're the ones with project cars gone wrong. That one has a snow plow in the desert," she said, gesturing to AJ. "Just what are you freaks up to?"

Vert contemplated what to do. He couldn't keep playing the fool, they'd gotten too involved now. He glanced back to the others to find them just as lost. He sighed. "Maybe you should come with us. We can explain everything back at our base."

She laughed, the sound strained and hysterical at the same time. "Seriously? I'm not following you creeps back to your 'base.' I don't need to watch too much TV to know that's a bad idea. I'll take my chances out here, thanks." She made to get back into her car.

"There must be some reason you're out here," Tezz argued. "Aren't you looking for answers?" She gave him an odd look that he couldn't interpret.

"Depends whether or not you actually have any," she said after a pause.

"I think we will," Vert answered, "but we can't give them out here. If you come with us, we'll explain everything."

She glared at him, wary. "Diana," she said at last. "Diana Linden."

"I'm Vert Wheeler. And this is my team." He pointed out the rest of the Battle Force one by one, watching her nod after each introduction. "We're the good guys, okay?"

She pursed her lips. "Lead the way," she said as she fell back into her seat. "But if any of you tries something, I'm bolting."

He nodded and headed back to the Saber, motioning for Tezz to follow. They took off, the Camaro trailing back a few paces, and rode to the Hub.

Chapter 5: here

Chapter 3: here

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter 16 - Stage Two.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're good people.

They're your friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------

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

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

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

Alya...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evidently, Valus disagrees.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are the others?” Death presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Not. One. Step. Deeper.'

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

Nothing more. Nothing less.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------

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

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

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

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

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

Click! You try again....

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

Click! Again...

'We're sorry-'

“Y/N!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His intent immediately becomes clear.

He's going after it.

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

The Nephilim doesn't stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bewildered, you silently watch him disappear after the Horseman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fleshling?”

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

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

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

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

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

You just can't stop yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two familiar, button eyes peer back at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you? 

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

Huh... Is this your fault?

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

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

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

Evidently, he's overestimated the intelligence of humans. 

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

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

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

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

......

Sadly, his efforts prove to be in vain.

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

---------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it's too late.

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

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

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

This can't be happening.

This cannot be happening!

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

Not him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He's alive!?” you croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His face... It's a mess.

Worse than even Thane's had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet...

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the horse stumbles trying to gallop over the shockwaves, your heart leaps up into your throat and almost falls out of your mouth as Death stands up in the saddle right as his steed dashes between the Guardian's legs.

“What the Hell is he doing!?” you blurt out.

Seconds later, you get your answer.

Just as the duo pass directly beneath the construct, Death springs from Despair's saddle and throws himself at one of the towering pillars of stone, latching onto it determinedly.

Despair – now riderless – bursts out on the other side of the construct and gallops around and away from it in a wide arc, leaving a trail of green wisps in his wake.

Unfortunately, though you assumed that the Guardian's attention would remain on the horse, you soon realise that the corruption driving it must have some semblance of a brain after all, because it abruptly tips its head down and the searing, yellow gaze flashes dangerously when it peers past the hefty bulk of its torso and catches sight of the Horseman clinging to its ankle.

Palpable indignation explodes from the construct in a terrible roar and it wastes no time in raising its leg and stomping it hard on the ground in an attempt to jar the Nephilim loose.

But the Guardian's efforts fail to dislodge its unwarranted passenger, and Death starts to climb, and climb, and climb, hauling himself up the mountain of stone, inch by nail-biting inch.

“He's climbing it!?” you blurt out suddenly, gripping your hair when the Horseman narrowly avoids getting crushed by a gargantuan swipe of the construct's hand, “Has he got an effing screw loose!?”

At your side, Eideard's brows are so furrowed, they nearly form a neat, fluffy line across his forehead. “He has to reach the stones,” he calls over another earth-shattering bellow, “Unless he can remove them from their casings, Corruption will never relinquish its hold of the Guardian!”

As he speaks, Death's ascent takes him up to the construct's hip, where he disappears from view for a moment behind the stone thigh guard.

Your stomach sinks as you fully comprehend how much of a climb ahead he has ahead of him.

Outraged, the construct tries to twist its immense body around and as it does, it bends one of its arms backwards to try and swat the Horseman off.

It's only by doing so that you happen to chance upon a blessedly familiar sight.

Corruption has stretched like a dark blanket all along the underside of its host's arm, oily tendrils holding the limb fast to an immense shoulder socket like a terrible, oozing spiderweb.

But spread about inside the writhing blackness, hidden deep between the strands of corruption, are faint, golden flecks of light, each glowing just enough that you can spot them through the gloom and rain.

“Shadow bombs,” you breathe.

Whatever hand is guiding your fate has apparently got a thing for explosions...

----

Death is fairly confident that he'll have no fingernails after this.

Flattening himself against the rock, he barely avoids the Guardian's wall of a hand as it passes by him, close enough that even the ensuing rush of air buffeting him is enough to have him jamming his fingers and the toes of his boots into the slippery, wet stone.

Scaling a rampaging Guardian is difficult enough. Frankly, he could do without the rain adding to his troubles.

Casting a heated glance up at the sky, Death braces his feet and prepares to launch himself another few metres up the torso.

Another bolt of lightening takes a stab at the valley, the Horseman kicks off, swinging an arm overhead to grab a segment of rock above him and the Guardian's colossal fist rushes towards him once more...

He could have sworn he'd had the timing spot on...

Death is hit from the side by a force so great, his vision goes white upon impact and his world turns upside down as he's knocked out of the sky by the construct's blow, thousands of receptors screaming in pain even though he bites down hard on his tongue and refuses to utter a sound.

Well... at least the fall is short...

Far sooner than he expects to, the Horseman collides with the soggy ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him and he rolls over and over through the mud until eventually coming to a halt on his back about a hundred yards away from the Guardian's feet. Stunned and staring stiffly up at the cloudy sky overhead, he blinks against the raindrops that manage to pelt his eyelids through the sockets of his mask.

Somewhere far away from his ringing ears, he picks up the trace of a scream, dimly registering how familiar the sound is.

“Death! Please, get up!”

Yes, he will. Of course he will. He doesn't need a distant voice to tell him that laying motionless in the mud is a terrible idea.

Curling his fingers until they're squeezed into tight fists, the Horseman pushes himself into a sitting position and gives his head a shake, his senses returning to him all at once.

That had been your voice. For an unsettling second, he pictures you doing something stupid – like running out into the valley towards him.

“Human!?” he rasps, throwing his gaze about wildly until he at last spies you still standing in the entrance to Tri Stone’s tunnel.

He only refrains from heaving a sigh of relief through sheer willpower alone.

Moving his head to the right, he catches sight of Despair galloping madly in his direction, hoofbeats swallowed up by the thunderous, booming footsteps of the Guardian as it approaches Death's flank.

The Horseman is on his feet in a flash and takes several, loping strides towards his steed, who doesn't slow for a single beat, not even as he tears past Death's side, confident that his rider will be safely back in his saddle with hardly a crumb of effort.

And of course, a pale hand shoots out as the horse passes, snagging the saddle horn and Death hauls himself up and onto Despair's back as though they'd practiced it a thousand times.

Which, upon the insistence of a figure from their past, they have.

“Now then,” the Horseman grumbles, snatching up the reins and turning his steed in another wide arc, intent on coming at the Guardian from another angle, “Let's try that again, shall we?”

------

“He's not seriously gonna try that again, is he?” Watching the spectral duo thunder towards a now increasingly belligerent construct, you clap a hand to your forehead, staring out from underneath it with your mouth agape. “Oh my god, he is.”

“Tenacity is sometimes one of the only tactics that will work,” Eideard puts sagely.

Letting out an incredulous scoff, you squint an eye shut and gape sideways at the Old one. “Tenacity? What the Hell does he think will happen if he -!....Wait a minute....” Suddenly, you cut yourself off, frowning hard at the grass by your feet. “...Tactics...”

The gears in your head grind faster and faster as you try to recall a far-off memory, holding up your hand to hush the maker when he draws a breath to speak. “Wait, wait, wait. What about... Yeah, what about uh, if we use the Hammer and Anvil?” Snapping your fingers together, you raise your head again and shoot Eideard an eager look.

He, on the other hand, appears entirely lost, turning to peer over his shoulder in the direction of the village for a moment before he returns his gaze to you, one eyebrow raised. “A hammer and anvil? What use would those be in this fight?”

“No, no, it's the, um... the name of a military tactic!” you explain, chewing your lip anxiously, “So, I took History for GCSE, and I think, I think, I remember learning about it there. So, one group, or I guess, one person, is the anvil, right? They pin down an enemy, and then somebody else – the hammer - moves around to the flank and -” You firmly thump your fist into the palm of your opposite hand for emphasis.

In spite of himself, Eideard's eyes gleam with barely-concealed pride at your insight. He hadn't realised you'd once been a Historian. Seconds later, he gives his head a firm shake to dispel the fog of intrigue.

“I remember it because it sounded cool,” you say wistfully, “And I was going through my phase of wanting to be a blacksmith to make swords and stuff at the time...”

The Old one raises his eyebrows in surprise and you chuckle wanly, adding, “Yeah, I know. Don't tell Thane. Think it might break his heart.”

Eideard is inclined to agree. It would certainly pain the warrior to know that he might potentially 'lose' you to Alya, who has a very likely chance of combusting on the spot if she learns about your interest in her profession.

Blinking, the maker looks down at you and realises that you're still peering back at him expectantly, and it takes him a further moment to work out that you're actually waiting for him to offer approval for your plan. “Well... Whilst it may certainly be a useful strategy, in theory,” he enunciates, subjecting you to a pointed stare, “have you taken into consideration the size of the enemy in this fight? How could a construct so large ever be pinned down long enough for the Horseman to reach the heart stones?”

You fall silent beside him, and at first, Eideard assumes that you don't have an answer for him, when in truth, your focus has simply returned to the underside of the Guardian's dominant arm.

You know precisely how you can pin the construct down.

All it will take is a well-placed shot... and every last ounce of courage you have left in reserve.

Heaving out a shaky sigh, you tug the little handgun from your waistband and thumb the cylinder's release latch, swinging it open and peering down at the chambers.

Three cartridges left.

Three empty chambers... One for the demon general you'd slain to save Death.

One for the demon in the graveyard...

...And one for the gun's original owner.

A shudder prickles up your spine at the memory of the dead man staring at you with wide, terrified, but unseeing eyes as you pried his means of salvation right out of his hands.

Then, the moment passes and you shove his expression to the back of your mind, flicking the cylinder into place with a purposeful snap.

You have to do this. The Guardian has to be destroyed, even if it means you've come all this way for nothing, and the Corruption blocking your path to the Tree of Life will remain where it is.

You'll just... have to find another way through.

There's always another way.

When you look up towards Death, you see that he's circled Despair away from the Guardian again and they're skirting dangerously close to the swollen, yellow eyeball that tracks their journey across the valley.

“I'll be the anvil...” You take a step forwards, your voice soft, though not soft enough that it goes unnoticed by Eideard.

The old maker tears his gaze from the construct currently hammering holes into his valley and fixes you with a suspicious glare. There are certain instincts that elders tend to accumulate after a near-eternity spent just being alive, none of which are more potent than the instinct to simply know when a youngling is busy concocting some terrible, ill-judged and outright dangerous scheme in their heads.

Striking before the seed can take true root, Eideard lifts his staff and plants its narrow end on the ground right in front of you, a less-than-subtle barrier that both breaks you from your thoughts and stops you from making further advancement towards the tunnel opening.

Understandably, you're startled by the sudden shaft of solid metal appearing in your path and you whip your head up to shoot a glare at the old giant, only to find that he's giving you his own, similarly stern look.

Holding your gaze for a few moments, he eventually expels a sigh and lets his expression ease into a more solemn frown. “Not this time, little one,” he utters.

“Not this time?” Your hands ball slowly into fists. “What do you mean 'not this time?'”

He opens his mouth to tell you, to explain every, complex thought that's been on his mind since you followed Death into the Foundry. He wants to tell you exactly why he can't bear to watch you run into danger again – that his old heart aches to see Muria wring her hands so much more often these days, or Valus pacing anxiously back and forth across the forge while his sister tries to coax him into crafting something that might take his mind off you. It had even hurt more than he'd care to admit to hear Thane explode at him after the warrior learned that you'd gone inside the Foundry.

Likewise, Eideard had hardly been able to think straight for worrying whether you'd come back out again...

His soul, of late, seems as though it's pulling itself in two, very different directions. One half of him knows that you're your own person - an adult, so far as humans are concerned – who is more than capable of making decisions without needing the input of an interfering old maker. But then, there's the other half of him - the half that has spent eons being a teacher, a leader and a protector. 

That half wants nothing more than to keep you safe and nurtured, to see what you could become as a human among makers.

How can he possibly make you understand that watching you run out into the valley would be the final nail in his coffin?

However, he doesn't get the chance to even try and explain as you misinterpret his pensive silence for surrender and you press, “It could work! You know it could! I could be the anvil, if I can just... get close enough to-”

“-Absolutely not,” he interrupts, his eyebrows pinched with concern, “It's far too dangerous.”

You aren't entirely sure where your sudden spark of irritation comes from, but it's there before you can think to extinguish it. “What, so this is too dangerous, but you let me go into the Foundry?”

“Against my better judgement, yes, I did,” he retorts, “And the Drench Fort, and the Cauldron. Time and again, I have stood by and allowed you to follow the Horseman into danger-” 

“You've allowed me?” you scoff, recoiling.

“-But I'm afraid that this is where my leniency ends,” he continues as his voice steadily grows louder with every passing moment, “This is where I have to draw the line, if not for your sake, then for the sake of the others. They've suffered enough loss to last them a lifetime, and I will not allow them to lose another friend!” Breathing hard, he swallows down a painful cough and rasps, “I will not lose another friend!”

If only you were ten feet taller, you'd grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into the sentimental old giant.

“If Death doesn't manage to beat that thing, you're gonna lose a whole hell of a lot more than just a friend!” you argue, hardly noticing that the maker's knuckles have turned bone-white around the handle of his staff, “Eideard, I am trying to help Death save this place! You can't stop me from helping!”

The soft-eyed maker's gaze narrows to something uncharacteristically sharp and he replies, “I can. For your own good!”

You wrinkle your nose as indignation rises through your chest like smoke from the fire in your belly, swelling into a ball of heat and anger. “My own g-!? You're not my dad, Eideard-!”

“- I AM TRYING TO BE!”

The force of Eideard's shout punches through your chest like a gunshot and you stagger back a few steps, your eyes growing wide with alarm. You aren't sure what's more disconcerting, what he'd shouted, or the fact that he'd shouted at all. It's the first time you've ever heard him raise his voice at you...

Staring up at the old maker, you slowly draw your hands close to your chest, clasping them together and pulling in a hitched breath.“...What?” you utter, voice small and uncertain.

Just like that, the giant blinks and his eyebrows twitch out of their frown as the realisation of what he'd just admitted aloud catches up with him. A pit in his stomach opens up and everything above it drops.

He stares back at you in muted horror that he tries desperately to disguise as stern sincerity.

Stone's breath... He swore he'd never... You've only just lost your family, and now here he is behaving as though he intends to replace one of the most critical figures in your life. He has no right. No right at all...

Even beneath the ivory beard, you can see his jaw clench after he snaps his mouth shut.

Not even the rain that cascades from overhead is loud enough to drown out the rigorous pounding of your heart.

"Little one,” Eideard croaks, fumbling over his words for the first time in centuries, “I-”

Suddenly, from across the valley, the Guardian unleashes a triumphant bellow and your eyes rip away from the maker for all of a second, just long enough to see Death take a hit.

Just like that, the whole world grinds to a screeching halt.

---------

Despair is in the middle of a charge, heading straight for the Guardian's legs, no doubt intending to bring his rider in close so that he can make another attempt at climbing his way up to the infected heart stones.

The construct, however, doesn't move to meet them as they expect it to. Instead, the colossal beast takes a few, booming steps backwards, seeming as if it’s on the retreat to the valley's eastern cliffs.

Seconds later, Death realises its intent.

The mile-high hammer that it grips in its fist has a reach that practically extends halfway across the valley, and only by putting some significant distance between itself and a target does the Guardian stand any chance of landing a devastating blow.

And Death has just galloped directly into the firing line.

As the hammer begins its downward swing, Despair lets out a whinny that's carried off on the wind until it reaches your ears, filling them with the sound of shrill, animalistic fear and you turn your body around to stare out at the valley just in time to see the Horseman fling his steed's head to the side with a brutal tug on the reins. Obediently, Despair follows his lead, hoping to escape underneath the side of the rapidly-descending hammer.

You know in your heart of hearts they'll never make it.

You can hardly bear to watch.

Then, at the very last second, right when the hammer's shadow utterly engulfs both horse and rider, you notice that Death's hand lifts from the reins and he does a wild gesture and before you can make sense of what it means, without warning, Despair's solid outline seems to collapse in on itself and the horse erupts into a cloud of sickly, green mist.

Bellowing out a final, lingering scream of righteous indignation that's soon lost to the wind, he disappears completely and his rider falls to the ground, tucking himself forwards into a haphazard roll.

Not half a second later, the monolithic face of the hammer connects with the dirt just inches behind him.

Another flash of lightening coincides poetically with the impact, burning an image into your mind's eye – of mud and rocks exploding outwards in every direction, a seismic shockwave that flings Death away from the epicentre. He lands hard in the wet earth and tumbles for several metres before he finally comes to a stop, face down against the grass, unmoving.

You barely even register that you've ducked beneath the maker's staff and hurled yourself into a clumsy sprint until you emerge from the tunnel and your face is suddenly struck by ice-cold rain. At your back, Eideard shouts something frenzied, crossing the line into panic, but his words are drowned out by another clap of thunder. You don't see the desperate horror sweep across the old maker's face. You don't see his eyes illuminate with the ensuing lightening strike. You don't see the Guardian peeling its hammer from the earth and slowly turning towards you.

All you can see, all you care about right now, is the Horseman in front of you.

Shaking off his daze, Death pushes himself onto his hands and knees and immediately becomes irked by the rainwater dripping in through the sockets of his mask again. He gives a few, hard blinks and twists his gaze to one side, trailing it all the way up the Guardian's legs columns.

The great beast flares the plates around its neck and a low, rumbling growl trickles from its throat and travels all the way down into the ground, causing Death's teeth to rattle in his head.

Dimly, his eyes rove up to the hammer, now raised once more into the sky high above the construct's head.

“Damn you,” he hisses at it through a clenched jaw.

If he hadn't banished Despair when he had, the horse may well have had its hind legs crushed. He'd felt his steed's rage once it realised what he planned to do, but frankly, he'd rather deal with an angry Despair than see the stubborn beast get hurt.

He's in the midst of heaving himself up onto one knee when all of a sudden, from across the valley, there comes a familiar cry that would have turned his blood to ice, should his veins carry any.

“Death!”

The Horseman jerks his head over one shoulder, eyes widening when he sees you haring across the valley towards him. “No,” he growls, voice rising into a ragged shout, “NO! Stay back, you fool!”

However, rather than heed his warning, you very nearly end up crashing into him as you hit the brakes and skid to a halt in the sodden grass just in time to avoid a collision. 

Somewhere unbeknownst to the Horseman, a wild and familiar presence rears its sleepy head.

Meanwhile, with all the grace of a bungling drunk, you wrestle your pistol from your skirt's hem and aim it at the clustered web of corruption that stretches across the construct's raised forearm.

The Guardian is so vast, each movement carries with it the illusion that time has slowed right down to a crawl.

Gripping the handle of your gun between two, quivering hands, you don't even spare a second to think or to worry about what'll happen if you don't make this shot.

You only have this chance. There will not be another.

There's a storm raging around you, a giant hammer rising above you, Death's incoherent bellow rings in your head and Eideard's distressed calls tug at your heartstrings.

You've never been more terrified in all your life.

But you still take aim.

And with blood and wind howling in your ears, you draw in one, deep breath...

… and pull the trigger.

It's strange, you realise with a blink, that until now, you've never really put much thought into whether the dice of life rolls in your favour. You wouldn't say that you're especially lucky, nor would you claim to be naturally unlucky either.

At this moment however, when the tiny bullet from your pistol sails straight and true towards its target, you finally begin to consider the scope of your luck. Then, the bullet hits its mark and you feel like the heavens have just aligned in your favour.

The shadow bomb explodes, setting off a chain reaction among the other bombs embedded in the webbing. Each of them erupts in rapid succession of the one before it, and the Guardian is instantly thrown off balance by the ricochets, roaring in pain and staggering back a step as its entire arm is quite suddenly blown sideways and asunder.

Whatever elation you might have garnered from the success is short-lived though, because Death is abruptly towering over you and snatching you up by the arms, holding you so that your feet dangle several inches from the ground.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?” he bellows, shaking you for good measure.

You open your mouth to reply, but just then, a dark shadow falls across Death's mask, prompting you both to whip your heads back and look to the sky.

It appears that while the explosion has blown the Guardian's arm to smithereens, some of those 'smithereens' are still absolutely enormous and haven't been blasted quite far enough to render you safe should they come crashing down to the ground.

Which is, of course, precisely what they do.

The familiar presence that had awoken deep inside the Horseman's psyche suddenly starts to go bezerk.

Barrelling down towards you at a rate of knots is a stone slab the size of a bus.

Instinctively, you fling your arms over your head and slam your eyes tight shut, hardly caring when Death drops you onto your backside and you topple over, your skull cushioned by the wet earth.

Pressed your spine into the grass, you brace yourself for impact and spare the last second of existence cursing at how bitterly unfair it is that you can do something right and still have everything go so wrong.

The slab falls, the air grows cold and still. And then...

WHAM!

The sound is loud enough to blow out your eardrums and smack your heart up against your sternum. It's deafening, it's terrifying... But it isn't painful.

'Why isn't it painful?.... Am I dead?' The rain seems to have stopped falling on you, at least.

Bewildered, you peel open an eye and tentatively lower your arms a little to peer up at a dark, shadowy mass looming over you.

Two, empty eye sockets stare right back at you, pinpricks of light sitting at the centre of each as a rattling breath as cold as winter washes over your face.

“Death?” you utter in a tremulous whisper.

The monstrous form of the Reaper towers above you, its exposed ribcage heaving up and down in the face of its agitation. Long, skeletal arms are raised above its head and when you roll your eyes past the indigo hood, you let out a gasp to find that the creature is holding the gigantic, stone slab aloft, keeping it from crushing you flat.

How a beast with no visible muscle can be so strong is utterly beyond you.

The Reaper stares down at you for a moment longer with an unreadable expression before its arms suddenly flex and it lets out a soft wheeze as it hurls the enormous slab sideways and out of the way.

The stone hasn't even rolled to a stop before the gigantic skull is lowering down towards you.

Sprawled out on your rear and immensely mindful of the beast's fangs, you lift your arms up and hold them out in front of its approaching face.

“Woah – wait a second! I – I know you're mad, but I just!-”

You're interrupted when the Reaper's nose bumps into your palm and continues to advance, despite the meagre resistance you try to put up. For one, horrible second, you grow sick at the thought that the beast's teeth are so close to your vulnerable hands.

But then, with a gentleness that contradicts its size, the skeleton forces its skull through your raised arms and, to your astonishment, pushes its nasal bone firmly into your chest and stomach – as though it isn't supposed to be a monstrous reflection of the fabled Grim Reaper, as though there isn't a stone giant gathering its wits behind it.

Too startled to react, you close your eyes and raise your chin away from the beast, unable to swallow a whimper as it nuzzles gently into your torso with a warbling croon.

'It's only Death,' you have to remind yourself, 'Death won't hurt me.'

Your fingers twitch and you gulp, hesitating for another second before you finally gather the nerve to press your palms flat against the skull's cheekbones, earning a gush of frigid air against your belly in response. Cracking an eye open, you find yourself blinking straight into one of the Reaper's softly glowing pupils. It surprises you with a sudden, insistent nudge to the stomach, like it's trying to push a sound out of you. Hardly daring to disappoint, you swallow around your dry tongue and breathlessly stammer out, “Hah, yeah, I'm... I'm all right.”

The vertebrae on the beast's neck clack together when a croak rattles up from somewhere deep inside its chest.

It almost sounds relieved.

A little more boldly, you sweep your trembling fingers underneath the curve of its cheekbones and try not to ponder on how utterly absurd it is that you're talking to a creature that wasn't even supposed to exist this time last week. Regardless, it's a hard truth to deny when said creature currently has its skull pressed up against you.

After another moment, it gives you a second bunt to the stomach, this one short and sharp and accompanied by a whuff of air through its nasal cavity as the malleable bone above its eye sockets draw together to resemble something vaguely displeased. You're beginning to recognise more and more of Death in its expressions.

The Horseman is still in there somewhere, and it takes you a moment to register that your plan, as foolish and risky as it was, had actually worked. You don't even care that an angry monstrosity's fangs are sitting flushed to your abdomen.

“Hey. I'm glad you're okay too,” you mutter weakly, trailing your fingers down a sturdy mandible.

It's ensuing rumble of contentment is interrupted by a sudden, booming roar that rips the sky apart and you jump, feeling the Reaper's teeth scrape against your belly as it lets out a furious growl and draws back at the sound.

Using one hand to shield your eyes from the rain, you squint up at the Guardian.

It would appear the the colossal juggernaut has already mourned the loss of its arm and is now raring for vengeance.

It tears its gaze off the rubble scattered around its feet and aims a furious growl down at you and the Reaper, the promise of retribution evident in the corrupted tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, whilst its heart stones shine through the gloom like terrible beacons of fetid yellow.

“Wait.. .The heart stones!” you realise aloud.

Skeletal fingers suddenly cut you off as they snatch you up by the collar and hoist you onto your feet, and then you're rudely shoved in the direction of Tri Stone by a snarling Reaper.

Stumbling backwards, you stare after it as it whips around and puts its back to you, flapping its bony wings menacingly up at the Guardian - as if anything it does could deter a construct that size.

The corrupted behemoth takes a threatening step forwards, bringing it far too close for comfort. In response, the Reaper's wings flare even wider across its back and it issues another hiss.

“Death! The Heart Stones!” you cry out again, “We have to destroy them now!”

Your gaze travels to what's left of its shattered arm that lays in the grass like the ruins of an ancient building. There, sitting unassumingly amongst the debris, is a familiar, pulsing glow.

Your hand curls around the grip of your sword.

Without wasting another second, you burst into a break-neck sprint and hurtle towards the first heart stone, immediately hearing the alarmed hiss of the Reaper behind you. Throwing your head over one shoulder, you point frantically at the Guardian's head and shout, “I'll try and deal with the one on the ground! You have to deal with the other two!”

The Reaper's half-buried instinct to snatch you up out of danger and bundle you away somewhere quiet and safe is almost overpowering, but there's just enough of Death lingering below the wild and primal nature of the beast that it recognises the sense in your words.

Eliminate the heart stones, eliminate the Guardian, eliminate the threat.

...Threat.

The Reaper snarls, its spinal column quivering as it finally cuts through the haze of protective anger and focuses on the solution. 

Eliminate the Guardian, and you'll be safe.

The goal is clear.

Teeth snap together in a warning and the Reaper gives its wings a tremendous beat, soaring into the storm-choked sky and making a bee line for the Guardian's left shoulder where the second heart stone lays in wait.

Responding instantly, the construct roars its defiance with the force and volume of a thunderclap as it raises its remaining arm, aiming to swat the Reaper out of the air like a bothersome gnat.

But whilst the Guardian's size might have leant to its advantage on the ground, it proves a hinderance to a creature as adept at flying as Death's spectral counterpart.

Swift and nebulous like a shadow, the Reaper flits higher and higher, skirting close to the construct's arm and either diving or spinning easily out of the way if it swings too close for comfort. By the time it reaches the heart stone, you've slid to a halt beside the one on the ground.

Whipping your sword from its scabbard, you barely hesitate to catch your breath before ramming the tip of the blade underneath the stone's edge.

“Oh, I hope this sword is stronger than I am!” you worry aloud, taking a firm hold of the weapon's grip and heaving backwards with all your might, your feet slipping in the mud underneath you. Something gives and the blade sinks a little deeper, and you're struck by a renewed burst of desperate urgency. “Come on!” you gasp, shaking rainwater from your eyes and readjusting your grip before throwing yourself backwards again, and again, and again, each time levering the sword a little further underneath the stone.

You're only lucky that the heart stone had fallen at the angle it had: tipped forwards towards the ground. There's no chance you'd be able to dislodge a stone so large without a lot of help from gravity.

The relentless downpour causes your feet to nearly slide out from under you, but step by agonising step, you manage to haul yourself backwards, never once giving back an inch of what you take in the way of progress.

Overhead, the Reaper hovers just above the second heart stone.

A flash of lightening illuminates the sky behind it so that for just a second, a gigantic shadow is projected onto the Guardian's body, ominous and foreboding, a billowing cloak and skeletal wings contrasted in black against the pale, sandy stone.

Then, the spectre draws its scythe.

The curved blade gleams as it's raised over the Reaper's shoulder, and with a startling ferocity, it brings the weapon down hard, driving the pointed end deep into the stone like a knife through butter before heaving its scythe back again, wrenching the stone from its place in the Guardian's shoulder and allowing it to fall into the mud far below with a wet, unpleasant 'thwump!'

You miss it hitting the ground, because right as it does, you throw yourself at your sword's hilt with everything you've got, one, final time. There's a moment of resistance, and then suddenly, you're toppling face-first into the mud as well when the heart stone finally comes loose and thumps down just inches away from where you’d been standing.

There's no time to celebrate though.

Scrabbling up onto your feet again, you immediately have to clap both hands over your ears when the construct throws its head back and howls, the terrible cacophony of noise mingling with Corruption's wretched screeching.

The inky substance, separated from its source of power, withdraws like an octopus whose tentacles have been burned by fire. The tendrils tear themselves away from the construct’s stone body and in doing so, they leave every slab without an adhesive to keep it all together.

The resulting carnage isn't unlike witnessing a building being demolished.

First, the hammer is dropped to the ground as its fingers fall apart one after the other, followed swiftly by its entire hand and before long, both of the Guardian's arms are laying strewn about in pieces on the ground, the heavier pieces sinking into slick mud.

All that remains now, is the third and final heart stone.

High over your head, the Reaper rolls its shoulders in satisfaction and turns in the air, scanning the ground below for any sign of the human. It finds you soon enough, a speck of colour almost hidden amongst the rubble, waving your arms madly at something behind it. Cocking its head to one side, the Reaper spins about again and looks up, its eye sockets growing wide.

With two heart stones down, the Corruption's hold over its colossal host has weakened significantly. One leg tries to take a step forwards, but with nothing to keep its stones adhered to one another, the entire construct begins to collapse underneath its own weight, its legs buckling and breaking and its enormous torso teetering forwards...

… It's only once the sky above you is blocked out by falling debris that the Reaper realises why the construct's collapse is not necessarily a good thing.

You're standing directly underneath it.

It seems to register your predicament at the same time as you do, and the valley is suddenly ringing with the sound of its feral shriek.

Angling itself straight down in your direction, the Reaper raises its wings and is just about to break the sound barrier with a single flap, when all of a sudden, a dome of familiar, azure light arches over you like a cresting wave.

In the throes of alarm, it had clean forgotten that there is another in the valley who's protective instincts are just as strong as its own.

You yelp, not even noticing that there's a shimmering barrier that has appeared over your head.

Throwing yourself forwards into the mud again, you curl into a ball and shake as the Guardian's detritus slams down all around you. The din is ear-splitting, drowning out your screams.

Hours seem to pass before the noise finally dies down.

It takes you longer than you'd care to admit to realise you haven't become a stain on the valley floor.

It feels as though you need a crowbar to pry your arms from their position over your head, yet somehow, you manage without and push yourself up onto your rear, mouth dropping open once you spot the destruction all around you. Small stones and dust skitter down the side of an invisible force arching over your head, washed away by the pouring rain as you twist yourself about in a daze.

Suddenly, your eyes land on a familiar figure standing just beyond the Guardian's remains.

“E-Eideard?” you cough.

Blood trickles in a steady stream from the maker's nose and his mighty chest rises and falls with every, spasmodic breath he takes. Rolling your eyes up, you notice the crackling staff that's pointed in your direction and then the hazy wall of shimmering, blue light that stands between you and him, and at last, the pieces click together in your brain.

The old maker had just saved your life.

Only when he sees you moving does he exhale the rigidity from his spine and lower his staff, effectively dispelling the magical barrier from over your head. Deep in his chest, the maker's heart finally stops thrashing like a wild beast.

You're still alive.

He meant what he'd said in the tunnels. He won't lose you, not so long as there's still life in his old bones.

But what relief Eideard feels is abruptly superseded by dread when the rubble before him starts to shudder.

His gaze snaps up, travelling past you and zeroing in on the Guardian's head that has landed in the grass just metres away from you, and he blanches when swirling, yellow light bursts to life in its eye sockets.

A gust of rancid air nearly bowls you over and invades your nostrils, threatening to drown you under the stench of sulphur and decaying flesh.

Whirling your head around, you let out a cry and try to slide backwards through the mud when, from the Guardian's mouth, a writhing, squealing mass of tentacles spews forth, each one as black as night and all flailing wildly for just a moment before they whip out in every direction and begin to snatch up the fallen pieces of their host's body.

Every tendril, that is, except for one.

A single appendage remains poised above your head whilst you stare up at it, incapable of tearing your eyes away as it sways hypnotically from side to side, like a snake waiting to strike.

Behind you, Eideard hurries to raise his staff again.

But it's too late.

The Corrupted tendril snaps forwards, lightening flashes in the sky and renders you momentarily blind, there's a loud, metalling 'shing!'...

… And suddenly, the Reaper is just... there, hovering between you and the Guardian like a protective wall of enraged bones and prickling wings. Peering around its cloak, you can make out a severed portion of the tentacle flopping around uselessly in the grass.

For a brief instant, everything is silent.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The Guardian's disembodied jaw splits open wide and Corruption screams its outrage for all the realm to hear.

Around you, all of the stones that had once made up the construct's body start to roll across the valley towards its head, drawn by whatever hateful power still exists within the last heart stone.

“It's trying to repair itself!” you cry, feeling your chest hitch when fear cups your heart in its icy fist.

At the sound of your voice, the Reaper snaps its skull to one side, focusing a soft, white pupil on your form, huddled on the ground, shivering, afraid.

Its enormous fingers tighten around Harvester until its grip is crushing.

Eliminate the threat. Keep you safe.

The mantra surges to the forefront of its mind and it squares its shoulders, returning its attention to the Guardian's head. The air is alive with dark, oppressive magic that spills from the heart stone like a physical current, and as if by invisible strings, the head is pulled up into the air like a marionette, its neck plates slotting back into place underneath its jaw.

All too soon, it's staring hatefully down at both you and your skeletal guard and emitting a low growl as it waits for the rest of its body to arrive.

With all the viciousness it can muster, the Reaper hurtles towards the heart stone and draws its weapon back, gliding effortlessly to a halt just before the construct's skull, scythe drawn high over its shoulders where, using the momentum of its flight, it hurls the blade forwards, and rams the tip straight into the centre of the stone.

Corruption's screeches turn to wails of terror.

It's a satisfying sound to the Reaper's nonexistent ears.

With a grip like iron on its weapon, the beast braces itself and lurches away, pulling the third and final stone from its casing.

The result is instantaneous.

A howl explodes from the Guardian's gaping maw, loud enough to rival the tempest raging all around you and causing the whole valley to shudder with the force of it.

Letting out a scream, you slap your hands over your ears and grit your teeth so they stop rattling inside your skull.

After several, long, deafening moments, the lights in the construct's eyes begin to flicker weakly until finally, they're extinguished altogether, and its parted jaw thuds shut, no longer pried open by corruption. Without a source through which to power their host, the flailing tendrils slip uselessly down through the construct's mouth until they fall to the grass below and start to sink, still squirming about in the slick mud like fat, overgrown worms.

Your eyes land on one that doesn't seem to be dissolving quite as rapidly as its brethren, and with a sudden rush of horror, you realise that it's wriggling its way towards you, as if it had a sinister goal in mind, as if it had a mind at all.

You try to scrabble backwards on your rear, kicking out, but find no traction in the mud, and instead, you're helpless except to look on in horror as the vile tentacle closes the distance in seconds, until there are only a few, pitiful metres between you and it. Trembling arms wrench the sword from your side and swing it up to point at your adversary.

You almost needn't have bothered. You should have known that with the Reaper nearby, Corruption would have a hard time getting at you.

The colossal spectre drops from the sky out of nowhere and hits the ground in front of you, wings hoisted high over its skull and its scythe gripped between two, bandage-wrapped hands.

At once, the tendril draws back and gives a violent shudder. Without a host, it is dying, fast, and the monster hovering over it menacingly is far from a suitable replacement. Too dead. Too cold. It longs for the tiny speck of warmth the lays sprawled out on the grass just a few, tantalising feet away. Perhaps, if it had been faster...

A low hiss crawls out of the Reaper's hood and it raises its weapon, braced to slice the last tangle of corruption asunder. But, if there ever was a master puppeteer driving the putrid tendril towards you, they must have decided to cut the strings, so to speak, as one might sever an infected limb. The tendril stiffens and goes utterly still, poised like a cobra on the verge of striking.

Cautious, the Reaper narrows it eye sockets at the tendril. Waiting...

Then, slowly, almost anticlimactically, it starts to... melt. Thick, oozing globules fall from its body, splattering to the ground and dissolving into nothing more than dark stains on the grass, and those too, are soon washed clean by the torrential downpour.

Only once every trace of the corruption is gone and all that remains are the pieces of construct that lay scattered about the valley, does the Reaper lower its scythe.

Resonant footsteps pound through the earth below the spot where you sit, and for a gut-wrenching moment, you're certain that the Guardian has once again started to pull itself together.

A hasty glance over your shoulder soon puts that fear to rest.

Emerging from the haze of mist and rain, steps a vast figure, neither his stilted gait nor his age detracting from the staggering power with which he lumbers towards you, pale eyes wide and swirling with agitation.

You can't tell which expression suits him worse – his current one, or the look of hurt he'd worn in the tunnel.

Worry or pain... Somehow, you'd managed to put both of them on his face.

You don't think you deserve his concern.

Twisting yourself about to face the maker properly, you begin pushing yourself up onto your feet.

But just when you get your trembling legs in order, a shadow falls over you and you're suddenly bowled onto your hands and knees again, splashing mud up into your face and cutting off a panicked bleat that makes its way up your throat.

Like a hulking, hissing shield, the Reaper all but throws itself on top of you and smashes its bony fists into the ground between you and Eideard, warding the maker off, its jaw dropped open in the most vicious snarl that such a rigid skull could possibly achieve.

Some, faded voice deep inside its head tells it that the maker is familiar. But in the wake of the Guardian's threat, there's a red mist that has descended over the Reaper's eyes, clouding its ability to reason and blinding it to everything except the little human nestled underneath its ribcage.

The Old one promptly stops in his tracks.

Peeling yourself up out of the sticky mud, you try to stand again, but the spectre is bent so low to the dirt, your head bumps into its sternum before you can even get onto your knees.

Its pupils are just a millimetre away from being nonexistent as it snaps at the maker and curls its phalanges loosely around you.

Horrified, you barely even register that you've reached up and grabbed a fistful of the billowing, indigo cloak, yanking on it sharply and crying out, “Death! Stop! It's Eideard!”

The Reaper's hood buffets against you, thrown by the thunderstorm that still howls through the valley.

Slowly, the maker ahead of you raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, whilst the other remains wrapped around his staff to maintain his balance. “Easy, Horseman,” he wheezes gently, blood trickling down into his mouth and staining his tusks red, “You've done well. The Guardian is destroyed. The girl is safe.”

As though it had just blinked, the colossal spectre's pupils flicker, softly blooming to larger pinpoints of light, though a low, continuous growl still rattles the bones above you.

Eideard doesn't miss the change, and he slowly bows his head to the Reaper, reassuring, deferring. “She is safe,” he repeats.

Gradually, a low hiss slips out of the phantom's hood and you can feel its pressure lift from your back, the suffocating aura receding until you're able to sit up properly without bashing into a heaving ribcage. As soon as it retreats, you whirl yourself over onto your backside and lock eyes with the beast, your heart pumping a mile a minute.

It's only once you're facing it that the Reaper takes in the state of you.

Muddy. Shaking.

Frightened?

It roves its gaze down to the deep furrows that it had clawed into the grass just metres in front of you. Had it... done that?

Its pupils dilate, and just like that, the rest mist lifts and it can suddenly think beyond its basest instincts.

Hesitant, it backs away a little further and feels it’s control of the ghastly form slipping as its Nephilim counterpart begins to press forward with an insistence that borders on desperate.

Then, right before your eyes, the Reaper's corporeal forms starts to collapse in on itself, indigo mist spilling from its eye-sockets, nasal cavity and parted jaw, a billowing smokescreen that swiftly conceals the enormous skeleton's bulk. In no time at all, you're staring up at the familiar, bone-white mask of Death.

With that amber gaze trained on you, his shoulders quiver once before he straightens up, his eyes trailing from your head all the way down to your toes and back up again.

It occurs to you that he's checking for injuries.

He must have found nothing too untoward however, for he soon averts his gaze and glares off at a piece of the construct's shoulder. “Are you... still in one piece?” he pants gruffly.

Uttering a scoff of disbelief, you reply, “I'm fine. It's Eideard you should be checking on.” You fling one hand up and out of the mud, gesturing wildly in the maker's direction. “I mean, look at him, Death! Christ, I thought you were gonna kill him!”

To the maker's credit, he doesn't take offence to your vague comment on his condition. You are correct, after all. He probably looks about as terrible as he currently feels. But neither you nor Death need to know that...

He catches the Nephilim's gaze and holds it, patient and calm. There isn't an ounce of blame in the old maker's face.

He knows not to expect an apology, which suits Death just fine.

The Horseman doesn't plan to offer one.

Grounding out a rough sigh, Eideard closes the distance to you and stops, taking a brief moment to watch with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as you attempt to pick yourself up off the ground once more, only to slip and collapse back into the mud with a 'splat,' utterly spent.

All too readily, the maker's exasperation draws back a little and he reaches down, circling your waist with his thumb and forefinger and lifting you back onto your feet.

“You, my young friend,” he begins with a huff, gently dusting you off with the pads of his fingers, “are getting far too bold for my heart to withstand. Reckless, I might even venture to say.” His piercing glare seems to bore straight through you like a diamond drill. “Of all things, a human running towards the Guardian at full-tilt, armed with nothing but a sword and a pistol! Why, that has to be one of the most harebrained things I think I've ever witnessed.”

Your throat bobs at his scolding and you drop your eyes to the ground, shame-faced.

All of a sudden though, you find yourself flinching when the rough pad of Eideard's forefinger slips beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, coaxing you to look at him again.

Startled, you blink into the maker's gentle face, noticing that his glare has softened to something far less disdainful and there's even a smile that pushes at the wrinkled corners around his eyes. “..And I could not be more proud of you if I tried.”

The valley, the remnants of the Guardian, even Death all fall away for the briefest few seconds as the weight of Eideard's words slugs you right in the chest.

He's proud of you?...

For what?!

For shouting at him? Disobeying him? For scaring him?

He should be angry, frustrated, annoyed. He should be outraged at worst and disappointed at best. He should be anything! But not proud!

Shamefully inelegant, you sputter, “Huh!? But.. but I-”

“-You were willing to face down the Guardian to protect your friend and save my home, and you’re both still alive,” he interrupts, smiling down at you with a tender gaze, “How could I be anything but proud?”

Baffled, you find it harder and harder to meet the sincerity radiating from his face, so you cast your eyes about instead like a coward, taking in the rubble surrounding you. “I.. I'm sorry -”

'Say it.'

“-a-about the Guardian,” you utter hastily, giving yourself a vicious, mental kick as punishment. There are so many things you want to say, but you don't quite know how to yet with Death lingering behind you watchfully. And you are sorry about the Guardian. In spite of the destruction it had wreaked across Tri Stone, it was undeniably a magnificent beast. But there are certain apologies that are meant for the maker's ears alone. You want to ask him about what he'd said in the tunnel, but more than that, you want to say you're sorry for what you'd done to provoke his admission in the first place, and then... 

God, you just don't know. How could you possibly begin to tell the giant that his words had inadvertently wrapped your heart up in warmth and safety and made you feel wanted again, even after you'd been so cantankerous with him?

Right then and there, standing in the rain before the remnants of his greatest creation, you make a silent promise to the maker that you will tell him, just as soon as this whole ordeal is over and you're all safely back in Tri Stone.

Forcing yourself to meet Eideard's gaze, you stiffen your upper lip and try your best to convey the intent of that promise in just a look, hoping that he'll glean an understanding from two, simple words uttered by a sheepish human. “I'm sorry,” you whisper again.

Perhaps it's only your imagination, but you almost think you see Eideard's gentle smile widen as he offers you an understanding nod. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Somehow, he gives you the impression that he's referring to more than just the Guardian.

Awkwardly, you start to fidget with your hands and twist yourself about to look back at the skull of the construct behind you. “So... what happens now?” The whole point of awakening the Guardian had been to let it destroy the Corrupted mass that guards the path to the Tree of Life. “Without the Guardian, how will Death get to that tree?”

Eideard is silent for several seconds, but his expression could not be broadcasting his intentions any louder. His pale eyes meet the Horseman's fiery gaze and he sighs tiredly, a sad smile forming underneath his moustache.

In your peripheral vision, you see Death stiffen.

“What?” you ask, turning your head between them, unable to catch either of their attention, “What is it?”

Wordlessly, the maker steps past you, moving closer to the Guardian's head where he stops just in front of it and raises a withered hand, placing his palm fondly against the construct's intact jaw. Then, turning slightly to peer at you over one shoulder, he answers, and his words send a jolt of panic up through your spine.

“I have no choice but to bring him back...”

A beat passes in silence.

Then, the soundlessness is broken as you blurt out, “What!?” whilst at the same time, Death scoffs, “How many times would you have me kill him?”

“Corruption fled from the heart stones,” the old one explains, peering down at his wrinkled hand and closing it into a fist, “But the makers' souls within should still be intact... I can put them back.”

“I-I don't understand, the Guardian's destroyed,” you pipe up as your hands knead firmly into the hem of your shirt, “How can you put them back if there's nowhere for them to... go...?”

Eideard turns a little to face you and tries to give you his most reassuring smile, one that doesn't quite touch his eyes.

You can see right through it.

It looks...

..sad.

At your side, Death's brows knit together beneath his mask and he scowls accusingly up at the maker. “You intend to rebuild it yourself.”

Silent, the Old one turns away, prompting the Horseman to growl, “You understand that's suicide, don't you?”

Deep in your stomach, a pit of dread opens up into a chasm and you feel your heart plummet straight down inside it. “What!?” you cry again.

“The restoration of a beast that size will consume more magic than he has,” Death explains, never once shifting his glare off the Old one, “Maker magic is inextricably bound to their hearts. The amount of power required will quite literally burn straight through his.”

Thinking hard, you clench your hands into such tight fists, the nails pierce the skin of your palms. “Well then. He... He just won't do it. Will you, Eideard?”

The maker still maintains his lonely silence, whilst overhead, the sky rumbles ominously.

“No.” You shake your head defiantly from side to side. “No! I mean, there's another way, right? We could...  we could go and get the other makers? They can help-”

“-When we built the Guardian,” Eideard interrupts, “construction was slow. Even with all our efforts, the process took nearly a year until it reached completion.”

“So we wait a year!” you blurt out. The idea sits wrongly in your gut, yet if it means Eideard doesn't have to do anything rash, you can be patient. Rationality has long since departed from your head.

Sighing, the maker heaves himself around to face you and Death. “We do not have the luxury of time, little one,” he rumbles with a patience that serves to infuriate rather than reassure you, “Every day, we lose more of our home to Corruption. I will not wait for it to claim another of my people. I-” He stops to take a shuddering breath and his knees begin to buckle, yet his grip on the staff remains strong, keeping him standing upright in spite of his old bones. When he looks to you again, his face is set but calm. Accepting.

It's that acceptance that frightens you the most.

“I cannot,” he utters softly.

Then, to your horror, he turns back to the Guardian's head and raises his voice to be heard over the storm. “Both of you, stay back!” To himself, he adds, “This will require more than a small effort.”

“Eideard!” you cry out, starting forwards.

Inevitably though, Death's long fingers curl into the back of your shirt and he roughly spins you away from the maker and into his torso, grasping one of your forearms with his free hand. Blunted fingernails dig into your skin as you try to wrench yourself unsuccessfully from his grip.

“Let. Me. Go!” Desperate, you beat your fists against his pale, broad chest and strain with all your might to reach Eideard, but you may as well be trying to shift an osmium statue. Not even redoubling your efforts causes Death to sway. Like a boulder in the wind, he remains utterly still and steadfast, looking over your head at the old maker.

Eideard's staff is raised high into the air and held between both hands, striking the very posture that bears an eerie resemblance to a headsman, poised to bring his axe down on the neck of his latest victim.

What cruel irony, the Horseman thinks with a bitter sneer to the Universe, that the victim is to be his own executioner.

With a strength that contradicts his gentler nature, Eideard hammers the pommel of his staff down on the ground, producing a tremor that must have rivalled even the Guardian's earth-shattering footsteps. From the point of contact, old magics explode outwards in a whirlwind of blinding, blue light that forces you to slam your eyes firmly shut, your retinas stinging against the onslaught. The air whips up all around the valley and crashes into you with enough force to send you staggering backwards until your skull connects with Death's broad chest. Wincing behind gritted teeth, you pry your eyes open, your free arm thrown up as a shield to help dull the brilliant intensity of Eideard's power and through squinted eyelids, you see the maker hold unsteady ground against his own magics as they erupt relentlessly from the ground to form a perfect circle of roaring, azure flames all around him.

You're suddenly alerted by movement to your right and you throw your head sideways, struggling to see through the coagulation of icy rain and biting wind that endeavour to force your eyes shut again. You probably shouldn't have worried about trying to see– there's no way in Hell you could missed the house-sized boulder that rolls past just metres from where you stand, making a clumsy bee-line for the Guardian's skull.

The grip on your shoulders suddenly tightens when an immense shadow cloaks both you and Death in an eerie darkness. Craning your neck back tentatively, you can't help but duck further underneath the shelter of Death's chest as the Guardian's detached hand sails over your head, raining dust and slops of mud down on top of you and the Horseman. Mouth agape, you watch on in awed horror as the gargantuan piece continues its journey through the air until it joins several other clusters of stone anatomy, all twisting about and slamming together like pieces of the realm's largest and most terrifying jigsaw puzzle.

And below it all, his head bowed against the storm, tusks bared and legs seconds away from giving out, stands Eideard.

With every part of the Guardian that fits back into place, his hands slip further down the staff, his shoulders drop another inch and every ounce of the powerful maker seems to disappear, replaced with someone desperately fighting to keep himself upright.

“Death! Help him!”you cry, whipping around to face the Horseman and meeting his glare at the same moment as a lightening bolt stabs a line across his blazing retinas,“You have to do something! Please!”

He glances down, peering at the tears that mingle perfectly with the rain streaming down your face.

You look downright terrified.

Ignoring the thunderous growl overhead, Death's brows start to draw together, his gaze staying firmly anchored to yours until he pauses, and then lowers his eyes to the ground at your feet.

It's a silent, solemn and damning admission.

There's nothing he can do.

Death's quiet confession hits you harder than a slap to the face. In fact, you almost wish he'd done the latter, it might have stung less.

“No...” You shake your head in disbelief. If not even Death can do anything, then...

With one wrist still clenched in the Horseman's hand, you can do little more than give it a sharp tug and hurl yourself away from him, stretching out your free arm towards the maker and pulling against Death's hold with all your might. “Eideard, NO!”

You don't expect him to react to you, weak as he is, blood clinging to his eyelashes and staining his teeth crimson. But he does. Somehow, he manages to turn his head over a shoulder to look you right in the eye, the corners of his own crinkling around their edges, and it takes you a moment to realise that he's smiling at you. 

It's that gentle smile of his that shows more through the eyes than the mouth, reassuring and comforting - the kind of smile that tries to convey without words that everything will be okay.

That you'll be okay.

But the old maker is wrong.

“STOP!” you beg through sobs, growing only more desperate when his eyes slip shut and he turns away, “NO-NO-NO! DON'T LEAVE ME!”

Still fiercely contesting his fate, you yell his name over the deafening collisions of stone limbs and ligaments fitting together, but your scream is stolen from you, cut short by a large, bandaged hand that suddenly appears in front of you and slides around the top of your face, so large that it covers both your eyes and nose. Startled, you shout in protest and try to push at the Horseman's wrist, only to find yourself spun about and yanked painfully into him, locked against his chest by two, sinewy arms.

The split halves of the last heart stone reach the apex of their height, hovering before their original home in the Guardian's skull. Eideard's pinched eyes burst open wide, wisps of blue magic swirling out of them like dancing smoke and he draws in a breath, focusing every last inch of willpower into the heart stone floating high above him.

The pieces shimmer with that familiar blue light, standing stark against the blackened sky.

With not a second to spare, Death curls himself over you and ducks his mask into your hair, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The valley around you goes eerily quiet for little more than a beat of your clamouring heart.

Then, all of a sudden...

'W H U M PH!'

Even from behind Death's hand, the light that explodes from Eideard's staff is damn near blinding, searing across the vale as if the suns had just tumbled out of the sky. You feel the Horseman brace himself just milliseconds before a wall of air slams into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and sends both of you sliding several steps backwards through the mud. Were it not for Death's preternatural weight, you fear you might actually get blown right off your feet.

Then, as promptly as the squall had arrived, it just...

...stops.

The wind suddenly dies down to a far less suffocating strength and the rain no longer stings when it hits your skin.

Cautiously, Death cracks his eyes open and raises his head to look around, letting the hand around your face fall to his side once more. As soon as the Horseman's formidable presence no longer boxes you in, you fling your eyes open and this time, he allows you to pull yourself free from his grasp and turn towards Eideard.

Your searching gaze immediately lands upon the maker and your heart stills as though it were just a rock in your chest.

The colossal, old giant has collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving up and down like a vast ship bobbing lazily on a choppy sea.

“Eideard!” you gasp, wading over churned-up ground towards him.

It doesn't even occur to you to notice that the rain has let up somewhat as the storm that carried it here begins moving north.

Sticky mud clings to your boots and weighs you down, making each step feel as though it might be the one that saps the last of your strength and brings you to your knees, yet you keep going at an awkward and clumsy run, followed closely by Death, who seems to glide effortlessly over the destroyed terrain.

You all but collide with the maker's head when your foot slips out from underneath you and you're forced to catch yourself on his shoulder, all the while uttering, “No, no, please! No – fuck!”

Your rain-slicked hands hover over his face and you try to take in the extent of the damage, your eyes darting between the blood gushing from his nose and the milky white gaze that rolls towards you. Standing so close, you can make out the even paler pupils as they attempt to focus, eventually landing on you and dilating with recognition.

“Y/n...” Your name topples off his lips in a breathless whisper and if you weren't right beside him, you doubt you'd have even heard it.

“I'm here!” you tell him urgently, placing one hand on his cheek and sliding the other frantically underneath his heavy beard to the flesh of his neck in search of a pulse. You suddenly wish you'd asked Karn a bit about maker biology, because you have no idea whether you'll even find a pulse. You know they have hearts – you've heard those beat close enough to your head to be sure – so it stands to reason that the giants should have pulses.

….There!

It turns out to be rather difficult to miss. As you probe around underneath his jawline, your fingertips and rocked by a fluttering beat and you feel your own heart jump in response.

It's definitely a pulse, but oh so terrifyingly weak. Not at all one that should belong to a giant.

He's fading.

Fast.

The knowledge settles like a weight in your chest, as though someone has tied a cement block around your heart and it's dragging you down, threatening to pull you onto your knees unless you keep them locked tight.

“No!” you whisper. Then, clenching your jaw, you firmly repeat, “No.”

Eideard's misty eyes follow you as you pull away from his face and turn towards his shoulder instead, wasting no time in throwing your hands over the lip of the leather pauldron and hauling yourself up onto his shoulder.

Amidst the chaos, none of you notice that high overhead, the newly-rebuilt Guardian's eyes slowly flicker to life.

Behind you, Death gives a start and calls your name, but you ignore him, crawling onto Eideard's vast chest and bloodying his beard with your hands as you lean forwards over his face, your right knee resting directly above a fluttering heart.

Raindrops fall from the ends of your hair and splatter onto his lip, and every breath he exhales washes over you and warms the chill in your bones.

“You-you're gonna be okay!” you reaffirm, shuffling back and placing one hand on top of the other, linking your fingers together to press the heel of your palm over the giant's sternum. You've never performed CPR in your life, at least, not on anything that wasn't a crash-test dummy, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the method is never going to work on someone as large as a maker.

Death knows it too.

He knows that one human simply isn't strong enough to keep the blood flowing around Eideard's body, you'll never be able to do it fast enough or for long enough to get blood to his brain and keep it there....

But Creator, you plan on trying, don't you? Because in your addled state, you can't help but to fall back on what you know, even though you also know that this can't possibly work.

It's an awful contradiction, another facet of humanity, to try and change the unchangeable, to challenge an immutable fact. 'What's the point?' he wonders, 'of prolonging a lie, just because you're afraid to accept the truth?'

Eideard will die. No amount of human persistence will change that.

The old Reaper watches in silence, a mellow resignation haunting his gaze. Several raindrops gather at the bottom of his masks's eye socket before they eventually spill over the edge and trickle down his bone-white mask.

If you'd have chosen that moment to look at him, you might have done a double-take, thinking perhaps that it wasn't rain falling down the Horseman's mask at all.

But you don't look at him.

Your eyes are instead fixated on your own hands as they shove uselessly at Eideard's chest. “One! Two! Three!” Numbers fall from your lips in rhythmic succession. “One! Two! Thr-!”

But movement suddenly cuts you off as Eideard's enormous hand slides weakly up his side until his fingertips press into your ribcage ever-so gently. 

Blinded by tears, your gaze snaps to the hand, then to the maker's face and you squeeze your eyes open and shut several times, determined to see him clearly.

“It's all right,” he whispers in a gentle breath, as though it's taking everything in him just to summon his voice.

Gritting your teeth, you untangle your fingers from one another and slip them tightly around handfuls of the maker's robes, croaking, “No! No, it's not all right! You're-! You can't just-!”

You freeze when Eideard's arm shifts again and he raises his thumb towards your blotchy cheek.

There, with the utmost tenderness, he sweeps the digit beneath your streaming eye, a fruitless endeavour to brush away the tears rolling down your face. Blurting out a wet sob, you suddenly reach up with both arms and grab the maker's thumb, holding it against you even as the rest of his hand falls heavily against your back.

Makers, as a species, are seldom known to shed a tear, and those that do are careful to conceal it from their fellows, if only to avoid the inevitable gossip that would follow. If a maker is known to have cried, the general understanding would be that something utterly and immeasurably cataclysmic must have happened to them, and that's if their tears are ever witnessed.

Now, here you are, not only crying, but doing so openly, in front of an audience.

“You're crying...?” he breathes, awed. It breaks his ancient heart to realise that he's your cataclysmic event. Yet there's also something so, incredibly moving about it, that he means enough to you that you're willing to bare your heart so readily in front of both he and a Horseman.

Amidst frigid pellets of rain, he can still pick out the warmth of your tears against his clavicle.

He wonders if this is how humans let each other know that they're loved.

You cling to his thumb even harder, as if letting it go will be what kills him. “Of course I'm crying,” you choke, “look at you. Why did you do that! You're dying!”

But Eideard can't look at himself. And even if he could, he wouldn't, because you're here, so why in the world would he want to look anywhere else?

A blissful smile blooms across the maker's lips and he exhales, emptying his lungs of air even as his heart swells with affection and pride for the little human on his chest. From the edges of his vision, the valley around him begins to fade into brilliant, golden light, but he still gazes at you while it does, and in a single breath, he manages to utter, “A small price to pay... to protect my... family.”

For you, the valley remains dark and dour, a perfect reflection for the state of your sorry soul.

Something brushes past you... No... through you... something that you mistake for another of Eideard's warm and steady breaths.

Using the back of your arm, you make a vain attempt to scrub the frustrated tears out of your eyes. How can he even think that he's worth sacrificing? A very raw sort of ache claws at your throat and it only hurts more when you try to swallow past it. Sniffing hard, you shake your head, hands curling until your fingernails bite into the skin of your palms.

“Your life is not a small price to pay! You think the other makers would want this!? You can't just – just do something like this, Eideard! You sure as shit can't do this to them!” you plead with him, hitting a fist repeatedly against his chest, as if for a second you truly believe that such an ineffective force could somehow bully his stuttering heartbeat back to its former strength, “They're your family! You don't leave your family, Eideard! You don't offer them a home an-and then just.. just leave!”

The maker doesn't respond, and the rain on your eyelashes makes it hard to see his face as the thumb you're still clinging to begins falling from your grasp with the rest of his hand, sliding off your back and trying to fall to his side once more.

Realising that holding on will only drag you down with it, you reluctantly let it go and the appendage lands on the ground again with a dull, wet squelch.

He must be weaker than you realised.

“Everything will be fine, okay? You saved my life, now I'm gonna save yours! They need you, they need you.” Babbling deliriously to the maker, you're completely unaware of the Horseman calling out your name behind you.

Slowly, as though he's trying not to spook a wild animal, Death approaches Eideard, stopping next to the Old one's neck and reaching up towards you. “Come now, you're soaked through,” he murmurs, gentler than the usual gruff and surly timbre, “Let's -”

“Get away!” you bellow, reeling your arm back and whipping about to face him with a sudden ferocity that raises the Horseman's eyebrows, “He's just gonna leave them! It's not fair, Death! It's not fair, he can't leave me, not like everyone else has! He can't!”

“He already has.”

Death's detached reply cuts cold and swift as a blade across your chest.

“Wh..? No, he hasn't.” You shake your head, your voice so, unjustly small, barely audible.

The Horseman falls silent.

He doesn't need to say anything further. He can see the realisation sweeping across your face, wiping away any semblance of a human expression and replacing it with a blank-faced stare, as expressionless as his own mask. He knows that look all too well. You're trying to go numb. Perhaps in preparation for what you'll see as you slowly twist your neck back towards the old maker's face.

Eideard's gentle, white eyes peer straight through you, unblinking even though the wind tugs at his wispy eyelashes. His lips are parted and tilted at their corners ever so slightly, just enough that he could be smiling at you, and yet, though you wait in utter silence and stillness, not a trace of warmth slips between his tusks to chase away the cold on your skin.

Wordlessly, Death watches you inhale and let the breath out again slowly, never once looking away from Eideard's face.

Only when the silence grows heavier than stone, you utter, “Oh,” nodding once, pretending to acknowledge what you can't bring yourself to believe, “Oh, I... I didn't realise -”

From the ground, Death has a perfect view of your face when your jaw sets..

And then, sooner than he expects, he sees it utterly and completely crumble.

Your lips and brows twist up and you suck down a shaky breath that only catches in your throat.

“I think I forgot to say goodbye...,” you bleat, lifting your arms in a useless shrug before you look over at the Horseman and offer him a tragically delirious little laugh. Stoic, he watches you in silence as your hand flies up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the rattled sob that works its way up your throat.

Behind trembling fingers, you wheeze, “Oh my god.. I didn't – I didn't even say.. I didn't say goodbye, Death! I didn't even say goodbye!”

… Just like you hadn't said goodbye to your mum and dad, or the rest of your family, nor to your friends.

You've never really thought about how important that one, simple word could be, as less of a statement, and more of a means to gain closure.

Looking back... had you even bade farewell to Father Michael?

It's happening all over again, but what's worse now is that you'd actually had the time and a chance to say goodbye to Eideard, but you just... hadn't. And now, some of the last words you said to him had been impatient and unkind, a fact which you know in your heart of hearts will haunt you for the rest of your sorry life.

Sitting back onto your haunches, you fight to keep your face neutral, but the seconds that tick by are interspersed with moments where you allow ugly, angry sounds to burst between your gritted teeth. Not quite sobs, not quite screams.

You're unaware that you've dropped your hands into your lap, fingers tightening around fistfuls of skirt as you're promptly struck by an urge to squeeze something so tightly that your arms begin to shake with the effort.

It feels...

...relieving, actually, to expend some of the pressure building behind your eyes and in your chest.

High overhead, through the clouds, a ray of sunlight bursts through and makes the valley glow marginally brighter. Somehow, that one ray of light feels so much like a betrayal. 'Where has the storm gone?' you wonder bleakly, 'It should still be raging? Eideard is dead! Why the fuck is the rain moving on!? The sky should be mourning!'

What you really want is for it all to stop, for the world and everything in it to just pause for a while, long enough for you to get yourself together and come to terms with grief until you're eventually ready to move forwards once more.

But sadly, the world is rarely so generous.

On the ground beside Eideard, Death kneels and leans over his head. Something comes over him, pushing him to lift his hand towards the maker's eyelids in the same way that he's seen humans do to one another in the past, on battlefields and in the wilderness when their clothes were crafted predominantly from the pelts of animals. He always thought it a strange thing to do, but now, he finds something inherently unsettling about seeing Eideard with his eyes open, staring up into nothingness. In a rare moment of indulgence, Death takes the time to pass his palm over each of the maker's eyes, sliding them shut before pulling away once more and heaving a sigh.

'You're getting soft,' someone tells him, perhaps the voice of one of his siblings, perhaps his own subconscious. But whether it's his or not, he's swift to vehemently tell it that it's wrong.

All of a sudden, a deafening cacophony of stone grinding against stone ruptures the air and Death is on his feet again in seconds, instinctively drawing his scythes and whipping about to face the gargantuan construct with a low growl.

He'll never admit to losing focus, not for all the riches in Heaven, but he can certainly reprimand himself with an internal barrage of curses that would make a demon blush. Amidst the shock of losing Eideard and witnessing the distress of his human charge, Death had entirely forgotten that the Guardian was even there.

Hidden beneath his mask, he peels his lips back and his hackles shoot up when it turns its baby-blue gaze onto you.

'Wait...' Pausing, he blinks and looks again. 'Blue!'

It's eye-sockets are indeed filled with a blessedly familiar, cerulean blue light, just like the light shining out of the three heart stones embedded within its shoulders and head. There's not a trace of yellow to be seen.

It's bending down slowly and – to Death's surprise – hesitantly, a far cry from how it was conducting itself only minutes ago. Tilting its head like a curious child, the beast continues to lower itself until one of its colossal knees hits the ground and sends a quake rumbling across the valley.

“Y/n,” he hisses at you through his teeth, flaring his scythes like terrible wings to his left and right. He isn't taking any chances. “Come down and get behind me. Now.”

You barely even raise your head to acknowledge his command.

The valley around you falls silent, and it's peaceful, in a way. Now that the storm has moved on, there's no sound save for the Guardian's stone joints that creak and groan as it bends its torso a little nearer to you and lets out a rumble that sends even more shockwaves out across the vale, felt more than heard. For a beast so vast, it exhibits a surprising degree of hesitancy as it shifts its arm and reaches out for you and Eideard, causing Death to plant one boot firmly in the mud, braced to launch himself towards you at a moment's notice.

He's not about to leave the makers with two corpses to mourn.

On some, unbidden instinct, the muscles across his back and shoulders tense and bulge before he registers with a jolt how absurd it is to try and appear larger to this particular threat, especially given that, as of right now, it hardly seems to pose much of a threat at all.

As the Guardian's hand draws closer and its shadow passes over Eideard's face, you finally lift your heavy head and roll your neck back to watch the gigantic appendage descend, not unlike witnessing a meteorite come barreling down on top of you.

And yet, for a reason that you're sure Eideard would gently admonish you for, you don't flinch, you don't even move. Wholly unafraid of whatever fate might befall you, you just sit there on the maker's chest, waiting until the appendage slows down and comes to rest just beside you and your old friend.

Even if you live to be a hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to explain where your terror of the beast had fled to, especially when it had been so prevalent before. Its hand, longer than a boxcar, hovers so close. A few hours ago, you'd probably have fainted on the spot. Now, you almost want to peer curiously inside your own soul to see if you can discover the whereabouts of any trepidation.

Using the very tip of one, enormous finger, the construct nudges the maker's shoulder, jostling you both slightly before it pulls its hand back and waits, staring down at its unresponsive creator with bright, expectant eyes.

You register a tug at your heart strings to see those eyes dim as the seconds tick by without a response.  

There's a sound that could have been a whine, or perhaps the simple passing of air through the gaps in its gargantuan jaw, and though its head doesn't move, you can feel the moment when its eyes rove from the elder to you, no doubt seeking some kind of explanation.

“I'm sorry,” you choke, throat too tight to produce a more substantial sound, “He's... He didn't make it.”

There's no doubt that it must understand you, because the slabs that make up its eyebrows shift and slide towards the centre of its forehead and it glances at the hammer clenched in its grasp. An agitated groan rolls across the valley and suddenly, the construct's gaze darts to you once more, its features squeezed together somehow, so much so that it looks to be in pain. Something about the expression drags a tiny flicker of compassion out of your obtunding heart and you feebly reach your hand out in a mollifying gesture. When the behemoth looks from you to its hammer again, then to Eideard and back only to repeat the strange cycle, you start to realise that it's trying to convey an urgent and desperate question.

“It's... okay...” you say slowly, watching the construct grow very still and focus its attention on you, “You didn't do this...”

It would be so easy to lay the blame of Eideard's death at the Guardian's feet.

Easy, yes. But you're still somehow lucid enough to know that it would also be wrong and unfair.

The poor beast never asked to be corrupted, just like you'd never asked to be here.

“It wasn't your fault,” you tell the Guardian as it slowly rocks back onto its stone struts, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the writhing, black hillock behind it. At the sight, one of your eyelids gives a brief and imperceptible twitch. “It wasn't your fault...”

Death, playing his part as the silent observer, stands astounded by one of the most unusual exchanges he's ever witnessed.

Angelic scholars would forever attest that humans are, and always have been, ruled by one, core instinct - that being fear.

Death would have been labelled an outlier had he ever bothered to say that he disagreed.

He would have attested that there are two.

Fear, most definitely, is the first. It's a strong instinct, one that has kept your ancestors alive and safe from danger for billions of years. The other, in his opinion, is compassion.

Fear might do well to keep an individual human alive, but it was compassion for their fellow man that ensured the continued survival of communities.

However, even if, several days ago, someone had asked the Horseman which of the two he believed would always, always trounce the other in a life or death situation, he'd have bet his scythes that it would be fear.

So it's tremendously baffling, if not a little refreshing, for Death to discover that fear can be quite easily overridden by something so unorthodox as concern for another.

To think that you, a little human, are offering genuine reassurance to a Guardian who could crush you flat with the tip of its finger, Death can't help but feel begrudgingly impressed. Even in spite of all you've faced these past few days, the beast should have been the ultimate symbol for everything that scares and horrifies you. Your fear of the monstrosity should have absolutely crippled you. It posed, by far, the largest threat.

That you're instead communing with the very construct that had been trying to kill both you and the Horseman only minutes ago is... frankly, nothing short of astounding.

In spite of himself, Death lets his expression turn a little less sharp underneath his mask.

He wonders whether humanity would be proud to have someone like you representing them as a whole. Were he a human, shuddersome as the thought may be, he thinks... he would be proud.

Which makes it all the more jarring when, seconds later, you remind the Horseman that for all the soft-heartedness you've demonstrated, you're still descended from the same species who used to tear one another to pieces for sport, for fun, for a concept or a king.

Your gaze slides around the Guardian's bulk and your eyes lock with a sudden fierce and startling intensity onto the corrupted mound behind it. Death had forgotten, after several days spent watching you stitch your heart firmly to your sleeve, why other species are so quick to label humans 'savage.'

As you stare up at the corruption, the Nephilim looks hard into your eyes and sees all the rage and hatred and depravity of your ancestors boiling like a supernova inside them, as though each eye is a star on the very brink of exploding and casting all that dark matter out into the world around you, wiping out everything in its path.

Thousands of years and billions of souls' worth of wrath packed into one, single look.

What choice does Death have but to balk?

Distantly, he hears himself muse, 'By The Creator... War and Fury are going to love this human.'

Drawing in a shuddering breath, you peel yourself away from Eideard's chest and push yourself off him, dropping to the ground noiselessly and taking a step towards the corruption with the most hateful sneer you can muster. “It's that fucking stuff's fault!” you hiss, pointing a shaky finger at the eyeball glaring back down at you. Raising your voice to be heard, you squint up towards the Guardian's head and shout, “You hear me!? That's what killed Eideard! That! The corruption! Right there!”

You feel as if you're egging on a dog, trying to get it to attack, to bite.

The Guardian half turns to look behind itself before swivelling back to you once more, something low and sonorous rolling up from its chest and falling out of its parted maw.

There's a searing heat in your belly that hurts like you've swallowed burning coals, compelling you to turn your murderous glare back onto the eyeball. You meet that terrible gaze and find yourself unafraid for the first time, because how could there be any room for fear when absolutely every single last inch of you is consumed by an unquenchable thirst for revenge? 

You don't care that the Grim Reaper is watching, you don't care that the construct's swirling, blue gaze is fixed upon you either. There is nothing consolable about you now. All you are - all you know – is frustration and pain and rage. Rage that you wield like a sword, pointed out towards the world around you, but most specifically, at the writhing mass of corruption that still blocks your path to the Tree.

You hardly recognise your own voice as you drop open your jaw and unleash a shout so loud and haunting, even Death is caught off guard by the force.

“KILL IT!”

At once, the Guardian throws its arms back, raises its chin to the heavens and, just as you had, bellows out a gut-churning, earth-trembling roar that shakes the very mountains around you, only this time, you don't feel as though you're going to tumble off your feet. In fact, you've never felt steadier.

“KILL THAT THING! FUCK IT UP!” you holler, spittle flying from your lips. Although your voice breaks and hurts to scream so loudly, you hurl your fist out at the corruption like you're throwing a punch, “FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!”

Fuelled by anguish that's barely its own, the Guardian slams its hammer into its free hand and hauls itself around to face the mass behind it. Your furious screams might as well be a powerful set of bellows that feed all that hatred and fury into the Guardian's soul, turning the fire there into a raging inferno, swelling and surging through its body like lava trying to burst from a volcano.

There's the immeasurable power of three, ancient makers' souls thrumming through the air, accompanied by the raw, physical strength of the Guardian, and Death is almost certain that he sees the swollen, yellow eyeball grow wide, its pupil shrinking with alarm.

How satisfying.

The Guardian reels its arm back and you feel your heart give an approving jolt when the enormous beast suddenly launches its hammer forward and down, driving it straight into the eye's squelching centre and pulling forth the most blood-curdling shriek you've ever heard. It's near enough deafening, but you don't cover your ears this time, instead letting the sound fill you up and thrum through the blood in your veins.

You're glad the corruption is screaming. You've never wanted something to suffer so much in your life.

The Guardian draws its hammer back again and reveals the eyeball, now resembling little more than a concave pustule on the inky wall of undulating, oozing filth.

Blackened spatters of ooze spurt from the wound like a disgusting rain and shower the grass around the cliffs, and a closer look reveals the tendrils that had made up the eyelids have been decimated and lay still and unresponsive, unlike the rest of the mass, sadly.

When the Guardian tries to bring its hammer down for another blow, several, gigantic tentacles suddenly shoot out and adhere themselves firmly around its arms whilst a fatter, larger one collides with the construct's chest, blasting out a large segment of stone as its smaller counterparts shove their slimy, wriggling tips as deep underneath the armoured plating as they can go.

Incensed, the construct tries to reel back, tugging uselessly on the insidious vines and belting out a roar of outrage that drowns out your own.

Blinded by hot tears and inconsolable with rage, you start forwards until Death has the presence of mind to march after you and pull you to a stop, his fingernails biting into the bare skin on your arm as you viciously snatch it back. However, you still reluctantly draw to a halt, never once taking your eyes off the battle ahead.

Beneath your feet, another quake rolls across the earth as the Guardian is brought crashing to its knees. Corruption, like the parasite it is, has its slimy grasp wholly and unshakeably fastened to the construct, stabbing its knife-like tentacles into the vulnerable heart stones and pouring its wicked intent into each of them.

For a gut-wrenching instance, something inside Death sinks at the sight of a sickly, yellow glow encompassing the stones, chasing away the soft blue light they'd once emitted.

Corruption is attempting to take control again.

But the Guardian, still hanging onto the final, lingering threads that tie it to sanity, will not go down without a fight.

Summoning the last of its vehemence and contempt for the force that destroyed its home and its creator, the construct braces its neck and pulls back as far as the tendrils will allow it to before they go taut and keep it from retreating further. Amidst the chaos of Corruption's thrashing appendages, the Guardian unexpectedly goes very still and there's an awful second where horror stabs through the red mist in front of your eyes.

No.. No, it can't be corrupted again, surely! That isn't fair! Eideard can't have died in vain! He can't have!

Just like that, your hatred returns in full and with a heaving chest, you scrunch up your face and open your jaw wide.

But just before you can unleash whatever terrible scream is working its way up your throat, the Guardian abruptly raises its head.

From your angle, all you and Death can see is a brilliant, blue light blossoming into existence from the construct's central heart stone, causing your own heart to roar triumphantly at the sight of it. It's magic. But more than that, it's that wonderful, familiar magic that you'll forever associate with Eideard.

The fact may well be that all makers' magic is the same shade, but you don't care.

He'd rebuilt the Guardian with his very essence, literally pouring his own life-force into purifying those heart stones.

There isn't a doubt in your mind.

That's Eideard up there.

Like a flower unfurling its petals, the light swells into a halo of magic that surrounds the Guardian's head and although its hands are still restrained by Corruption, the beast is far from unarmed.

In one, last show of might, it reels back, the plates around its neck shivering and flaring as it glares down at what remains of the corrupted eyeball. Then suddenly, like a colossal, living siege engine, it throws its head forwards into a death-dealing headbutt, smashing its heart stone into the corruption's shrieking core.

Within less than a second, the squirming mass begins to sizzle and hiss like skin under sulfuric acid as the magic encompasses it. The Guardian howls, and you realise that the corrupted tendrils are still tearing it to pieces, even as they dissolve right in front of your eyes until entire waves of it are cascading down to the valley floor alongside great swathes of the construct's stone. The cliffs to the North begin crumbling as well, losing structure as the webs of corruption woven deep inside their foundations melt and die.

The explosion of magic grows bright enough to encompass the entire valley and though the intensity stings your eyes, it doesn't otherwise hurt you. Instead, it lifts the tiny hairs all over your body, dancing and popping across your skin. And it's so warm. 

Warm like Eideard...

As the last remaining strands of Corruption bleed away, you let that tight coil in your belly unwind, collapsing onto your knees as if it had been anger alone that had kept you standing all this time.

In the same moment, the Guardian too falls apart for the last time. Like its creator before it, it had used up all the magic residing in its heart stones, pouring everything it had into one, last spell to save its home.

The magic spend, its body collapses in on itself and implodes like a star, leaving its scattered remains in front of the entrance to a once-obstructed canyon pass. Through the settling dust, you can make out a passage devoid of lushness or frondescence. Only flimsy wisps of grass grow further back, away from the acres of ground that corruption had poisoned.

Your gaze drops to the grass soaking your knees, catching a glimpse of red where your fingers rest against the material of your skirt and you let out a quiet hiss of breath, deflating into something small and tired and very fragile.

“Human?” Death's voice is uncharacteristically gentle, like he's afraid you'll shatter if he speaks too loudly.

Funny. He might be onto something.

You don't answer, not until his shadow falls over you and he tries your name instead. “Y/n?”

This time, you offer up a grunt in response, hardly more than a huff, really. You're spent.

You're done.

For the living embodiment of death, the Horseman behind you isn't sure how best to get you up onto your feet again. He knows grief well, encounters it in almost every aspect of his journeys. It's more of a companion to him than he ever wanted it to be. But for all his experience with grief and the grieving, he still doesn't know how to ease it with words.

'I'm sorry,' he could say. You seem to say it all the time, how difficult can it be?

Apparently very difficult, he finds upon opening his mouth, only to let it click shut again moments later. But then, why should he be sorry? He's not the one who killed Eideard. The old maker made that decision for himself. Death has nothing to be sorry for, so why say it?

He can practically hear your disapproving reply. 'That's not the point.'

Despite usually being such a fan of silence, for Death, every second that ticks by without a word from you feels empty and wrong, somehow. He chooses not to dwell on how quickly he's becoming used to the sound of your voice. Redirecting his thoughts away from that treacherous area, he stubbornly ponders over how much he despises not knowing what to say. Words, as well as weapons, have pride of place in his arsenal.

So he takes a step back, refocuses on what's ahead. And ahead, he knows, is the Tree of Life, and his brother.

Forwards then, to what he knows.

Looking down at you once more, the Horseman clears his throat. Maybe he can't offer you words of comfort, but he can offer you a distraction. “The way is clear,” he promptly observes, tipping his chin towards the canyon but keeping an eye trained on you, watching for a reaction. After a few seconds, he finally gets one.

“Is that all you have to say?” you wheeze through half-gritted teeth, “The way is clear? What about Eideard?”

Raising a brow, Death twists around to look back at the deceased old one and lets out a sigh. It is always a shame to lose the ancients. All that knowledge and experience lost. “What about him? He's dead.” He hadn't meant it callously, merely as a sad reminder of events. There's nothing either of you need to do. The makers will deal with Eideard's body once they find it.

When you suddenly lurch up onto your feet and round on Death, spitting like a cat, he realises he may have interpreted your question a little differently.

“I know he's dead!” you seethe, swiping away the snot that has gathered above your upper lip, “You're happy to just leave him there? Alone? Dead in the dirt?”`

Death pauses, then cocks his head to the side. “Is that not what one usually does with a corpse?”

His brother, Strife, had once informed him that he had a poor sense of timing.

For a long while, you just stare back at him, a faraway and incredulous look adorning your features. Eventually though, you lick your lips and give a small, dry laugh .”Huh.”

He can't help but ask, “What?”

“I've been hearing you say it all this time,” you admit, shaking your head from side to side, “All this 'I have no heart! I have no soul!'... I never used to agree with you.” Your shoulders droop and you fix the Horseman with a defeated glare that lacks any real bite. “Now, I think I finally see it. Anyone with a heart wouldn't just... leave a friend in the muck for his family to find. A person with a heart wouldn't do that. They'd never do that...”

Perhaps he had been too uncouth, but the Nephilim still bridles at your tone. “I told you,” he mutters darkly, “I don't have a -”

“-Yeah, save it,” you snap at him, cold as ice, turning your back and taking a step towards Tri Stone, “I'm going to tell the others what happened. Why don't you do us a favour and just... just go.”

He almost calls out to you. This parting feels... unresolved.

A flicker of anticipation ignites in his chest when you abruptly stop and twist your head around lightly, peering back at him from the corner of your eye.

“You know something?” you ask softly, “I think, if you'd've listened to me in the first place and didn't put that corrupted stone in the Guardian, then Eideard would be alive right now.”

And without another word, you force your trembling legs to carry you on the long trek back into town, leaving Death to stare after you in the silence he wishes he'd never broken.

[sweetberrysmooch]

HC: And There Was Only One Bed (Affectionate) [pt. 2]

(Zzzzzzz…..)

(Alright, second part done :V Not much to say here for now, but I hope you’re excited for the upcoming part to come out next ^^ And my ask box is always open, so feel free to drop in and chat any time! I’ll be seeing you :D)

Basic sleeping hcs with ya boys, and for a part two, outside home life? You’ll see what I mean lol 

Characters: Quackity, George, Badboyhalo.

Warnings: Nightmares in Quackity’s part, but besides that we’re clean <3

Song Recommendation: Metamodernity- Vansire

Up Next- Sapnap, Philza, Fundy, Schlatt. 

Enjoy your day guys! I do hope it be rockin :]

Quackity:

Quackity is one floppy motherfucker. You fall asleep with him spooning you, head nestled between your shoulder blades, hands holding yours in front of your middle, legs entangled, the whole shi-bang, but wake up with him starfishing half on the mattress at a weird angle that makes his neck sore for the rest of the day.

Each day is a new position for you to add to your ammunition of teasing against him, but he takes it in stride. He totally doesn’t wake you up halfway through the night by flinging himself over your middle, ‘asleep’ and snoring like a freight train. When you give up halfway through trying to stop him breathing and just fall asleep lying on his chest, he turns to mush and gets distracted playing with your hair. You don’t know why he seems so exhausted the next morning, and he only giggles dreamily at you when you ask.

While he’ll be the big spoon for as long as you want him to, there’s a special soft place in his heart for being the little spoon. Hold him, please. Pull him to your chest and gently run your fingers through his hair, rub his back and kiss every inch of his face until he’s down for the count. The easiest way to make him feel better after a bad day or an argument is to let him know you want him and love him. Just holding him at night guarantees that he’ll bring you a present the next day (like the inner stardew valley house husband he sometimes longs to be lmao).

It’s a 50/50 chance of waking up with Quackity or after him, seeing as he prefers to get up early to enjoy the quiet mornings before the rest of the smp wakes up. He gets ready, makes the both of you coffee (or tea, something to help wake you up), and watches the sky change color while he waits for you to come sit with him in the kitchen. The two of you try your best to assure a moment together before you go about your separate ways, sitting together and talking about what you have planned or what you might have for dinner later. It’s his favorite part of the day, aside from coming back home to your awaiting arms.

Another citrus-y smelling fellow. More orange than lemon, he bathes in the morning after he wakes up. You typically wake up right after he gets finished washing up, walking into the bathroom to hear him quietly humming while drying off his hair and wings. He’ll give you a small guilty grin and a good smooch on your forehead as an apology.

Another poor fellow with nightmares;; They’re a lot less frequent than they used to be now that you’ve gotten together (having someone to talk to and work through each others issues does WONDERS apparently) but when they hit, they hit him hard. You wake up from him twisting and turning right before he wakes up in tears. He doesn’t like to be touched afterwards, drawn in on himself and facing away from you, hiding his crying. When you leave to get him a glass of water and come back, he’s more grounded, crawling into your arms and accepting the drink gratefully. With his forehead pressed to your throat, taking small sips from his cup, he’ll tell you what his dream was about. Sometimes it’s Technoblade, sometimes Dream, mostly Schlatt though. His ex lingers on his mind more than he likes to admit, a deep sense of abandonment showing through his nightmares. Quackity struggles with sleeping for a few days after, afraid of what he might see when he closes his eyes again.

(You’ve fallen back asleep by now, hand paused in its ministrations and resting snugly in his hair. Things are warm and quiet and soft, and he feels safe again. 

The nightmare still hovers fuzzily in the back of his mind, but for now he can ignore it, focusing on your slow breathing as it lulls him back to sleep. 

His last thought before finally letting himself rest is how much he loves you, giving you one last squeeze in his tight embrace before relaxing into a much more stable slumber. ‘Gracias por todo mi amor.’)

George:

Impeccable skill of just falling asleep wherever and whenever. Before the two of you got close and started sharing a bed together, he really left his sleep schedule up to fate. He’d find a comfy spot and crash there for a few hours till he was awoken and would just repeat that a few hours later. Now that he has you, he makes more of an effort to stay awake during the day so he can sleep through the night next to your side. It more or less works, but occasionally he’ll have slept during the day and he wakes up in the middle of the night. As “punishment”, he sentences himself to waiting it out instead of getting up to do something because he truly wants to keep going to bed with you.

Not big on contact, likes having his space when he’s sleeping. Cuddling is nice every once in a while, but he prefers being able to breathe a little bit when falling asleep. He does, however, actively make the choice to hold your hand while he slips into slumberville. His grip isn’t too strong, nor is it very light, but a gentle mix between the two to try and remind you how much he loves you. You’ll wake up before him and his hand will still be holding yours, pulled to his chin as he sleeps. His breath fans your knuckles slowly, face eased of any stress, absolutely content.

George bathes…… probably. I’m just kidding, he fluctuates between bathing at night or in the morning because he just goes through phases of forgetting to when the time comes. His little mushroom home doesn’t come with a bathroom, seeing as its wholly empty (please if anyone has housing information on George or like. Any character at all please inform me please i beg-), so he’s limited to getting clean at a friend’s or your house. Typically yours. He keeps all of his valuables at your place once you start letting him sleep over there, tucking his clothes into your closet or in your dresser when he thinks you aren’t looking, leaving a toothbrush and his soap in your bathroom, hanging his armor up on an empty armor stand you have tucked away, all due to his inability to straight out ask if he can live with you.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to live with you, he practically does anyways, but there’s something in him that worries that you won’t like him if you’re forced to live with him permanently. He knows it can become… a bit much when you have to be around someone 24/7, but doesn’t realize that you pretty much already are around each other 24/7 lmao.

It takes a while but eventually he settles down and over dinner suggest that maybe you two should take it to the next level. His face is flushed pink and he keeps switching which leg he has crossed, but he takes your hand and quietly asks if he could start living with you. It’s a surprisingly sweet moment, even with your confusion (thinking you already DID live together), and of course you say yes.

He looks so relieved when you accept, and is kinda like, “I know this will be a difficult process but I’m very excited to become closer with you.” and then nothing changes ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(It’s on the walk home when George finally processes that he now lives with you. It feels heavy on his heart, a mix of nervousness and excitement that makes him swallow hard and tighten his fingers around yours. 

This isn’t the first time he’s spent the night at your place, nor is it the first time he’s crawled into bed with you and slept next to just because you let him, but it is his first night actually living with you. The moment feels brand new, as if it’s his first time visiting your house all over again. 

He begins to wonder if maybe this was a mistake, maybe he’s moved too fast and maybe your regretting letting him live with you already and- He takes a hurried look at your face. You look… unbothered. Happy, even. 

There’s this half hidden smile on your face that soothes his anxieties, drawing out his own fragile smile. He can’t wait to live with you.)

Bad:

Mmmmm, big man warm. A natural heat machine, no need for lots of blankets or heavier pajamas, Bad will take care of all your cold problems. Every night after you finish your shared nightly routine, you curl up in his arms, immediately becoming over come with his toasty embrace. It like when you get clothes out of the drier and just hug them to your chest, the warm, clean, smell good experience that Bad also delivers.

He’s got a pretty ingrained nightly schedule that he sticks to, and he always invites you to join him after you finish up dinner. It starts by cleaning up the house a little, washing the dishes, setting aside clothes for the next day, taking a quick bath, brushing his teeth, reading a few chapters from a new book he’s picked up, and then settling down to go to bed. He won’t push you to do it with him, but he does try to incorporate you into his routine when he can. Usually it’s just by doing something small, like reading together or massaging your shoulders, but sometimes he’ll ask you to join him when he bathes.

Bad bathes pretty often, always at night, and using a nice smelling soap that he makes himself. Like what was said above, he’ll sometimes ask you to join him when bathing. It’s not ever for any naughty means, but because he sees bathing as a very intimate and vulnerable activity for you to share. He won’t push it, understanding that it can be overwhelming to be so open, but if you do choose to join him, he’s so gentle with you. His hands are worked and calloused, but they’re soft when they run soap through your hair, his nails lightly scratching your scalp and running down the back of your neck. He practically purrs when you return the favor, giggling as your hands brush sensitive spots around his sides. Afterwards he becomes so cuddly and attached to your side, you fall asleep with him curled up on YOUR chest, trapped under him.

That being said, most nights he takes to being the big spoon. It’s more for convenience sake, seeing as he’s a good few feet taller than you are, but he also can appreciate being held and loved on after harsher days. He’s a lot like a weighted blanket, a nice heavy weight that keeps you warm and makes you feel loved <3 love this guy.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), you sometimes have.... Visitors. Bad is a hub for the homeless, bored, and nutty members of the smp. They flock to him like birds to the elderly, which means you have “children” to take care of for a day or two at a time :/. Dream and George aren’t regulars, per say, but Bad has a room set aside for either of them when they come over. To their credit, they do try to be polite when they come over, and will help in cooking dinner or cleaning up. Skeppy, however, is unlike Dream or George, in that he’s more of a third partner in your and Bad’s relationship.

Skeppy up and appears at random, no announcement, and makes himself comfortable any place where Bad is. Be it at your home or his, Skeppy eats your food, lounges on your furniture, hell, he even sleeps with you and Bad at night. You two share Bad’s chest whenever Skeppy is over. It’s so jarring at first, having to deal with having another boyfriend (because Skeppy will consider you to be apart of the thrupple after introductions), but he usually only stays for like 3 days before leaving to do whatever else he has planned. You don’t know if you should be worried or upset or what, but after a while it becomes kinda nice to have him around.

All in all Bad is great to sleep with <3

(Bad blows the lantern out on his bedside counter, shuffling under the cover beside you once the room was fully dark. You slung an arm over his chest instinctively, cuddling up into his side when his arm pulled up around your back and held you even closer. 

You shivered pleasantly when he gently pressed a kiss into your hair, becoming sleepier and sleepier with each rise and fall of his wide chest. He sighs quietly and squeezes you, murmuring softly to you as you both fell asleep. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep well.”)

Have a good evening! Do something nice for yourself tonight. You deserve it.

[lubdubsworld]

Better Man. ( Taehyung x OC)

Chapter 1    Chapter 2

Rated 18 +

Post Divorce, Getting Back Together, Second chances, Angst.

Chapter 3 ~ The problem with marriage is this  : it isn’t worth the pain of divorce. 

Denial isn’t healthy.

 But sometimes it helps you stay sane , at least long enough to get your act together. When you’re in denial, you kind of keep yourself together a bit. You process things a bit more slowly. Take your time examining the facts. 

It helps you make a delayed but possibly more informed decision.

 Impulsive decisions never end well.

 So it’s good to stew in denial for a while ( a short while) and then slowly begin processing what happened, think about it, think how its gonna affect you and then make a choice. 

Unfortunately for Taehyung and I... I wasn’t in denial. 

Maybe I should have been.

 The time between Taehyung turning up drunk and the me leaving the house was less than twelve hours. Taehyung showed up drunk and I just told him I was leaving. That we needed a break and I didn’t know when I’d be back. 

Terrible choice.

 In the first twelve hours, the hurt is so potent and strong , the wound so raw and fresh that you can’t think beyond the pain . Your instinct is to repay the pain, to retaliate and make the other party feel exactly what you’re feeling. So you think of the thing that would hurt them the most and you go ahead and do it. 

Like move out of your shared home of eight years, take away the son he adored and possibly rip the ground right out from under his feet. 

And then after the first twelve hours, reason begins to catch up. 

I had wanted to go back. 

I had wanted to go back to him but I was scared. 

Scared that I was being weak.

 That if I didn’t stick to the choice I made, Taehyung would forever see me as a pushover. That he would take it as some sick permission to do it all over again. That he’d just think I was too weak to walk out on him. 

And i couldn’t have that. I couldn’t have him hurting me and not facing the consequences of it. I just couldn’t.

So I stayed away. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I worked on the seventh floor of a high rise in Gangnam, probably a twenty minute drive from Taehyung’s agency. It was an electronic/ tech company that dealt with everything from mobile phones to home fittings . As the  assistant director of Marketing I dealt with branding and keeping up the image of the company. Annual budgets, endorsements, campaigns and what not. 

I was good at it and i enjoyed it . everyone agreed that i did a good job because the numbers spoke for themselves. But I think the main reason I got the job was because I was married to the biggest brand ambassador in the country. 

“ I need the reports on consumer trends for this month and I want to meet with Social media team before lunch. There’s a drop in our web traffic and that needs to be fixed.” I told my assistant, accepting the hot coffee and muffin that he held in his hand before moving to the corner office, my strides faltering just a bit when i noticed that  someone  was already inside. The figure had his back to me but I could vaguely recognize the broad shoulders and muscular arms. 

“Mr. Jeon’s been waiting for about ten minutes now.” Mingyu said with a smile and I nodded. 

“That’s fine , I’ll handle him.” I waved my assistant off and moved to the  door, unlocking it and stepping in. 

“Morning, Jang Mi.” He smiled, eyes flashing with ill concealed delight and I inhaled to calm myself down. . 

I could already feel a headache coming on. 

“Jungkook.” I said curtly. “ To what do I owe this very early visit?”  I glanced at my table finally taking the bottle of champagne in the small ice bucket. 

“Thought we’d celebrate you finally being free.” He grinned. 

Jeon Jungkook was handsome, intelligent , and annoyingly good at everything he did.

At 34,  He was one of the youngest CFO’s in the industry, and everything he touched turned to gold. I didn’t report to him and he had zero reasons to be in my office at any given time. But , unfortunately he had never gotten that particular memo. 

“I’m not in the mood, Jungkook.” I sighed, moving to the back of my desk and dropping my bag on the small ottoman on the side and my keys in the desk. I plugged my phone into the cable on the side and then went to open the blinds. 

“Come on... You know how sick I’ve been of two years of  hearing ‘ I’m sorry, I’m married.’ .... you’re gonna have to come up with  a better excuse the next time i ask you out.” 

“No. No is a whole entire sentence that you should be able to accept.” I said evenly, fixing the cushions on the couch only to have him plop down on them immediately after. 

“One date. Dinner anywhere you like. i can fly you to Paris if you want.... Macua? Jeju Do? Tell me what you want and I’ll get it done. ?” 

i stared at him. 

“I want you to fire Kang Yeseul from the Social Media team.” I said with a shrug. 

He frowned. 

“The new girl? Why?” 

“She’s been posting nudes that she took in my office when I was on leave last week. My name plate is literally visible.”

“Jesus fuck...these bitches get dumber by the minute.”

I couldn’t even deny it.

“I’ll take care of it.” He said swiftly. “ Anything else?”

“Web traffics gone down and I’m gonna find out why. It’s probably time for us to work out the budget for the Christmas Carnival. I think we should go for something new this time. If you can set up a meeting with all the department heads we can brainstorm a few ideas...” 

“I can’t forget about that night.” 

I froze. 

God. 

i turned around to stare at him as he lounged on the couch. If Kim Taehyung was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, Jungkook was definitely the second.

 He was disconcertingly good looking and where Taehyung’s image was always the clean cut gentleman with the perfect character, Jungkook had a reputation as a bit of a delinquent. Simply because he had a penchant for leather jackets and liked to ride around Seoul on his motorbike on days off. 

Which was ironical because in truth, Taehyung was far from a saint and Jungkook was relatively more put together 

He was also a divorcee and a single parent. His daughter Jennie was easily the cutest two year old on the planet.

His wife and him had fifty fifty custody but she had cheated on him with his best friend. Jungkook had no patience for her. They had a very volatile relationship but he was fighting for full custody and rumor was that he would most certainly be granted it, soon. 

A marathon runner ,  he didn’t drink or smoke.  

Jungkook liked to paint and volunteered at an animal shelter once or twice a month because he loved dogs but couldn’t keep one because of his busy schedule. 

So all in all , a pretty solid candidate if I was looking for a guy. 

Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that I was completely and utterly done with relationships for the rest of my life, I would actually give the guy a chance. 

But , it is what it is. 

“That sounds like a  you  problem. “ I shrugged. “ It was supposed to be  one  night  with no strings attached. And by string I meant awkward conversations three months later .” 

Jungkook groaned and sat up straighter, legs spread and shirt sleeves riding up to show a very sparkly watch. Rich men and their vices. I smirked a little. 

“Come on... its just dinner. I want to get to know you, that’s it.” he held his hands up. 

“There’s nothing to know Jungkook. I’m actually more boring than i appear, which is saying something. I’m not going to be the girl in the leather jacket clinging to your waist when you’re joyriding that motorbike of yours through Seoul. That’s not me. I would hate something that” 

He chuckled. 

“Are you sure? You ever tried it?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“That’s not the point.”

“I’ll buy you a jacket. Join me this weekend. We’ll go a ride. Then you can make a decision.” 

I opened my mouth to argue when the phone rang. I grabbed it quickly.

“Hello?” 

“This is Lee Taemin from the Advertising Department.”

“Yes?”

“We have a Mr. Jung from HYBE on the phone. They want to talk to us about a possible candidate for our Christmas Campaign.... “

I blinked, surprised. 

“We haven’t even decided on a theme yet. “

Choosing the right actors to endorse stuff was usually the last step. 

“I know but he’s saying they want to talk about Mr. Kim Taehyung as a possible candidate?”

I felt my entire jaw come unhinged. 

I turned to Jungkook stunned. His eyes widened at the look on my face and he mouthed a ‘ What’ 

“Please tell him I’ll call him back in fifteen minutes.” I said quickly.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook demanded. 

“Taehyung’s manager...he... he wants to make him the face of the Christmas Campaign.” I said dully, mind ringing. I was utterly stupefied. 

Taehyung was the face of Gucci and Versace . He was so far out of our company’s league it wasn’t even funny. 

Jungkook stared at me in disbelief.

“No.” He said quickly.

I gaped at him.

“What?” 

“No... we can’t have that. He’s.. he’s obviously doing this to get back with you...”

I shook my head.

“that can’t be it. He’s the one who gave me a divorce. He’s the one who wanted to end it. “ 

It was the shock of what I’d heard. There was no other explanation for why I said that to Jeon Jungkook. 

Jungkook gave me a look.

“Really? But you wanted one too right?”

“Of course I did.” I lied easily, waving him off. “Anyway that doesn’t matter. We can’t say no to him, Jungkook. Our sales would skyrocket if we get him onboard.” 

Jungkook swore.

“Fuck, you’re right. The Ceo will probably piss himself in excitement. You sure you’ll be okay with it?”

Jungkook looked worried. 

“You forget that Taehyung and I are actually quite good friends.” I said gently. 

He grimaced.

“That's just unnatural. If you can stay friends with an ex it clearly means that either you’re still in love with each other or....”He shrugged. 

“Or what?” 

“Or you never loved each other in the first place.” 

I swallowed the remark hitting a little too close to home for comfort. 

“Schedule that meeting Jungkook. We’ll come up with a campaign theme that would fit Taehyung’s image. I’ll take to Hoseok and Taehyung.” 

“You’re going to call Taehyung?” Jungkook asked casually.

“Hoshi’s with him today. I’ll probably go over to his place after work and talk to him in person.” 

“Lucky bastard. He gets to hurt you and yet  still have you.” Jungkook said bitterly. 

I rolled my eyes.

“He doesn’t have me.”

“Doesn’t he? Why else would you turn down dates with anyone who asks? its one date.. a dinner... If you’re not still hung up on your ex husband why wouldn’t     you just go on one date with-”

I’d really had quite enough of it. I threw my hands up in sheer exasperation. 

“Alright fine.” I yelled, “  I’ll go to dinner with you...can you just stop psycho analyzing my relationship with my husband?” 

Jungkook’s smile told me that I’d been played like a fiddle. 

“excellent. Go see your husband after work and I’ll come pick you up at eight.” 

“What...no wait...”

“I know where he lives. Don’t worry about it. I’ll schedule that meeting and maybe after lunch we can go over the kind of budget you’ll want. Okay?”

I felt a little like I’d stepped into quagmire. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I didn’t go see Taehyung after work. 

I didn’t have to. 

An hour before I was due to finish my daily report, he turned up at the office with my son. My assistant let him in and I could only gape at him.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked , completely thrown. 

“Mama I had ice cream with strawberries and sprinkles in a hundred colors.” Hoshi looked excited, eyes shining the way they usually did when he was with Taehyung. 

“That sound incredibly exciting....”

“We missed you mama....can we go again?” He said excitedly.

“I’m sorry honey, Mama’s a little caught up with work...”

“Why don’t we wait?” Taehyung said cheerfully, “ Mama likes blueberry scones so we can get those for her...” 

I stared at him.

“Okay...” I sad carefully, staring him down. What was he doing really?

“Okay... Can I go see the fishies....” Hoshi waved at the large fish tank built into the wall in my office and Taehyung laughed, letting him down.

“Sure bud.. go see how many of the fish you can identify...” He said brightly. 

“ Since when do you pick me up for blueberry scones after work?” I asked briskly and he shrugged.

“Let the kid be happy , Mia. I heard Hobi hyung already spoke to you.”

“What is that all about, Tae?” I said tiredly. 

“All the other offers i got are out of Korea. I want to stay with Hoshi during the Holidays so i thought this way , we could spend some time together..”

“By we, I hope you mean you and Hoshi.” I said drily.

“Of course. I could’ve picked another mall or something but i thought it could be a good thing if we worked at the same place... we can keep Hoshi with us and there wont be all the commuting back and forth nonsense....” 

I nodded. 

“I suppose you’re right. “ I sighed. “But be warned, you’re probably not going to have a very exciting time. 

“I’ll enjoy it nonetheless.” 

I nodded. 

“I won’t tell you how to live your life And I most certainly won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. My Ceo might just give me a huge pay raise for this. He’s been waiting for it since the time he hired me.”

Taehyung gave me a smile.

“I would have done it the minute you asked. You never asked.” 

I shrugged. 

“Like I said, I won’t tell you how to live your life.” 

“Jang Mi?” The knock on the door made us both look up.

Jungkook stood framed in the doorway, jacket off and slung over his arms . He looked bigger than usual, muscles straining against his button down and hair mussed. 

He stepped in casually, holding a hand out to Taehyung.

“The golden boy of Korea. in the flesh. A pleasure to meet you Mr. Kim. I’m Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook” 

The pair of them shook hands and I felt that I would rather be anywhere in the world than there. 

“ Nice to meet you Mr. Jeon.” Taehyung smiled politely. 

“We still on for tonight?” Jungkook asked casually, turning to me with a bright smile. 

This is why i hated men. 

Taehyung’s eyes snapped to me so fast that i was sure he must’ve got whiplash. 

“Sure. I’ll call you.” I said shortly. 

“What’s tonight?” Taehyung smiled, face neutral and smile still in place but his eyes flashed and his voice carried a knife edge to it. 

“Business dinner. We’re going over the budget for the Christmas campaign.” 

“Oh... where?” Taehyung asked with the same smile and I frowned.

“We’ve not decid-”

“I thought I could cook for you. i make a mean steak dinner and I thought I could pick up a bottle of your favorite wine on the way. You have my address right? ” Jungkook smiled. 

Taehyung went still next to me, his entire body taut . 

“A little inappropriate for a business dinner, don’t you think?” he snapped.

Jungkook glared back at him, eyes narrowed. 

“Well, you know what they say about all work and no play-” he began but I’d had enough. 

“I think this conversation needs to end now.” I said loudly. 

They  both shut up but glared at each other.

“I’m gonna make a reservation at the Hyatt for tonight. I’ll meet you there at seven thirty. “ I said, glaring at Jungkook. 

He nodded.

“Pleasure meeting you Kim Taehyung.” He nodded curtly at my ex husband before moving away. 

The silence he left behind was pretty awkward. 

“Bit too much of a douchebag than your usual type.” Taehyung said casually. 

I groaned.

“Don’t start.” 

“ I won’t if you don’t date him.” 

I opened my mouth to argue but then stopped. 

“Lets just get that ice cream ? “ I said tiredly. Hoshi reappeared from the inside room, looking excited and happy and I smiled despite my weariness. 

I could use a little sweetness in my life after a bitterly exhausting day. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s note : Feedback is welcome . Probably going to be a long , terribly angsty fic with a lot of pain for everyone involved. I still haven’t decided who ocs going to end up with so we’ll see... what do you guys think? 

[aressss1]

Through Fire and Ice Chapter 9

(Technoblade x Reader)

Chapter 9

< Prev Chapter | Next Chapter >

~~~~~~

You were sitting on the porch staring off into space, your chin resting in your hand. You were thoroughly bored. You couldn’t even read your old books. You didn’t have any chance to grab any of your things, you were thankful you hadn’t gotten a dog or a cat after you had moved into your house. Though you wished you could go back and get some of your belongings. Dream had offered up to help you get through the snow, to get some of the things that you missed. You shook your head when he said that.

 You had no idea what the surface looked like up there, but people had come back with stories about how the snow was as tall as they were. You shuddered at the thought. You loved feeling the sun shine down on you, on days that you would read outside… It was weird to think that you wouldn’t feel that ever again. Depressing thoughts crept up on you, and as you tried pushing those thoughts away, you felt your mood plummet. Just as you let out a sigh, a familiar sight of a red cloak entered your vision, and you felt yourself perk up.

“Techno!” You waved at him. He seemed to be focused on something. Maybe he hadn’t heard you. You shrugged it off as that anyway. Not wanting to sit and sulk any longer, you push yourself to your feet. Your pace quickened the closer you got to Techno. But you didn’t know the area as well as you should have, you tripped on a small piece of stone that jutted up from the ground. You gave a little yelp and watched as the ground came closer and closer. You closed your eyes waiting for impact.

 “What are you doing?” His voice rang through your ears. The impact never came. Opening your eyes, you were mere inches away from the stone ground. His arm had snaked around you, mid fall, saving you once again. “I can’t leave you anywhere without you getting into trouble.” Though the words were meant to tease you, you could hear the grumpiness in his voice. You liked that you were starting to pick up on things you didn’t normally pick up on when he was still new to you.

 “Why are you so grumpy today?” Your eyes narrowed at him, as he set you upright with a huff. “More importantly where were you yesterday? I waited as long as I could for you.” You saw something flash in his eyes, but he quickly looked away.

 “I was mining,” he muttered, “lost track of time.” He kept walking leaving you where you stood. You huff in annoyance.

 “Can I come with you this time?” You asked. Only receiving nothing but a grunt from him. “You know, to make up for lost time?” This felt similar to your past partner, who you begged to be with for any amount of time, only for them to tell you that you were needy and that you couldn’t do anything on your own… You didn’t like that feeling. You knew Techno wasn’t like that. So… Why did it hurt so much?

 He stopped dead in his tracks. His golden eyes turning to study your face. He didn’t say anything, just jerked his head in the direction he was walking in. You took that as permission, and you fell into stride with him as he slowed himself down. You two fell into silence, your stomach twisted and turned with anxiety. You didn’t want to lose Techno as a friend, so why did it feel as if you were losing him?

 “What did I do?” You tried so hard to keep your composure, but Techno heard that crack in your voice… And it pained him.

 “Nothing,” His voice came out with a sigh, “I’ve been thinking,” Oh god… your chest tightened. Those were the words that came before disaster in your life. Your ex used those words on you before leaving you, telling you how useless you really were. Grinding your teeth, you listened to him speak. “No one around here wants me around.” His voice was even, and you were still panicking. “I think I should just pack up and leave, in a few days when Phil doesn’t need me, when the mine is done.”

 “W-why?” Your squeak, making him look you fully in the face from behind his mask.

 “I’m sure you’ve noticed the looks I get around The Burrow.” His hand absentmindedly rested on the handle of the pickaxe hanging off his belt. “I think it would be better for yours and Phil’s image if I just leave.” Your chest was tense, and your anxiety eased a tiny bit but… You didn’t want him to leave…

 “Our image?” You raised your eyebrows. “Techno who the fuck cares about images?” You heard him chuckle.

 “Well, a lot of people do,” you could hear a smile come through his words, “I’m the big scary Blood God, here to kill all of you.” He motions wildly with his arms dramatically leering at you. He makes you laugh. His heart soars at your laughter.

 “You’re not scary,” you catch his hand in the air. Noticing the air shift around you, you look around and you were now in front of a small strip mine sort of hidden away in The Burrow. Your eyes flick back to his hand. “I know you’re not exactly human, but that’s not a bad thing.” Your fingers on your left-hand lace through his, and your right hand was left caressing his arm making its way up behind his skull mask. You lightly touch his down pointed ears, running your fingers over the golden earrings he wore, causing a shudder from him. You giggle. “You have both parts human and… They’re called piglins right?” He nodded his eyes fully entranced by you.

 “I’ve never been to the nether,” you confess. “And while I have never seen a piglin… Never seen how they are… You have shown me nothing but kindness, saved me many times in many ways.” Your hand runs to the back of his neck feeling past scars, lingering there for just a second. “Human’s never showed me any of that.” Your hand drops to his chest where you could feel his heart thrumming below your fingers. “Your heart beats like a human’s, and I bet you don’t love like a human.” He cocks his head at your statement. “I’ve seen your devotion, to Phil. I bet when you find someone or something to love it’s stronger than what a human can handle.” You give him a smile. “If you can love Phil that deeply, like a brother, I-I want to meet him.”

 “You want to meet Phil?” He seemed baffled. Remembering how you requested that he bring Phil and Kristin their rations because you were still scared of Phil. You nodded keeping your eyes down.

 “I don’t care about image, Techno,” You didn’t allow him to derail the topic at hand. “I’m not going to stop you if it’s truly what you want, but… please don’t leave…” There you were begging someone not to leave your life again. You felt pathetic. You felt his hand tip your chin up as tears welled up in your eyes.

 “For you,” he leveled with you, “I’ll stay.” What he really meant was… ‘I’ll follow you to the deepest depths of the earth.’ His hand still intertwined with yours he pulled you to his chest and he gave you a tight hug, his whole body enveloped you and you held on tightly to him. You didn’t feel so alone with him there, and your heart thudded in your chest. You were starting to develop feelings for this hybrid… The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, while he let his jaw rest on the top of your head.

 “You’ve never seen the nether?” He questioned you, and you nodded into his chest, just relishing the feel of his hands rubbing your back.  “I promise I’ll take you there,” You pulled back from him, excitement rising in your chest.

 “Really?” You bounced on your heels, gripping his shirt. He couldn’t help but chuckle at your reaction.

 “Just give me some time to get a set of armor prepared for you.” He stepped away from your excited form.

 “Deal!” You nodded to him. He held the iron door open for you as you both entered the mineshaft, unknowing that certain eyes were watching from a far.

 ~~

 You were in that strip mine almost all day with Techno, and as much as you loved mining and talking with him. You were tired, well… That is… until Techno broke through into a cave of sorts. You had found a second wind.

 “Huh…” He cleared out the stone in front of him. “We found ourselves a mineshaft.” He ducked below low hanging stone and walked through onto wood. “Have you seen one of these?”

 “Can’t say I have…” You shook your head following him into the mineshaft. “I always bought the things I needed; I never really went exploring for things.” You lingered close to him. The two of you walk through the halls of the mineshaft. He had to duck his head to not hit his head on the wood of the support beams keeping the walls and ceiling supported.

 “You know where these places came from?” He craned his neck to look down at you through his mask. When you shook your head, he continued. You felt yourself lean closer into him as you listened to him. The interest on your face, brought a blush to Technoblade’s cheeks not that you could see it from behind the mask.

 “They say in the times of old before any of us walked this earth, the inhabitants of this land, ruled over everything peacefully. This world used to have more people, who were probably just like us. Some say that they had better technology, others would say that their lands were barren and the world, as we knew it, wasn’t like this. Savannahs, deserts, swamps, you name it… They weren’t a thing back then… Or so they say. The only thing that was constant was grass and cobblestone. Some even say there weren’t even any trees in the beginning.” You bite your lip trying to process what he was saying. It was hard to imagine. You heard his chuckle.

 “Things rapidly changed, and the people of this world thrived. Building these mineshafts, desert temples, ocean monuments, and jungle temples. People formed villages, and as time would go on, the land would change so much so that the villagers sometimes would be stuck in their homes buried under dirt, with no way to get out, until someone with the capabilities to help did.” Techno took a second to breathe and to see if you were still listening, and you were wholeheartedly listening to every single word, you practically hung on his arm. “The ocean floor used to be nothing but gravel, and the oceans housed very little fish.”

 “What happened to that world?” You eagerly asked your hand tightening on his arm. You could see a devilish grin spread upon his face.

 “Well, you see…” He turns and slowly backs you up to the stone wall, his eyes flooding black and his irises turning silver, the sight making you shudder. “There’s a legend, that a mighty being named Herobrine walked these lands, wreaking havoc on any who crossed his path. Many saw a face with shining white eyes staring back at them, in mineshafts… Much like this one.” His face was inches away from yours “Hiding around the corners that ended up being dead ends with no place for him to go.” You felt goosebumps rise on your arms at his words. “Making tunnels that weren’t there previously before, using Redstone torches to lead you to your demise.”

 You felt his hot breath on your skin. His closeness was almost too much for you to handle. You were having trouble listening to his words, and to top it off his hand rested on the wall next to your head. You tried not showing how flustered you were.

 “People theorize that he was the one changing the world to his liking. They also theorized that he was the one to wipe everyone out.” Techno’s eyes flash almost in a predatory manner. “Who knows… Maybe he’s… watching us right now.” Before you could react, he lets out a playful roar and picks you up as he spins you in the air and you let out a scream in surprise. His laughter calms you down almost immediately and you give him a playful glare.

 “How dare you Techno.” You grumble out, still in his arms.

 “You make it too easy.” He was still laughing as he set you down onto the ground. Letting you regain your composure.

 “Do you think that’s what really happened?” You ask after a second of thinking over his words.

 “No… I don’t, but I don’t think the people were killed when they disappeared…” He shrugs “People have their stories, but… I found a book, an incredibly old book, and it has more than one author.” You look at him questioningly. “As I told you, the world was barren, and it was mentioned in this book. But as the book fell into different hands, pages were added, and they recorded the changes of the world. The book would find someone else, and it would be passed down. It found me in my travels and once I am at my end in this world, I will leave it for someone else to add more pages.” After a few moments getting back on track he continues.

 “The book described people disappearing and people appearing almost out of thin air, and they claimed they had been in other worlds. I honestly think that whatever happened… People were just moved to a different world. Scattering everyone to different places, and this world was mostly abandoned by the old inhabitants.” He looked down in thought. “But that book also spoke of another possibility. Have you heard the music disk titled ‘11’?”

 “That creepy recording?” You had a copy of it in your old home, you had kept it because it was one of the rarer music disks. It was something that you had found just randomly on the ground one day in your old village. He nodded.

 “That’s the one…” He sighed. “I don’t think that that disk was a fake recording meant to just scare people…” He let his words sink in and you shuddered. “Whatever was chasing the person recording, could very well be the cause of everyone disappearing from this world.” You were having a hard time wrapping your head around it all. “I think that’s where the legend of Herobrine was started.”

 He gave you the time you needed to think about everything, you watch as he mined the nearby materials. The both of you rounded a corner and there sitting in a minecart was a chest. You heard Techno chuckle feeling his hand on the small of your back, he pushes you toward the box.

 “It’s all yours, darlin’,” He felt his breath catch in his throat, and you felt butterflies take flight in your stomach just by hearing the nickname. He definitely didn’t mean to call you that, and it was just a slip of a tongue, and he wasn’t sure if he had offended you with the nickname. Though judging by your red face, maybe you had liked the name. He didn’t know he was just thankful for the mask obscuring his own blush. Clearing his throat, he looks away as if nothing happened. He nudged you toward the chest.

 When you open the chest, your eyes widen. Inside, were a few seeds which were going to come in handy, some bones, and some rails sitting at the bottom of the chest. But what really caught your attention, was an enchanted book, a name tag and a golden apple. You grabbed everything you could and flipped through the enchanted books pages. It was in a language you didn’t know how to speak or write. Looking up at Techno, he takes the book from your hands.

 “Fire Protection III,” He chuckled reading it out for you. “This will help a lot when I make the armor for you, for when I show you the nether.” He beamed handing the book back to you. You gave him a smile at the thought of another adventure with Techno. It was funny, the world was so screwed up, but this hybrid had managed to show you more of it than you ever had seen in your entire life in just a short amount of time. You were excited to see the other things he had in store for you.

 You had even found your first set of diamonds in this mineshaft, Techno insisted that you keep these too as well as the other treasure the two of you had found. By the time you two had found the entrance to the mineshaft you were spent, and you were so happy to be on the way back to Niki’s.

 “I still can’t wait for you to meet Phil,” Techno grinned, and you gave a happy sigh, loving his smile. “There’s a reason he’s the leader of The Burrow, and that’s because he’s like the resident dad. There’s a lot of people who respect him.”

 “Well…” You couldn’t believe you were about to say this. “We could go visit him, now if you want?” There was a small part of you that wanted him to say no, but you knew that wasn’t a possibility with the way he genuinely smiled at you.

 “If that is what you’re comfortable with.” His eyes searched for any doubt in your eyes. Your hand gently reached for his when you nodded.

 “I’m ready.”

 --

 “Schlatt, I need a favor.” Dream sat across from Schlatt in Schlatt’s newly formed office. The sight he saw in front of that mineshaft making his blood boil. He wasn’t worried though he had a plan, and that’s why when he saw you hug Techno, he came straight to Schlatt.

  The construction loud outside the room. Schlatt had many workers working on his arena, and it was impossible to drown the sounds out. Schlatt’s desk sat in front of an angled thick window that gave him the perfect view of the huge arena. The office was the only thing that had been finished out of the whole arena, and it was impressive looking complete with fancy looking potted plants.

 “What can I do for ya bud?” Dream had no idea where Schlatt had come across a cigar or if he was saving them but Schlatt let the lit cigar hang from his mouth, taking drags off of it when he saw fit.

 “I want to fight Technoblade.” The words hung the air, and they brought a smile to Schlatt’s face. The plans already working through the gears in his mind.

 “I see.” Schlatt chewed on the end of the cigar. “What are we thinking? You want it to be a fair fight?” Puff of smoke emitted from his lips as he spoke. He laced his hands together setting his elbows on his desk so he could rest his chin on his interlaced fingers.

 “Whatever gives the best show.” Dream smiled from behind his mask. “The details can be worked out in the wash. I just need you… To get Technoblade to agree to a fight with me.”

 “I’ll see what I can do.”

 --

 You waited outside Phil’s house apprehensively. Your jaw started to hurt; it was then when you noticed that you were clenching your teeth. You rubbed your jaw hoping to find relief for the pain. Techno had gone in to explain the situation to Phil. You let your eyes wander; this was the area of the residential district you wanted to have your house in. In fact, the wall you had looked at before with Dream, had been across the way on the other side of the cavern.

 When you looked over at the wall once again… You could see Dream and his friend, Sapnap working, they were mining out the area you had wanted to claim. When you remembered Dream wanted to help you build your house, the thought made you smile. Dream was always so nice to you. You weren’t sure if they had seen you, but you leaned over the railing, opening your mouth to say hi to Dream. But you were quickly interrupted by the door opening behind you.

 Well… At least Dream was able to distract you from the anxiety that now pooled in your stomach for at least a little bit. You stepped away from the railing and turn back to Phil’s door. Techno’s eyes searched your face.

 “Ready?” He held his hand out for you to take. “You can leave at any time. Phil knows not to push you.” You swallowed down your courage and nodded, slipping your hand into his. He led you into the house. The house was normal, nicely built and decorated. It was weird associating this sort of house with someone who had almost killed you. But Phil wasn’t a bad guy, or so everyone told you. Techno led you through the main room into the kitchen which led into a dining room.

 There sitting at the head of the table was Phil. He was just a normal guy, but that still hadn’t helped your anxiety. You still had nightmares about his blade piercing your flesh. You needed to get over this, for yourself… Not for anyone else, not for Techno… You.

 “Hello.” Phil drew out the word, looking up from below a green and white bucket hat sitting on his head. He stood his eyes locked on you, and you felt your grip tighten on Techno. Techno rubbed circles over your hand in a comforting manner. Phil waited for you with patient and kind eyes, he noted the way you clung to Techno, and how Techno responded. He couldn’t help the warm smile emerging on his lips.

 “I-I uh…” You sputtered out, your cheeks reddening. Why was this so hard to do? The words were in your mind, but your mouth turned them into jelly. You took a second letting out a calming breath. “Techno says nothing but nice things about you.” You started off. Phil motioned for all of you to sit, and you do tentatively.

 “I can say the same about you.” He was careful with his words. “First off… I just want to say, I’m sorry for everything.” His eyes lower to the table, his hat obscuring his face. “If there is one thing that is important to me it’s my family.” He started, his eyes rising to meet yours. “I have Kristin, my boys and Techno.” He motioned to Techno, who had been watching your reactions. “And when I found you in Techno’s house… I thought the worst. I thought you had taken a part of my family. And when we spoke… I- well… I wasn’t going to let you take me away from Kristin and my boys. I was overzealous, and I am willing to do anything in my power to make it up to you.”

 You let a shaky breath out. Processing this information. You couldn’t blame him, but that still didn’t take the trauma away from you. Feeling Techno squeeze your hand as if to encourage you, you looked up into his eyes. Yeah… Just in the few weeks that you had known Techno you could say you would kill for him. You thought back on what he did to Phil when he had found the both of you in his house. You were pretty sure, if it wasn’t Phil Techno would have already killed him.

 “I’m sorry too.” Your voice was barely just above a whisper, “I forgive you Philza,” and you did. All of that could have been avoided, had you two just sat and talked it out, though that could be said for a lot of situations like that. You didn’t have any family in your life, and you couldn’t blame someone for protecting their own family. For your own peace of mind, you forgave him.

 “How’s the shoulder? Any pain?” He leaned forward his eyes scanning over your shoulder, worry lining his features. You shook your head.

 “I have some good nurses.” Squeezing Techno’s hand, you chuckled.

 “Techno does know a lot about keeping someone alive.” Phil added in, memories that were mysteries to you flashing behind his eyes. “I’d love to have you over for dinner with the family sometime so you can get acquainted with my little family. I know they have been curious about you too.” Feeling a smile pull at your lips you nodded.

 “I’d like that.”

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 17: Lingering Touch

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, blood, penetrative sex, oral sex, breeding kink, heat, sex toys, overstimulation

Summary: Juniper wakes up after the Bloodmoon… but something feels different

Feedback appreciated. 18+

This is a smut heavy chapter folks….

Juniper awoke in their bed. Her muscles were sore and she felt incredibly hungry. She raised her hand to touch her face, but a sharp thorn of pain rippled through the bones of her arm. Juniper looked down, seeing her arm wrapped up in thick bandages.

She made a tiny sound of alarm, trying to sit up. Her memories were coated in a thick fog of the night before, the only thing that was at the forefront was the taste on her tongue:

Blood.

Was it her own? She was obviously injured. But oh god, what if it wasn’t. If her stomach wasn’t a yawning emptiness she might have retched.

Juniper heard the speakers rattle to life overhead.

“You awake buttercup?” Heisenberg’s voice sounded.

“Y-yea…” she answered.

“You sit tight and rest.” His voice ordered, “I’ll be up after I finish up down here, and I better not see your ass out of that room.”

As the speakers died Juniper huffed annoyed.

She shakily stood, making her way to the kitchen. She rummaged through the fridge and cabinets, desperately wanting to fill her belly and wash the taste from her mouth.

Juniper ended up making the biggest sandwich she’d ever made: it consisted of multiple layers of cheese and meats, even adding what little veggies she could find onto it.

She sat at the table, wolfing it down hungrily. She felt like her insides were hollow. As she neared the end of her meal Heisenberg came through the door to check on her.

He looked over the disorderly kitchen, shooting her an amused smile, “Hungry, kitten?”

She nodded, her mouth full of her most recent bite.

Heisenberg chuckled, striding past and sifting through the mess to make himself something.

Juniper swallowed, then asked, “What happened?”

Heisenberg gave a deep sigh, “Well…long story short, you turned into the big bitch again.”

Juniper grew quiet, trying to think.

Heisenberg went on, “I don’t know what you did, you fucking ran off on me. Found you in the stronghold, had a gunshot wound.” He gestured to her arm. Juniper felt it over swallowing again.

“D-Did I hurt anyone?” She asked tentatively.

Heisenberg gave her a long look before answering honestly, “I’m not sure Doll…but you were covered in blood…”

She read between the lines, nodding.

Shrugging Heisenberg picked up his plate to sit next to her, “It comes with the territory, buttercup. We all lose control early on.”

He reached out and took her hand in his gloved one, “It’ll get easier.”

Juniper nodded again, meeting his eyes.

~

The next few days went by slowly. Juniper felt restless and hot. Her skin felt sensitive and the hunger morphed into something more, a different emptiness and need filled her.

She sat down in the workshop, and Juniper was in a mood, the type of mood where she strove to be the biggest nuance she could be. It had long since worn Heisenberg thin, her status to him the only thing keeping him some semblance of calm.

“Buttercup…” Heisenberg hissed through clenched teeth, “You are really starting to piss me off.”

She pulled the tool she’d been lightly tickling him with away with a little whine. She wanted attention, wanted to be touched.

“How about you go back to the apartment.” It was more of an order, “Let me work.”

She begrudgingly did what she was told, returning to the apartment dejectedly. Sitting on the edge of the bed she fidgeted with the edge of her dress.

As the hours went on the feeling sharpened into a deep desire. Her body erupted into a cold sweat, muscles twitching under the skin. Her mind felt foggy and heavy.

~

Heisenberg finally entered the apartment, after he'd finished with the tasks he set before him that day. The second he was through the threshold Juniper was on him. She was unclothed, eyes dilated.

“Hello, Doll.” He gave a cocky smile as she started pulling his coat off. He let her as he slowly walked towards the bed.

Juniper pushed Heisenberg back onto the bed. He made a sound as he hit the mattress, chuckling once he got his breath.

“You ok buttercup?” He smiled cockily, watching as she practically ripped the rest of her clothing from herself.

“No.” She shook her head, crawling over him. Her eyes were dark and lustful, sweat gathering on her brow.

“I’m so horny.” She huffed out, “So horny it hurts!”

“Hey now.” He chuckled as she started to undo his belt. Juniper looked up at him almost annoyed before continuing.

“So am I going to be the pillow princess tonight?” He folded his arms behind his head showily.

Juniper struggled to get him undressed, her hands shaking a bit.

“You can be whatever you want.” She almost growled.

When his cock was free she found it with her mouth hungrily. Heisenberg made a sound of surprise as she lathed over him with her tongue.

She looked up at him with half lidded eyes, vision of a predator. His smirk faltered, her smell hitting him. She smelled sweet and alluring.

He licked his lips, realizing she’d been acting strangely since the bloodmoon.

Had its primal song sent her into a mock heat?

He didn’t have long to muse, she was on him. She trapped him between her thighs, letting out a ragged breath. Heisenberg rubbed up her legs softly, aware of her dripping core.

He smiled roguishly, thinking he was in for a good night.

~

Juniper bounced on him, seemingly unrelenting. Heisenberg’s eyes were shut, his jaw tight. His muscles would tighten with every movement of her hips. Her hands found his shoulders, beginning to buck faster as another orgasm inched ever closer.

Heisenberg had already come multiple times, concentrating more on holding himself together now then focusing on whatever she was doing.

Her walls clenched down on him, milking his cock. Juniper threw her head back, playing with her own piercings as she cried out.

Heisenberg writhed underneath her, unable to hide his sounds. He moaned loudly, gripping her hips as she kept up her onslaught. His thighs trembled with pleasure under her.

“F-Fuck buttercup!” He moaned out, huffing out hotly. His idea of the night was quickly turning over to survival.

Juniper couldn’t find real relief, her body searched it out with unending energy. His smell was driving her wild: a mix of musk and sweat. She ran her fingers through Heisenberg’s chest hair, drawing out a shutter from him.

Had it been hours? How many times did he spill out into her?

Heisenberg didn’t know, overstimulation and pleasure bleed together into a cocktail of primal passion that made his head spin. He was usually the one with higher stamina but Juniper was a force to be reckoned with in this state.

“Doll?” Heisenberg groaned out, when she didn’t stop he grabbed her hips hard.

Juniper mewled in protest.

“Doll, I need a drink.” He shook his head, “You’re fucking killing me here.”

She made a sound of distress as he lifted her off of him. Juniper pouted up at him.

“God damn.” Heisenberg tried to stand, his legs almost buckling under him.

He made his way to the kitchen, nearly falling into the sink. He bent forward, cranking his neck to drink straight from the tap needily. Water trickled down his chin, getting caught in his beard. Shutting off the water, he had a ragged breath.

He turned, seeing her still on the bed, rubbing her thighs together.

Sighing heavily he spoke, “How about I get that toy I made for you, hm?”

“Don’t go!” Juniper stood, worry making her shake.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Can I come with you.”

“It’ll be faster if you’re not hanging all over me buttercup.” He admitted, seeing her wilt.

“I’ll come right back and play with you for a while with the toy…Give me a bit of a breather.” He admitted, “Then I’ll be top for a while. See if that’ll help.”

She gave him a tiny nod.

He was true to his word, as he most often was, returning promptly with the toy in hand. He pulled up a char before the bed, sitting heavily down.

“Get on your knees, in the bed.” He instructed, using his powers to pull his cigar case towards him. She crawled onto the bed, lifting her butt up in the air. She waited impatiently as he cut and lit a cigar. He took a long drag before mentally bringing the toy over to her.

She made a little cry as the cold metal speared into her. Heisenberg leaned back in the chair, watching as he used the device to piston into her, setting a quick pace.

A mixture of her own slick and his come ran down her thighs from her swollen cunt.

He kept this up for a long while, removing the toy to press against her clit from time to time. He loved to just sit and watch her fall apart.

The way her legs trembled and her back arched to get better angles. He’d never seen her so feverish to fuck, unused to being the one running out of stamina.

When he felt his strength return with a second wind he pulled the toy free of her. It fell wetly to the floor with a metallic clink. Juniper made a little sound from the loss of sensation.

Juniper started to move, turning to look at him.

Heisenberg stood growling, “Stay right there. Ass up.”

She complied, wiggling her hips a bit enticingly. He stood behind her, marveling at the artwork of flesh before him. He ran his palms over the plush of her ass and down her soft thighs, earning a mewl from her.

“You want to act like a needy bitch, you’ll be fucked like one.” He spoke huskily as he lined himself with her opening.

He speared into her without mercy. If she wanted to be fucked in oblivion he would do his damndest to comply. He set a fast rough pace, hearing her cry out every time he hilted fully in her flesh.

“Yea this is what you fucking wanted, wasn’t it?” He growled, pounding into her. She made a sound, lips open and wavering.

He smacked her ass hard, “Want my pups you, needy Bitch?”

“Y-yes!” She cried.

“Tell me.” He thrust faster, fingernails digging into the skin of her hip.

“I want your pups!” Screamed out as an orgasm washed over her.

Heisenberg groaned out, feeling her walls fluttering around him.

Her nerves were shot, pleasure numbing every extremity. He was finally fucking all thought from her.

“That’s it.” He moaned, feeling her finally submitting fully.

Their hips clapped together loudly, almost drowning out the wet sound. Juniper mewled under him.

He gave a few more savage thrusts, gripping her hips enough to bruise as he buried his cock in her. His balls tightened as he filled her with everything he still had, roaring out like a Lycan.

He fell forward, stomach pressed against her lower back. He dipped his head down and whispered in a gravelly voice, “Good girl.”

Heisenberg pulled out of her, feeling sore and aching. Juniper collapsed onto the bed, relief washing through her. He lay down beside her, the only sound the mixture of their labored breathing. Both were totally spent, mentally and physically.

“Warn me next time you feel…whatever the fuck that was…ok doll?” Heisenberg murmured with closed eyes.

Juniper gave a little rumble.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

More Then a Woman | Frank Woods x Fem!Reader | Chapter 2

Summary:

The line of business brings Woods back to the CIA offices, only this time with his long time friend Alex Mason in tow. It's been quite some time since he's seen you, and in his mind, it's all for the better. But, when yet more errand work sends you on a mission to seek the Sargent out, and with a little help from Alex's social input, Woods is forced to brush against some rather confusing emotions.

Tags: Slow burn

Chpt 1 | Warnings: None except Frank and now also Alex's language

Woods and Mason walk leisurely through the halls of the CIA offices, making their way to the nearest exit after a status report with Hudson. Frank, who zoned out within roughly five minutes, is getting the abridged details from Alex. Something about a task force and the cold war, not much to go on yet, but Woods will take anything that isn’t pretending to be an average citizen all day.

Alex wraps up quickly and the two slip into friendly chatter. Most of which is snarky remarks at Hudson’s expense. As they go back and forth, Mason tells a good one that has Frank doing that hacking, bark of a laugh. He looks away to wipe a tear, committing the joke to memory so he can taunt Hudson with it later, but as Mason’s laughter begins to fade, a new sound fills Frank’s ear.

A pair thud quietly from down the hall in a half step pattern that could only indicate a pair of heels. Ever the ladies man, Frank’s gaze lingers a little longer to scout out who the approaching individual could be, only to see, to his terror, that it’s you.

“Who are you looking a-?”

“Fuck! Move”, Woods cuts Mason off with an urgent, but hushed voice before gruffly shoving him into a darkened side office.

He closes the door sharply, then whips around to peek through the blinds to see if they were spotted as Mason tries to steady himself. Alex dusts off his shoulders as Frank retreats further into the room beside him, “Alright, I don’t think anybody sa-”

“Woah woah woah, stop. The fuck is wrong with you, huh? What was that all about?”, Alex motions to the doorway, greatly and understandably annoyed.

Frank thinks for a moment. How can he explain this?

It’s been a few weeks now since he last saw you, which… was actually the first time he saw you… But, that’s all to his master plan of avoiding you, of course. It’s just, he really needs to find a way to patch things over with you. Ever since those parting few words he left you with, he's honestly surprised you didn’t sign his ass up for a psyc eval list. Damn, that’s the last thing he’d need. They’ll never let him hold a gun again if they got those shit show results back.

“So there, see? I just need to make sure she doesn't think I’ve lost my shit, and this whole thing can blow over. I’m just… not fucking sure what to say!”

Alex squints his eyes, trying to make sense of the bullshit he's just heard. The bad news is, his good old pal is one fucked up son of a bitch, but the even worse news is he doesn't have the time nor the patience to try and come up with something placating to say to the old Sargent. Instead, Mason settles for some reasoning and hopes it sticks.

“Look, if she hasn’t said anything yet, then I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. Now can we get out of this place?”, he takes a few strides towards the door and reaches for the handle, before being jerked back by Frank.

“Were you not fucking listening? It's too risky! Let’s at least let her get out of ear shot first, huh?”

“Did you fucking hit your head or some shit? I’m not waiting in here all day damn it! How about this, the faster we get out of here, the less chance you’ll have of running into her, ok? So we should leave. Now.”

Woods seems as though he’s about to protest, but Mason is already halfway out the door. The Sargent swears under his breath, but follows swiftly after his long time friend. For Frank’s sake, Alex sets the pace to a hustle as he power walks through the halls. So far, so good, as they weave around corners and hurry through the labyrinth of offices and meeting rooms, until…

“Sargent? Sargent Woods, wait a minute please!”

His heart flutters quickly at the sound of you calling his name, a sensation he hasn't experienced in... decades, at least. He thinks he’s never been so nervous for that to happen in his entire life. So, wh-?

“Ah, there you are”, you take a quick huff of air, a slight bit winded from the sprint you did to catch up, “Agent Hudson sent some papers down the line and I’ve been told to give them to you, he said you should still be in the building”

Hudson… Of fucking course.

Miraculously, Frank manages to bite back a few choice words he has in mind and accepts the document with a muttered thanks. He flips through it quickly while you and Mason strike up a quick conversation. It appears to be a transcript of the meeting the three of them just have, most likely kept on record for security purposes, but released to him ‘just in case’ he missed anything. His jaw twitches in agitation at the passive reprimand. Funny.

“-hat’s a nice dress you’ve got there… The color really brings out your eyes, you know”

A snippet of Mason’s conversation with you makes its way to Wood’s attention. You laugh politely and then with amusement as Alex bends down to get a good look at your irises, “In fact, they almost look… Yep! Wow... that is one beautiful shade of-”

Woods snaps the folder shut, shattering the mood, even as you shyly twirl a bit of your hair at the attention. “Alright, well thanks, but we gotta get going”, he makes a pointed look at Mason, before half leading, half dragging the man out after him.

Alex wrenches his arm free and shoots one more comment over his shoulder as he walks along, “Maybe some other time!”, he laughs. And as you giggle back and affirm that yes, that would be wonderful, Frank truly becomes concerned he might have a stroke from all the blood roaring in his ears.

At last, the pair finds their way outside and Frank starts to relax.

“Damn. You know, I’m not that type of guy or anything… But if I wasn’t married? ...Woof”

Woods stops dead in his tracks, and suddenly, he finds himself going from 1 to 1000 again. He whips around on his friend, “Hey, what the fuck Mason? ‘If I wasn’t married’, if you weren’t married what, huh? What's that shit supposed to mean?”, Frank gives Alex's shoulder a little shove, hard enough to stagger him, but gentle enough that it could be interpreted as playful.

Thankfully, Alex takes it as the latter. He rubs his shoulder in mock hurt, “Geez, calm the fuck down Frank, I’m just joking. And anyway, why do you care? Did you claim dibs when no one was looking?”

Alex walks on, thinking nothing of the comment as he does, instead a little bewildered at what’s come over his friend. It isn’t like him to get so defensive over just some woman. Not even if he was getting her in bed.

“Yeah… Well, maybe I just don’t think you should be saying shit like that, alright? Besides, you don’t even know her”, he jerks a thumb back towards the looming CIA offices.

Alex digs out his car keys, “Pft, know her? Like that’s ever stopped you before”, he scoffs. The two climb into Mason’s car as he starts the engine and buckles up. He sets one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, before pausing briefly. Alex turns to Frank and takes a long look, “...Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You’re not acting like yourself Frank…”

The Sargent snorts, “Aw come on, the fuck are you talking about? I’m fine! Let’s just… Let’s get out of here, huh? Hanging around Hudson always fucks me up, you know?”

Mason sits back in his seat slowly, trying to decide if he buys the story. Maybe he doesn’t entirely, but he’s willing to let it go for now. “Heh, I hear that. How’s some beers sound?”

“You know what? Sure. Hey... but only if you’re buying!”, more barks of laughter escape him as they drive off. Honestly? He’ll take anything to not have to think about why he’s so fucked up over you right now.

[dirty-holy-things]

Christmas Tree Farm

Part III of the Invisible String Series

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV Read on Ao3.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x AFAB Reader

Rating: Mature, for slight references to sex and swearing.

Words: 6.6k update

Chapters: 4 / ?

Warnings: Very few. Swearing, subtle references to sex.

Author's Notes: This story is broken into two segments, with the first half being Reader and Bucky's first Christmas together, and the second half being Reader and Bucky's first Christmas spent with the Wilson's, their found family.

Summary: The winter holidays can be a challenging time for many, and you and Bucky were no stranger to lonely Christmases. But love has a curious, insistent way of melting away the ice that locks away and protects our hearts; and as time passes, both you and Bucky finally allow yourselves a little bit of that holiday cheer.

If you’d like to be included in any updates, please fill out my taglist form!

The city lights somehow shone even brighter, thanks to the addition of copious (or one could say, excessive) amounts of Christmas lights that likely threatened to upend the entire city’s power grid. Every storefront was decked out with tinsel and trees, each mannequin was dressed in their holiday best, and you couldn’t take two steps without being greeted by a vibrant advertisement for “This season’s must-buy holiday gifts!” While you certainly weren’t a Grinch by any means, you also hadn’t had much of a reason to celebrate the holiday through the past few years; that was, until you found yourself a 106 year old, semi-stable boyfriend with a secret love for Christmas that was comparable to that of an eight year old on a sugar high.

The city lights somehow shone even brighter, thanks to the addition of copious (or one could say, excessive) amounts of Christmas lights that likely threatened to upend the entire city’s power grid. Every storefront was decked out with tinsel and trees, each mannequin was dressed in their holiday best, and you couldn’t take two steps without being greeted by a vibrant advertisement for “This season’s must-buy holiday gifts!” While you certainly weren’t a Grinch by any means, you also hadn’t had much of a reason to celebrate the holiday through the past few years; that was, until you found yourself a 106 year old, semi-stable boyfriend with a secret love for Christmas that was comparable to that of an eight year old on a sugar high.

Bucky Barnes was an intimidating figure to those who saw him in the streets, but after nearly a year of dating, you had thoroughly cracked that hard exterior to see the gentle and romantic man who had been locked away and frozen for so long. People on the streets saw a powerful man with a gleaming metal arm; you saw a man who could pick you up with ease, throwing you over his shoulder before pinning you down and tickling you. Shoppers in the grocery store saw a brooding and intimidating figure; you saw him fall asleep on the couch, his frame protectively curled around his cat Alpine. You had once been like all those strangers, only seeing that which was on the surface, but you had come to know and love him as a whole person.

And as such, it did not come as that much of a shock when, shortly after Thanksgiving dinner, Bucky’s requited love for Christmas broke through for the first time. “Hey, doll,” he started, an inquisitive tone in his voice. “Where’s your Christmas music? Been goin’ through your records but I can’t seem’ta find any.”

“Don’t have any,” you called out from the bedroom, folding the last of his laundry that had taken up permanent residence in your top right dresser drawer. You strolled into the living room to see him still flicking determinedly through your collection, hoping against hope to find something that would put the apartment into the holiday spirit. “Buck, I’m pretty sure I don’t have any Christmas records — but I can play some music from my phone, if you want me to.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweets.”

He sank into the plush fabric of your sofa, sighing defeatedly. You laughed at his exaggerated response, before moving to sit next to him, draping your legs across his and nestling into his arms. You pulled your phone out of the pocket of your leggings, searching for a Christmas playlist, before you were distracted by Bucky’s lingering, pensive look. “What’s on your mind, Bucky?”

He sighed, metal hand tracing cool circles into your exposed skin. “It’s nothing, it’s silly.”

You frowned, not thrilled with his sudden withdrawal. “Clearly it’s not nothing. C’mon, Buck, you can talk to me.”

“I haven’t had a real Christmas since 1943,” he said slowly. “Hydra certainly didn’t celebrate, and after I came back from the Blip, I didn’t have anyone to share one with. I thought — I had thought, maybe, since I have you, we could do something for Christmas together. But, if you’re not really in’ta Christmas, that’s okay.”

You could tell that his casual tone was forced, you could pick up the subtle changes in volume and pitch. Your heart ached for him, as you thought about the loneliness that he had endured for decades, all of the holidays and joy and traditions and memories that he had missed out on; and while you weren’t a Christmas person by nature, by god, you were going to be one for Bucky Barnes.

***

You fully assimilated into the Christmas spirit and enthusiasm, trying to provide Bucky with every sweet, cheesy, moment of joy that he had been denied for so long. The weeks leading up to Christmas were positively filled to the brim, near-bursting, with holiday spirit and theme-appropriate music, the lyrics echoing throughout your apartment to the extent that you wondered if future tenants may one day hear ghosts of Christmas past — also known as the ghost of Bucky Past, as he sang along to every tune that crooned its way through the small, shared space. You had never seen him so indulgently and freely happy before, so you didn’t begrudge the fourth or fifth playing of the Holiday Hits records, or his subtly-insistent urging for a real Christmas tree.

It was the second week of December when you executed your ‘master plan.’

Manhattan wasn’t exactly known for its Christmas tree farms, so you had planned on making the long and laborious trek out of the city to fetch your own real tree. Bucky was more than happy to oblige, with the promise that he could fell his own Christmas tree; you had no doubt that your sweet, sensitive, and powerful super-soldier could fell whatever tree stood before him. But aside from your confidence in his physical abilities, you wanted to give him this Christmas moment, this Christmas memory — you wanted to give him the opportunity to bring his tree back to your shared space, and to create these Christmas memories with him. You wanted to break his pattern of ignored or heartbroken Christmases, and after he had confessed his love for the holiday that Thanksgiving night, you had been thinking about all of the ways you could make this year special for him.

Bucky had been more than thrilled by your suggestion to drive out of the city for an evening, particularly for a Christmas tree, and the two of you sank into the slow, gentle peace that steadily grew as the car carried you further and further away from the bustling city. You had picked a destination that was quite far from the city center, having seen the positive reviews online and the promise of free hot chocolate; and to be honest, you thought that the brief break from city life could do the two of you some good.

He had picked you up from your apartment, after acquiring this evening’s rental car; and his time spent battling lazy rental car representatives and New York traffic had given you the perfect amount of time to enact your vision for the apartment before his call rang through, informing you that he was here and waiting by the front door. Your drive out of the city had been filled with more and more Christmas music, cups of coffee, and a stash of chocolate chip cookies that you had decided would be appropriate fuel for the evening ahead. Bucky had eaten ten out of the twelve you brought.

The Christmas tree farm was illuminated with countless twinkling globe lights, a soft golden glow radiating around you and bouncing off of the freshly-fallen snow that crunched underneath your boots. Bucky grinned from ear to ear, in an easy way that you had never seen before, and you felt a rush of confidence and surety about your somewhat-secret plan.

Upon your arrival at the Christmas tree farm, Bucky had quickly picked out the prettiest tree in the entire lot; the branches were tightly packed and well-filled with needles that smelled of pine and childhood memories. The attendant who had handed him the axe to fell the tree watched in shock and awe as Bucky cleaved through the tree trunk with two strong strokes; you laughed quietly into your hot chocolate, bemused by your boyfriend’s blatant display of strength. Bucky strapped the tree to the top of the rental car with impressive speed, and it was not long afterwords that you were hurtling back into the city, towards the apartment that the two of you now called home.

Forcing the tall tree into the slim elevator was a challenge, one that Bucky took in stride; and after multiple curse words and sweaty exclamations of frustration, it finally fit to the point in which Bucky could abandon the advanced geometry he had been working at. The ride upwards was humorously tense, as Bucky observed you being pinned in by the tree, and you nervously awaited the arrival that you had planned for your sweet super-soldier.

Your front door now held a large wreath, bedecked with poinsettias and glimmering gold tinsel; the sight caught Bucky off-guard, as he recognized that this was a new addition. “I like the wreath, sweets,” he grinned, moving to shift the tree out of the cramped elevator and free you from its heavy, pine-scented branches.

“Thought some Christmas decorations were in order,” you laughed lightly, finally freed from the cramped elevator; and you briefly wondered how long that fresh pine scent might linger within the small space. Bucky kept the tree upright while you nervously opened the door, suddenly anxious that maybe you had taken the Christmas enthusiasm too far.

Bucky was a man on a mission, as he determinedly hauled the tree through the hallway and into the living room; you had previously cleared a corner for the tree, right next to your patio door, hoping that the ambient light from the city would help to illuminate the tree that would now fill the recently-vacated space. You watched him corner the tree into the wall, ensuring it was supported appropriately, before he turned to survey the apartment that was surrounding him.

You might’ve gone a bit overboard with the Christmas decorations, but you would’ve thrown yourself overboard ten times more to see that smile spreading across Bucky’s face.

The entrance to the apartment now displayed a vibrant poinsettia wreath, and a welcome mat that said ‘happy holidays,’ a sentiment ensconced by the image of ivy and red berries. The tea towels in the kitchen were red and green, boasting cheeky jokes about holiday cheer, and the glassware had been replaced with wine glasses and rocks glasses of emerald green crystal. The kitchen table was fully dressed for Christmas, with gold and green accents at every turn, highlighted with poinsettia blossoms. Your plush ivory couch was now draped with multiple blankets: one chunky knit, one soft and fuzzy, and a wool blanket with a plaid blend of emerald green, dark navy, blood-red, and gold. All of the picture frames and artwork on the wall had been wrapped over to look like Christmas presents, the fireplace was bedecked with mistletoe and holly, and even the bathroom hand soaps had been swapped out for holiday scents.

“Sweets — what’s, what’s all this?” Bucky asked breathlessly, surveying the unexpected sight before him.

“It’s our first Christmas,” you responded, your voice barely above a whisper as you moved to wrap your arms around his waist, savoring the combined scent of pine and that which was distinctly Bucky. “I love you, James Buchanan Barnes — and I want to make every kind of Christmas memory with you. I want us to decorate our tree together, I want us to sneakily wrap up presents for each other, I want us to wear silly matching pajamas, I want us to leave the decorations up for way too long just because they bring us back to this perfect moment.”

Bucky’s strong and irresistible hands guided your body towards the couch, your bodies collapsing softly into the cushions as his plush and chapped lips pressed into the soft skin of your neck, biting gently at your racing pulse. You could feel the excitement and joy radiating from Bucky, comparable to the blazing heat of the sun, or a fire, or any other brightly-burning thing, and you knew that your decision to go all-in for Christmas had been the right one. Grinning to yourself, you thought about the extensive, and… myriad applicability of mistletoe you had acquired, and how you might work this into a Christmas miracle of your own.

“I love you, doll,” Bucky exhaled against your flushed skin. “I’ve never felt so fuck’n lucky, to have someone like you lovin’ me.”

You allowed yourself a moment to sink into the weight of his words, allowed yourself to feel appreciated, valued, desired, wanted. “Loving you is the easiest thing in the world,” you whispered, your hands tracing gently across the sharp and chiseled planes of his face. “Loving you is as easy as breathing… even when you steal all of the covers, or insist on rewatching Lord of the Rings for the fortieth time.”

Bucky laughed, a deep chuckle echoing from his chest as he pulled you closer against his thickly-muscled body. “Looks like quite a lot of mistletoe here, doll,” he grinned, pressing a casual kiss against your forehead as he surveyed the state of the apartment.

“Oh, yeah, that was intentional,” you quipped, giggling as you leaned in for a kiss; only to have Bucky pull away, a devilish and almost dark grin on his face.

“Y’sure you’re ready for that?” He asked, his voice holding a shred of a threat and the weight of a promise.

“Bring it on, Barnes.”

*********************************************************

Christmas had grown to become a full-fledged, extravagant, blowout event with each year that passed. The holiday season started earlier and earlier, as you both plotted and planned for how to one-up the other with some sort of holiday surprise or thoughtful gift; and you eventually grew to ignore the odd looks of your neighbors as the poinsettia wreath was now regularly hung before Thanksgiving dinner was done cooking.

This year, however, was going to be different. After a handful of long-weekend trips down to Louisiana to visit Sam, Sarah, and their family, you and Bucky had decided to take an extended vacation - two weeks, to be exact. The two of you would be sharing both Christmas and New Years with the Wilson family, and you couldn’t possibly be more thrilled — or anxious.

Over the past few years, Bucky and Sam had settled into a brotherly sort of friendship, full of barbed comments, silent hugs, and quiet words of encouragement and advice; and after you met Sarah on your first Memorial Day trip to the small town, the two of you had taken to one another like lifelong best friends, sharing a love for merlot and a sense of worry for the two men who were dead-set on saving the world.

So it came as little surprise when the Wilsons invited the two of you for an extended stay; and you had eagerly agreed to the idea of both a vacation, and a holiday spent with your found family. Bucky had pretended to be resistant for a moment, mumbling something about ‘not wanting to share his time with you,’ but had caved easily when you pressed on the matter. He was likely just as eager to have a family Christmas as you were — but Sam certainly couldn’t know that.

You had spent nearly two months leading up to your trip relentlessly questioning Sarah and Sam about gift ideas, feeling an immense pressure to get things right. You struggled to keep up with the ever-evolving interests of AJ and Cass, and you felt the need to find something perfectly sweet and thoughtful for Sam and Sarah, as they had been so kind as to invite you and Bucky into their home for the holiday season. Bucky was able to sense your nervousness about finding the perfect gifts, and was able to remain fairly level-headed and reasonable as you perused countless stores. However, as empathetic and kind as your super-soldier may be, he was still prone to bouts of boredom or hunger.

“Look, sweets, we could get the kids gift cards and I’m sure they’d be more than happy —“ Bucky started, before you cut him off with an icy glare. You were in the fifth store of the day, and while Bucky’s patience with you had extended far past a reasonable amount, he was admittedly wearing thin.

“No gift cards,” you bit, cutting him off harshly, before rubbing your hand across his forearm gently in apology. “I know Sarah said they didn’t really need any more gaming stuff, but they’ve got a pretty good deal for the new Xbox here…”

Bucky chuckled lightly, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in for a kiss on the temple, forgiving your earlier tension. “With the way you’re try’na spoil them, you’d think they were our own kids.”

You blushed, knowing he was likely right. You were prone to gift-giving and over-indulging the wants and whims of those you loved; Bucky knew that firsthand, and was fair in assuming this would extend to all you loved — whether they were currently in existence or not. “Just imagine if we ever do have kids, Barnes,” you said lightly, hoping the barely-concealed eagerness in your voice didn’t betray you. “Honestly, you’ll be even more of a sucker than me.”

“Me? No, not at all,” he huffed, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from within, unable to picture a situation in which Bucky would be anything other than a marshmallow around children, particularly his own. “Between the two of us, you’re the one who will be a softie. Mark my words, Barnes, you’re gonna be wrapped around a tiny little finger one of these days.”

He chuckled softly, eyes flitting lightly across your body. “Y’call me Barnes an awful lot, sweets.”

You nodded, shoulders raising as if to say, so what?

“Makes me think you might like the name — y’maybe might even want it for yourself,” Bucky grinned, a simultaneously mischievous but sincere glint in his eye.

You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging your shoulder into his chest. You returned your focus to the sale tags in the store, trying desperately — and futilely — to quell the reflexive, undeniable excitement that came with the idea of a life with Bucky.

Marriage, a home, babies, the whole nine yards — but you were in Target, you were getting way too ahead of yourself. That was a thought for another day, another time.

***

Your arrival at Sam and Sarah’s home had been just as warm and welcoming as you expected, with Sarah ushering you and Bucky upstairs to the spare bedroom that had basically become yours after the extensive number of vacations and visits. You and Bucky both slept well that night, as the long drive had worn you down, and for the first time in several months — if not over a year — you were up the next morning before Bucky Barnes.

It was Christmas Eve, and the excitement of this day was not lost on you; rolling away from Bucky’s solid grasp was a challenge, but you managed to do so without disturbing the sleeping brunette who had been wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. You laughed quietly to yourself as he sleepily grabbed for your pillow, pulling it inwards to cradle it between his arms.

You stealthily snuck out of the room, wanting Bucky to get whatever measure of rest possible, and made yourself decent before heading downstairs to find Sarah in the kitchen. She was dressed and ready for the day, and you slumped into a kitchen chair with a yawn.

“Coffee’s ready, I’d suggest y’get it before Sam and Buck are up.” Sarah joked with a sleepy smile. So far, only the two of you were up, and you gratefully accepted her recommendation for a cup of coffee, appreciating the warmth and rush of caffeine that it offered.

“Is there anything I can help with?” You asked, as the two of you sat down at the kitchen table together.

Sarah smiled into her cup of coffee, taking a long sip before responding. “I’ll probably have’ya give me a hand with the pancakes, you’re a good judge for when to flip them,” she commented, eyes wandering to the bay window that offered an exceptional view of the sunrise. “You can also help me by giving me a heads up about the boys’ Christmas presents.”

You instinctively felt the need to say no, to preserve the integrity of the surprise and excitement of Christmas morning, but you realized that telling Sarah wouldn’t spoil the surprise for the boys. You excitedly discussed the details of the gifts, both for the kids, and for Sam and Bucky, and despite the clock indicating an obscenely early time of 7:48AM, you still felt the Christmas spirit radiating in the cozy kitchen space.

You and Sarah worked together to prepare a full breakfast, consuming cup after cup of coffee until you heard the unmistakable sound of Bucky stepping heavily down the stairs and towards the kitchen. Stepping away from the pancakes for a moment, you quickly started to brew another pot of coffee; and as you returned to your station by the stovetop, you giggled as you felt Bucky’s arms wrap securely around your midsection.

“Well this is a Christmas miracle,” Bucky whispered into the soft skin of your neck. “You’re up and outta bed before me.”

You laughed, turning to faced him as he continued to hold your body against his. “We’re not even to Christmas yet, Barnes — who know what kinda surprises might be in store for you.”

Bucky hummed suggestively, his teeth barely grazing your skin as you shivered against him. Your body instinctively molded to his, and you were in the process of turning around for a kiss when you heard, “Ah, ah, ah!”

You pulled away from Bucky with a laugh, seeing Sarah standing by the sink, hands planted firmly on her waist as she stared the two of you down with the kind of glare that only mothers could possess. “Not in my kitchen! Save that shit for Brooklyn.”

There was an undeniable heat in your cheeks, and you could see the pink tinge that Bucky’s face took on as Sarah called the two of you out. He still kept his hands on you, but with less suggestive placement. “M’sorry, Sarah, I just couldn’t help myself.”

She rolled her eyes before tossing him the coffee mug she had just finished drying; Bucky, of course, caught it despite the lack of warning. “Well, help yourself to some coffee and breakfast - I suggest you get started before the boys are up, it’ll be a frenzy before too long.”

Bucky laughed and grabbed your mostly-empty coffee mug as he strode across the kitchen; he was filling the second cup as a thunderous sound echoed through the house, as Cass, AJ, and Sam quickly filled the remaining space in the kitchen. The boys were startlingly hyper despite having just woken up - you couldn’t remember the last time you woke up that exuberantly - and Sam yawned while making a beeline for the coffee pot that Bucky held in his metal grasp. The two men exchanged the coffee pot silently, but peacefully; and you and Sarah stepped back from the kitchen to rest on the couch, to enjoy the remainder of the morning and watch the feeding frenzy that was comparable to piranhas descending on the sun-streaked Louisiana kitchen.

***

The remainder of Christmas Eve had gone smoothly and happily; AJ and Cass fell asleep close to 11PM, about halfway through The Grinch, and Bucky and Sam had carried them to bed despite weak protestations that they wanted to stay up to catch Santa. As soon as Sam and Bucky returned to give the all-clear, indicating the boys were soundly asleep, you and Sarah set to work on bringing out all of the gifts that had been carefully concealed.

You were stacking presents meticulously when you saw Bucky taking a handful of the Christmas cookies that had been left out for Santa; Sam had noticed as well, and he frowned. “Hey, man, I don’t see you in a red suit with a white beard,” Sam whispered loudly.

“Don’t see you in one either,” Bucky responded around a mouthful of a poorly-iced sugar cookie. The five of you had spent the afternoon baking and icing cookies for Santa, the neighbors, and the mailman; and while it was adorable and endearing, there was a distinct lack of artistic talent for cookie decorating.

“Bucky, share the cookies,” You laughed, nudging him to hand over the plate that he had taken hostage. Bucky grumbled, but you could see the way the corner of his lip quirked up; he was just as amused and happy in this scene as you were. The remainder of the cookies were shared, Sarah finished stuffing the stockings, and you placed the last present under the tree; looking at the last gift, you saw your swooping handwriting on the tag: To Bucky, with love.

“Is that everything?” Sarah asked, an exhausted but content look upon her face. “Last call for gifts, before Santa takes off for the night.”

Bucky coughed, giving Sam a side-eyed look that didn’t go unnoticed by you. “Should be everything,” Bucky responded cooly, but you could see the subtle flexing and whirring in the prosthetic arm that indicated a sort of nervousness within him. It was Christmas Eve, what could he be stressing about? Unless a gift had gotten lost in-between airports; but you had accounted for everything, you were sure of it. Shaking off the feeling as a side effect of exhaustion, you smiled when Bucky extended a hand to help you off the floor. “Ready to say g’night, doll?”

You nodded, and the both of you said quiet goodnights to Sam and Sarah before heading to bed for the evening. Tucking yourselves into the warm, soft bed, you saw the clock blink at 12:08AM. “Merry Christmas Bucky,” you whispered softly, planting a gentle kiss against his forehead, the soft glow of the moon illuminating the few silver hairs that had slowly appeared along his hairline.

“Merry Christmas, doll,” he mumbled happily, from the warm space between sleep and waking, the space where anything good could feel true, the space where Santa might be real and the world might be kind.

***

You had forgotten how early kids tend to wake up on Christmas morning. A silent apology to your parents passed through your groggy mind as you worked to drag yourself out of bed, having been roused by the inescapable sound of fists banging on the closed door and children’s muffled screams of, “Wake up! It’s Christmas!”

Bucky wore his usual early-morning scowl; one that would’ve sent fear coursing through any rational person, but it was a look you knew and loved. He pressed the soft, downy pillow over his head, trying to muffle out AJ & Cass’s insistent excitement. “Too… early…”

You laughed hoarsely, your voice not fully awake just yet. “You try telling them that, see how far it gets you,” you suggested, as you grabbed for your glasses and the pair of pajama pants that you kept handy for decency’s sake. Bucky grumbled again, and glancing at the clock, you realized you couldn’t blame him. It hadn’t yet cracked 6AM, and while Bucky was the early riser out of the two of you, this was a solid hour before his internal clock would typically wake him up. “C’mon, Buck, up and at ‘em. It’s Christmas morning, there’s presents and coffee waiting.”

The two of you finally emerged from the door, disheveled and sleep-deprived, only to be greeted by the loud cheers of AJ and Cass, who informed you that everyone else was already up.

***

The den quickly devolved into a chaotic mess of torn wrapping paper, slackened bows, crumpled tissue paper, and more toys and electronics than the room should’ve rightly been able to hold. The adults sat back and watched as AJ and Cass tore through every present, shouting and jumping and screaming in excitement with each gift that was voraciously revealed. You had shrugged your shoulders in a subtle I’m sorry to Sarah, as the kids triumphantly lifted the new Xbox above their heads. She didn’t seem to mind too much, however, after watching AJ and Cass tackle Uncle Bucky to the ground with promises and threats of ‘kicking his old butt at Mario Kart.’

As the glitter and tinsel settled throughout the love-filled room, AJ and Cass proceeded to withdraw from the early-morning celebrations to play with their new assortment of toys, games, and electronics. You had finished your second cup of coffee and had sent Bucky to retrieve your third, while you and Sam plucked the remaining gifts from underneath the tree, to be distributed amongst the adults.

You passed Sarah a thick envelope that was tied with a silver ribbon, and watched as she pulled forth a stack of papers of various sizes — airplane tickets, hotel check-in details, Broadway tickets — and happy tears flooded her cheeks as she hugged both you and Bucky tightly, thanking you for the fully-planned vacation. “Oh, and it’s not written anywhere officially, but we’re also volunteering to babysit,” you added, and laughed as Sarah grinned and clenched her fist in excitement.

“We are?” Bucky asked, pretending to be surprised. You elbowed him gently, and he corrected himself. “Yes, of course we are.”

The gift-giving continued, with lots of laughter and happy tears. Sam and Sarah had gifted you the slate-blue Le Creuset you had been eyeing wistfully for years, and Bucky received a set of tickets to a symphony performance and dance night, featuring hits from the 1940s. “Might have’ta bust out the old uniform for this one, doll,” he said with a sly grin. “Used to look real nice in those slacks, y’outght’a have the chance to appreciate the view.”

“Oh, I can only imagine the number of girls you pulled in that uniform, Barnes,” you teased. He shrugged nonchalantly as a thick arm draped around your shoulders, pulling you closer into his relaxed body. “Hey, ease up — you’re gonna make me spill my coffee!”

Bucky planted a solid kiss against your forehead as he drew you in closer, albeit with more consideration for the scalding-hot beverage in your hand this time. “That’s ancient history, sweetheart. No need to worry about Dolores at the nursing home stealing me from you.”

“Y’sure about that, Buck? I’ve heard stories about you and a redhead named Dolores…” Sam interjected, a playfully antagonistic hint to his voice. Bucky retaliated by throwing a pillow at Sam’s head, with the kind of ferocity that could only come from a super-soldier. “Kidding, kidding,” Sam laughed, as the pillow hit him squarely in the shoulder.

Both you and Bucky laughed, and he plucked the cup of steaming coffee from your hands, taking a sip before commenting further. “Only one girl I ever truly loved, sweetheart, and she’s right here with me,” he said softly, his voice rough and gravelly, but full of sincerity.

You knew that Bucky loved you, and you knew that you loved him. Little else in the world seemed to matter past those two facts, but you also understood that your shared love existed in a complex and challenging world. A world that you struggled to find a place in, a world that had all too many places for Bucky to fill; the freedom of narrative had been stolen from both of you, but as you retrieved your Christmas gift for Bucky, you hoped you had found a way to give a piece of that narrative back to him.

You handed him a thin, flat box; meticulously and nervously wrapped, the tag unmistakeable; To Bucky, with love.

You watched him open it excitedly, and he pulled out two photos. The first photo was from the original Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, the one that had stood for several years now. The second photo was one that you had taken yourself, of the recently-updated exhibit; specifically, the segment of the exhibit that documented Bucky’s history. You watched his facial expressions closely as he examined the differences, and you saw his jaw twitch and throat tighten as he focused more closely upon the second, most recent image.

“W-what’s this, doll?” He asked, his voice shaking.

You placed a hand gently over his, the one that held the image of the updated exhibit. “This,” you spoke softly, pointing at the inscription, “This is your legacy, Bucky Barnes. The true one. The one that matters, the one that countless people will read every single day. This is the story that everyone will know.”

Looking at the photograph grasped tightly within Bucky’s human hand, you read aloud the new inscription.

“Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front.

Captured by HYDRA troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, torture, and experimentation; but his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America.

Reunited, Barnes and Rogers led Captain America’s newly formed unit, the Howling Commandos. Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed HYDRA bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater.”

Bucky nodded, commenting quietly. “I’ve seen this part, at the Smithsonian.”

“Yes, that was the original; the one you would’ve seen. They also noted your date of death — but as you well know, there’s more to the story,” you added gently, drawing your finger across the image to direct Bucky’s attention to the new addition.

“Barnes was tragically captured by HYDRA operatives after what was perceived to be a deadly fall. Captain America and the Howling Commandos mourned their loss of their brother and companion, with the unit fully dissolving after the loss of Captain America.

Barnes was kept as a HYDRA prisoner of war for decades, before being freed through the work of his childhood best friend. Recruited by Rogers to fight against the Titan known as Thanos, Barnes fought valiantly alongside the Avengers and helped restore the world to its rightful state.

Barnes is recognized as one of the great heroes of our time, having successfully overcome the might of both HYDRA and Thanos. As a nation, and as a global community, we now look to Barnes as an example: an example of what is good, what is right, what is resilient, what is brave and unbreakable.”

Your hands were shaking as you finished reading the new inscription, the new addition to the exhibit; and while your hands were shaking, all of Bucky was shaking. You reached an unsteady hand out towards him, letting it settle onto his shallowly breathing chest. “This is how the world will remember you, Bucky. Not as the Winter Soldier, but as a hero, as James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier was never you — and nobody will make that mistake again.”

Bucky huffed, exhaling strongly, and you could see that he was fighting off the tears that were threatening to spill from his ocean-blue eyes; you reached to hold his hand, squeezing it tightly as you smiled up at him. His bottom lip trembled slightly as his free hand came up to stroke your face; you leaned into the cool feeling of the vibranium against your warm cheek and kissed the corner of his hand that lingered against you.

“How’d you manage to pull this off, doll?” Bucky asked, voice shaking.

You shrugged and smiled playfully. “I think you’re forgetting that I work for the Smithsonian Institute, Buck. I was able to pull a few strings, call in a few favors — and anyways, museums are pretty heavily invested in having the correct information.”

Bucky laughed hoarsely, the tears receding before they had the opportunity to fall. Sam and Sarah had watched on quietly, both of them feeling grateful for the acceptance and love that you and Bucky had found with one another. “Y’know, Buck, I was thinking that your gift was pretty impressive, but after this… I dunno, man. She might have you beat.”

You looked back and forth between the two men; clearly, secrets had been exchanged, and you had been left out of it. Bucky winced as he leaned over to retrieve your gift, agreeing with Sam. “Yeah, shit, I don’t know how I can follow that. Rewriting history? Jesus, you didn’t even give me a chance.”

Bucky placed a long, narrow box in your hands, and despite his previous comment, he still smiled excitedly as you picked at the red, snowflake-covered wrapping paper. “Whatever it is, Buck, I know I’m gonna love it.”

The lid to the box opened with ease, and the contents both shocked and confused you for a moment. Your fingers nimbly grasped the silver dog tags that rested within the box, the metal chain clinking against itself as you looked more closely.

JAMES B BARNES

32557030 T42 2B

R. BARNES

3092 STOCKTON RD

SHELBYVILLE IN

The tags had been unmistakeable, undeniably familiar, from the moment you laid eyes on them. Holding the tags tightly within your hand, you turned to Bucky with questions in your eyes, and on your lips, but he beat you to it.

“Yes, these were mine. But they’re yours now.”

You stuttered, still shocked by the gesture. “B-But Bucky, aren’t you supposed to keep these on you? Isn’t it like some sort of rule? In case — oh, god, in case anything ever happened —“

Bucky shushed you as you became increasingly worried by the thought of something happening to him, the thought of him disappearing without anything remaining to identify him as the man that you loved. “Shh, doll. Nothing’s gonna happen to me, and that’s exactly why I’m givin’ these to you. I promise, I’m never gonna leave you. I’ll never be far enough away from you to need these ever again.”

While Bucky may not have cried, you certainly did, unable to fight off the swell of emotions that hit you like a tidal wave — but a tidal wave of all good things. The weight of his words ad his gesture was overwhelming; he was handing you a piece of himself, entrusting it to you, and promising that you’d never again have to face a world without him in it. You thought about these same dog tags, how they had rested against his chest for decades, and now having this piece of him so close to your heart threatened to entirely overwhelm you.

“I love you, Bucky, god, I don’t even know what else to say right now, I love you more than anything —“ Hot tears rolled down your cheeks, and you breath was a staccato rhythm as your gaze flitted between the dog tags and the man they belonged to.

Bucky grinned, and you could see the threat of tears had returned. “Just promise me you’ll wear ‘em — and that you won’t lose ‘em.”

You nodded and smiled sweetly at him, before handing him the dog tags so he could fasten them around your neck. His hands cupped your chin and brought you in for a gentle kiss, despite the protests of Sam and Sarah; but they sounded worlds away, because your whole world was right here, holding you, and would never let you go.

***

Taglist: @bdavishiddlesbatch @aleynaandrews @who-is-a-heretic-now

[buckysbest]

IT WAS GOOD UNTIL IT WASN'T

CHAPTER ONE: TOXIC

PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Reader

Series Warnings: NSFW TOPICS, Manipulative/Toxic tendencies, sad boi steve rogers, cheating, alcohol

Series Summary: Heartbreak follows her everywhere and Steve Rogers is nothing but the latest victim, at least thats what she thought? Now she can't shake the feeling of him no matter where she goes.

Word count: <1k

A/N: Hey lovelies! Welcome to a new series! This album series is inspired by It was Good Until It Wasn't by Kehlani! If you want to follow along I would suggest listening to Toxic by Kehlani while reading! Also my posting schedule is on Friday's and REQUESTS ARE OPEN! Thanks and I love you!!

Series Masterlist coming soon // Masterlist Coming soon

Bass pounded through her veins and into her head. Her hand came to her temple as she approached the bar for what might have been the fifth or sixth time that night if she had been counting. She pushed her way past two or three layers of people who were entirely too drunk to be making good decisions. The strobing red and blue lights fell onto her face, illuminating the back and forth occupying her brain for the past hour. As her eyes caught with the bartender’s, she began to play the game she knew too well. He came closer and her eyes fluttered a few times as she leaned forward. Her fingers gently landed on his forearm and she leaned into his ear. “Two shots of the best tequila you have please.”

“On the house” he replied with a wink.

She smiled lifting the glass in her right hand with a sheepish nod before turning around and downing them both with a scowl. On nights like these, she missed the burn that Don Julio used to hold but her swaying hips and innocent demeanor seemed to make the pricey alcohol more accessible these days.

The dance floor was crowded but she wanted the rush of adrenaline that came with being in a seedy nightclub in Miami. It's why she wore a low cut corset and a miniskirt shorter than her attention span this evening.

To put it plainly, she was bored.

It showed in her carefree attitude as she took the bait the men around her laid. Hands that drifted way too low and eyes that said way too much made up the majority of her evening and she was begging for a thrill. Her stunning features and alluring outfit highlighted the fact that her boredom did not stem from lack of interest. As men, both with and without women on their arm, eyed her up and down, there was just no proposition that she wanted to take up because with each encounter, she could only wish it was him.

Now, she was stuck. While she hated the idea of calling him and her stomach flipped at the notion, she needed him. She knew that Steve went to bed hours ago and she knew her desperation for him would come out for his sleep-ridden voice and the 5 or so shots she had taken.

Despite her best efforts, her back was soon leaning against the filthy brick wall of whatever fine establishment she had found herself in this evening. Her manicured nails clicked on the phone in a steady pattern as she dialed the number she knew all too well, only pausing to hover over the call button. It was her last out before she ultimately made the mistake she would regret in the morning.

It rang and rang and for a minute, she convinced herself that he wasn't going to answer.

Of course he wouldn't, its 3 in the morning and her golden boy needed to get up in 2 hours for hi-

“Y/N? Are you ok?”

Her heart fluttered at the concern that laced itself into every word that left his obviously exhausted mouth. The shuffle of his bed sheets made a playful smirk grow on her face as she imagined her favorite version of the super soldier that she knew all too well. She knew that tonight, on a Friday, he probably stayed up later than he should have reading and she also knew that he probably threw his white tee on the floor and she hoped his grey sweats followed.

“Y/N?” His voice pulled her from her fantasies as she began her lie in a voice sweet enough to cause cavities.

“Yeah, Yeah I’m ok, I’m really sorry, I didn't mean to wake you Steve, I just needed to talk to someone”

“What's on your mind?”

His compassion triggered a twang of guilt in her chest that she pushed back and rationalized with her neediness for the super soldier. “I miss you Cap, it's so lonely in Miami”

His throat cleared at the insinuation in her voice, bring a quiet and breathy giggle past her lips.

“You should be home in a couple weeks, right? then we can all get together and celebrate?”

She bit her lips as an excited blush rose to her face. “No Steve, I miss you”

“We’ll I miss you too bu-”

A soft groan interrupted his thought as she continued, “And I miss all the things we could be doing at 3AM if I weren't stranded in Miami right now.” She took his bashful silence in stride as her sickeningly sweet tone and dirty words began to attract the attention of not only Steve, but also three bouncers taking their smoke break. As she continued, a blush found even their faces at her innuendos and borderline vile language. “I’m just sad Stevie because these guys try and try, they just can't do it like you”

“Y/N-”

“And I promise I have been so so so good and-"

“Y/N, I-I really can't do this right now- I mean I really want to but” He paused for a moment and hope glimmered in her eyes but it was quickly gone as he continued.” I-I just cant…. You know how I feel and what I need from you”

At the sting of initial rejection, a bratty pout formed on her lips as she made another push. “Stevie, I know what you want and you know that I can't give you that right now. Why don’t you let me tell you what I need and take your mind off it? I’ll give you a hint, I haven't had it since my last night in New York”

As he let out a soft chuckle, his phone picked up a noise that shot her fluttering heart down, leaving it to shatter as it hit the floor.

“Babe, You coming back to bed?”

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. iii: tra i due litigante terzo gode ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3.6k

warnings: mentions of animal death (canon-typical), clown on clown violence.

rating: m/t

notes: putting this little project of mine up on the internet for strangers to see was incredibly nerve-wracking, but i have been so lucky to be received so kindly by folks! thank you to everyone who reads, it really means the absolute most to me.

i don't know if i mentioned this before, but you can find translations for the (google-translated) italian at the bottom of each chapter on my ao3. i know it's a hassle, i'm sorry!! just can't find an easy place to put them here without spoiling what's going on in the chap ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

thank you as always to my lovely beta @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; this could not be done at all without you. ♡ and to @belorage, who loves euphie enough to send me the cutest message that managed to kick my ass into gear to get this chapter edited!!

Two days after the engagement party, when Santino has finally made up for his delay and lateness, is when he ruins it all again.

Later, Euphemia will think that he can’t help it—he is destined to be a wrecker, a ruiner, even if it’s for himself. It’s not his fault, not really, she’ll say. Ignoring that he is a perfectly autonomous adult means that she can excuse his thoughtlessness and not call it selfishness.

One of Santi’s men tries to tell her that he’s busy as she strides through the museum, heels clipping the floor with a strict, stark cadence. The smell of the doctor’s office is still stuck in her palette. She feels a wad of anxiety, anticipation, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach, a black stone dropped there to torture her with its heaviness. Santino will be happy, she thinks absently, chewing the inside of her cheek as she moves. He’s always wanted this.

The man is keeping pace with her well enough, despite her long legs and the purpose with which she walks to one of the back rooms of the museum.

“Bella,” he says, reaching to stop her, “per favore, he is in a meeting.”

The words put a sour taste in her mouth. Busy, the man is trying to say, too busy for you, for this, right now.

“Trust me, Gianni,” she replies dryly, “he’ll want to make time for this.”

She takes two steps into the room past the other guards, who don’t bother trying to stop her. The room is marked primarily by a high ceiling, which allows all of the paintings to be hung in it in their varying degrees of size. Euphemia recognizes Santino sitting on the bench first, and then another man that he’s talking to. The man looks like he’s just come off of the streets, his hair dark and the scruff that she can see on the side of his face manicured enough to look like he just hasn’t bothered recently.

It takes Euphemia’s brain a few seconds to register the facial features of the man who turns to look at her over his shoulder. He would be nothing, mean nothing, to her if she didn’t see the way his expression flattened, his gaze sweeping over her—calculating. Measuring. Identifying.

He looks dirty, unshowered, covered in soot, and she thinks back to two nights ago when Santino showed up to their engagement party smelling like fire and gunpowder.

Santino stands abruptly. He might be angry, or perhaps worried; it’s hard to tell the difference with him. But she can’t look at him, anyway, her gaze fixed on the stranger who is not much of a stranger at all, who she knows because of the scary stories. The rest of the world may as well be melting down around her, some sick Van Gogh painting, and she can’t look away.

John Wick has dark eyes. Shark’s eyes, she thinks. Black, soulless. Like the glass eyes on a teddy bear. She feels her stomach lurch as fear washes over her in a slick, wet wave, reminding her that she’s already received one bout of stressful news this afternoon.

He watches her. She’s sure he’s sizing her up—that is what John Wick is made to do—but after a second, he glances to Santino, gauging his reaction. If he thinks she's any kind of a threat, he's not letting it show.

“I told you not to let anyone in,” Santi says angrily to Gianni, helpless behind her—because Gianni would have never dared to grab her arm to stop her, would have never thought it acceptable to handle her like street rabble.

“Santi,” Euphie says, feeling very small and very far away and somewhere that her body isn't, “who is that?”

She knows, but she wants to hear him say it.

He steps around the bench, excusing himself from his conversation with Wick and crossing the space between them to guide her out of the room with his hands on her arms. She lets him, not because she isn’t burning with rage but because if Santino doesn’t show her where to go, Euphemia will just stand there, fear driving icy-hot spears through her chest.

He takes her as far as around the corner of the room, maybe to put as much space between her and John Wick as he can afford, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She starts to shrug his hands off of her, and oh, there it is—the shrieking, panging fear, and fury, boiling inside of her. Venomous, indignant. Her mind is a mess of color and noise and she’s vaguely aware that maybe she should be working hard to keep her voice down, but it no longer matters.

A lot of things shouldn’t have happened that did. What’s one more?

“You brought him here?” She can feel her voice bordering on hysteria. “Are you a fucking idiot, Santi? What part of I don’t want John Wick near my life—”

“Euphie, Euphie, Euphie,” Santi says, trying his sweet-talk; condescending, like he’s speaking to a child. “Lower your voice, tesora, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her hand moves of its own accord, a knee-jerk reaction to Santi sweetly telling her to shut up, and she slaps him. Hard. As hard as she can manage. The second her palm connects with the side of his face, and the needles start stinging in her palm, she thinks that she regrets it: but all she can really think about is the pure fear and rage coursing through her body, pummeling adrenaline through her bloodstream until she feels like she’s going to be sick.

And, a little, too, a warmth blooming in her chest: satisfaction.

Santino's head doesn't turn back to her right away. There is a heartbeat of a moment where only silence reigns, where his fingers reach and touch the place her palm had made contact with, like he can't believe she did it. Maybe he can't, but then he'd be a bigger idiot than Euphemia thought.

He turns to face her again and holds up a hand—perhaps to call for a moment of inaction, or to be prepared for a second blow, she’s not sure and she doesn’t care. Santi begins, his voice a low threat, “Do not do anything else you're going to regret, Euphemia.”

Anything else you’re going to regret, he says, as though she will regret having done this.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume further yet. The poison reverberates on the high, smooth glass ceiling, bouncing off of the marble walls until it’s all echoing around them. “He knows what I look like, what—what I sound like, he knows my name, Santi, you—”

She's pushing him, hitting his chest; an impatient and weak battering. She wants both to get him away from her as much as possible and keep him close. Santi catches her wrists with bruising force, trapping her and making her look at him.

“Euphemia, basta—if you had waited,” he bites out, “then—”

“I’m pregnant!” The words leave her in a visceral, furious shout, her heart thundering in her chest, her flight or fight demanding one or the other. She rips her wrists from his grip. It feels like her entire body is vibrating. “You fucking idiot—I was late, I just got back from the doctor, and—and you’re not supposed to have him here anyway! You promised me, Santino D’Antonio, you promised me!”

There is a heartbeat of time, of space, where her fiance stares at her like he doesn’t quite think that she’s real. Red blooms on his cheek where her hand made contact and the dark of his pupils has all but swallowed up the beautiful green of his irises. Finally, something seems to kick the gears back into motion, and he plunges on, catching his footing.

“Euphie,” Santi says, reaching for her again, “Euphie, listen to me. John came to me, I didn’t—”

“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, Santino!” Euphemia spits, brushing his hand away from her arm. Blood is rushing through her head, louder and louder, demanding she raise her own volume to be heard over it. “I told you to leave him alone. You insisted, and I thought that was the end of it—you came late to the party that night because of him, isn’t that right? So why is he here, Santi? Why is John Wick near me and my baby?”

Santino stares at her. She can see the flex of his jaw when his teeth clench, trying to maintain what shred of control he has. He swallows, lifting a finger, to indicate one minute, and it takes all of her self-control not to scream at him that he doesn’t get any more minutes. But there is some pleasure in seeing him a little ruffled; to see the way his eyes dart over her face, trying to keep everything collected neatly in his mind, filed away for premium use. She wants to shake him until he is really rattled.

“It may have taken more persuasion than I anticipated,” Santi says finally, at last.

Euphemia makes a sound something like wrecking, like grief, because she knew this was going to happen and he told her it wouldn’t but here they are anyway. It’s a death knell, ringing in her ribcage, in the cavity of her chest. Dead, dead, dead, we’re all fucking dead now, don’t you see it? You, and me, and now our baby, dead like stones.

He continues quickly, over the sound of her agony, “But that doesn’t matter—cara mia, listen to me, it doesn’t matter because now John will do what I ask him to, and we don’t have to worry about anything else. Euphie, Euphie—come here, we'll talk about this.”

She’s going to be sick. The doctor’s words are still rolling around in her head; avoid stress, make sure you sleep and eat well. Can’t be worrying that baby, can we, Miss Volpe? Make sure your fiance does all the work, hm?

“It does matter. It matters the most, Santi, I—I told you to leave him be, I told you, and you said that you would only ask and that would be it—”

She’s grieving, now, lamenting the loss of her happiness, the hysteria taking a melancholic edge in her voice as the sorrow sweeps over her. Santi keeps reaching for her, to try and ground her back to him, and for the first time since she met him she just can’t stand to feel him touching her, saying her name, trying to sweet-talk her. His hands sweep her shoulders, coming up for his thumb to brush the nape of her neck; instinctively, her shoulders scrunch up to disembark them, arms shoving his off of her.

He says, “Tesora, we can talk about this—”

“You did exactly what I asked you not to,” she manages out, taking a step back from him. “I ask you for two things, Santi. Helping my mother, and not putting yourself at war with John Wick. I do not—you should not have asked him at all!”

“Euphie—”

By the time Santino reaches for her again, she’s turning and walking away, her steps unsteady. She’s sure that she’s sweating, or crying, or maybe both or neither and her body is just kicking into overdrive with gut-wrenching sweeps of grief rocking through her body now that she’s got Baba Yaga fifteen feet from her. From her and her baby.

“Euphie!” Santino’s voice echoes down the main hall of the museum, lighter now. Almost like they never argued at all. “We’ll talk when I get home, si? Mi amore?”

Euphemia is certain she’s never heard a sentence more infuriating in her entire life. It sparks something violent in her. It had been dormant, had stepped aside for her mourning, but it catches fire the second Santino says, we’ll talk when I get home.

Incensed, she turns and slides the engagement ring off of her finger, throwing it as hard as she can at him. Gianni had been trailing her, certainly at Santino's behest, and he tries to stop her—but it's too late, the fury inside of her forcing her to move more quickly than Gianni anticipates.

He catches her around the waist and she considers, briefly, the logistics of wrenching Gianni's arm off of her to go and slap Santino again; instead, she watches the expensive engagement ring bounce off of the front of Santino's jacket and clatter on the floor.

The way he tilts his head, as though expecting her to lob it at his face, and the irritated expression that comes over him is almost as good as actually having hit her original target of that pretty face of his.

Then, it’s pure, sheer, furious indignation that crosses Santi’s face, but she has no time to think about what that means for her.

“Fuck you, Santi,” she bites out venomously. “Fuck. You. Don’t fucking bother coming home.”

“Bella,” Gianni says, “we should get you back.”

Euphemia debates slapping Gianni, too, but it would be unfair; in his defense, he did try to keep her out of the room. She turns and marches her way out, the doors slamming shut behind her and the cold air of New York in the fall washing over her. As Gianni speaks on the phone and calls the driver around, she glances up at the sky; gray and soft as wedding silk, it stretches, endless, cut in pieces by the skyscrapers parsing it out.

A fool, she thinks. Santino has always made a fool out of me, and this is no one’s fault but my own.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two hours later, Euphemia hears him enter the loft. He lets the door click shut softly behind him, not slamming it, not storming through. She expected no less; Santi so rarely lets the anger really take hold of him, so rarely lets himself scream or yell or throw something. I’m marrying a fucking sociopath, she thinks, but there’s no heat to the thought; only exhaustion, only a tiredness that goes bone-deep

Even now, she still thinks of it as present tense: she’s marrying a sociopath, as though she didn’t try to hit him in the face with the engagement ring he picked out for her just hours ago, as though in the end, she will still be his. She will.

“Are you calmed down?” Santino asks, in the way that only he could manage—condescending, and soft. Euphemia can’t withhold the vicious scoff that rolls out of her the second he talks.

“I told you not to come home,” she replies tartly, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You are apparently as deaf as you are stupid.”

“So no, then.”

“What do you want me to say, Santi?” Euphemia demands, looking at him now. She’s got a suitcase out but there’s nothing in it; she can’t bring herself to pack, to think about going back home to Tuscany where her mother is waiting, barely sober because she can only stay sober for about a month at a time before she falls back to her old habits. “Why don’t you invite our friend John Wick up for dinner, hm? I’m sure he’d like that, after you did whatever you did to make him show up here. Perhaps you took a page out of that idiot Iosef’s book and killed his new dog?”

“He owes me,” Santino insists, glossing over her needling, “and I will get what I am owed.”

She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” she asks, incredulous. “If I die before telling you how incredibly, disgustingly stupid you sound when you say that, then I will—”

Santino kisses her. He does it because he knows that she’s not expecting it, and it has its desired effect; she stills, all of the furious energy like bottled lightning capped again. He kisses her softly, with no rage, but she can feel it woven into the sinew of his posture.

She thinks about slapping him again. But he probably knows that, because he grabs her hands, gripping them in his; the pressure is more relaxing than it is infuriating, which almost drives her mad, but it does what Santino always does. It pulls her apart until all that’s left is the hurt, the fear, welling up inside of her like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.

“He’s doing what I asked,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll be done with John Wick. Mia piccola volpe, look at me.”

“No,” she says, trying to sound angry but it comes out an agonized sound; she’s crying before she can stop herself, tears burning the edges of her eyes and a big, wet gasping breath necessary for her to keep going. “No, I don’t want to look at you anymore, Santi—”

“He’s doing what I ask, and then I promise, you and I will be done with John Wick forever.” His voice is urgent and insistent. “The three of us, tesora. Isn’t that right? You weren’t just saying that to get back at me?”

She nods, numbly. They had been careful, because she’d said she wasn’t ready—but mistakes happened. Pills got forgotten. She wishes that she could have lied about it and kept it secret. Maybe he’d be acting differently now if she wasn’t carrying his child; maybe his face would be something else.

“Euphie,” he whispers, taking her face in his hands. “My perfect, gorgeous Euphie—my greatest piece of art.” He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “And the one with the most bite, too, even when you are so ungrateful for the things that I do. My face still hurts.”

“Good,” Euphemia manages out, her voice wobbling. “You deserve it. Idiota.”

“Maybe,” Santi replies. He tucks her against his chest and kisses her hair. “I never thought I would piss you off enough to get you to hit me—and you did cause quite a scene in front of Wick.”

“Stop.” Just the sound of that monster’s name makes her stomach churn. “Stress is bad for the baby.”

He laughs, the first real laugh in what feels like days since he’s decided on this path with John Wick. “Fine, I will not mention him again. But know that after this, it will be done. Permanently. Forever. Si? Tell me you understand, Euphie.”

She’s so tired. She’s so tired down into her core, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap or a cup of coffee. “Si,” she replies, closing her eyes. “Capisco, Santi.”

Somehow, Santi’s words that things will be done “permanently” with John Wick only manage to make her more uneasy.

She can’t remember what exactly carries her through the rest of the evening. She remembers calling her mother to check on her, to ask if she’s keeping up with her meetings. She can’t bring herself to come clean about the surprise pregnancy; it’s early, anyway, and her mother would only stress her out more.

“Sei la mia stella più preziosa,” her mother says. “Ti amo, Effie.”

“Yes, mama,” Euphie sighs, unable to say the words back. “Buona notte.”

She hits the red end call button on the phone screen, setting it face-down on the countertop and leaning her palms against the marble. God, she knows that she’d fucking kill a man for a drag of a cigarette—but she could never. Not now. Not when she has—

The sound of paper on the countertop stirs her from her half-bent position. Santino slides it across to her, setting a pen down next to her hand. It’s their marriage certificate. He’s already signed it, and while she stares at it numbly, he takes her left hand and puts the engagement ring back on her finger, but this time with the diamond wedding band he’d picked out as well.

“Santi,” she starts, but he tsks his tongue, quieting her. She’s too tired to be offended.

“Sign the certificate, amore,” he says. “Do not fuss. You’re going to stop throwing this ring at me, yes?”

There are a million reasons not to sign it: but the words that came out of her mouth are, “We don’t have the witnesses or the officiant.”

“Do we need a witness or officiant greater than God himself?” Santino replies. He leans against the counter from the other side, watching her. He is polished, pristine. Any remains of her earlier transgression against him are now completely gone, at least the physical marks. She’s sure that he won’t forget very soon that she raised a hand against him. “Sign it, Euphie, and be my wife.”

She stares at the paper. She feels like she’s melting; her life can’t be real anymore, not when John Wick was, just hours ago, feet away from her, and she’s pregnant, and now Santino is asking her to sign their marriage certificate right now.

The implications fill her with dread. What’s the rush? If nothing’s wrong, if they’ll be done with John Wick, what’s the rush?

“You said that you had nothing before me,” Santino says, breaking her out of her eerie, absent-minded disconnect. He brushes the hair from her face. “You will never have nothing again.”

Euphemia signs the certificate in a haze. It doesn’t feel any different after; she doesn’t feel different and neither does Santino in relation to her, and the realization that they had felt married for a few years now sinks down on her.

Santino rounds the counter to her, taking her face and kissing her; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth and eventually just kissing her. His hand smooths over her stomach, admiring, and he brushes their noses together.

“Perfetto e tutto mio,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that right, Euphemia?”

She replies, without thinking, “Si, sono tuo.”

Always, she thinks, always yours, whether I like it or not.

[speedypandaweasel]

Change of Plans - A Yancy x Neutral! Reader

❤ REBLOGS WOULD BE APPRECIATED ❤

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 MASTERLIST

Where we left off:

So much for a lie in. You slowly rose from the cocoon of warmth you had made for yourself and you felt your toes wriggle up the bed and hiss at the exposed coldness of the room. Dragging yourself out of subconsciousness, your eyes finally decided to greet the grey interior and the black-barred window that perched just out of your arms reach. Why would they put such a tiny window if they didn’t want anyone to look out of it? Pretty pathetic actually. The Penitentiary really needed to repaint the bars, some of the black paint had flaked onto your pillow whilst you were sleeping.

You sat up, a little too quickly, and a cold, hard sensation hit the top of your body. Well good morning to you too World.

The unbearable ringing continued as you brought your arm down onto the squawking alarm clock. The room fell into a comfortable silence once more. 7:30am, not too bad, yet it could have been a little longer. Yet it was as if someone decided to balance a massive book on “how to not have a headache” on your already sore head. You’d ask Boggs for some paracetamol, or maybe some Ibuprofen as you tried to ponder on what did you do to deserve this...

~ Chapter 5 ~

MatchBox Analysis - 2.3K Words

"I'm here to speak to Officer Boggs." You timidly spoke, playing with the hem of your shirt. The man that towered in the small door frame in front of you was the most intimidating of all: Officer Rexx.

There were rumours about him that were too obscure and dangerous to mention twice, You only happen to hear about them when you overheard a couple of prisoners talking about "the anniversary" of how he lost his previous job, whatever that meant. To be frank, you didn't want to know about whatever hell hole he wriggled out of and treaded on eggshells around him, even if you weren't speaking to him. Something about that man caused you to feel insecure about something that you couldn't point your finger at, but there was no doubt that it was there.

"Yeah, he's in here." He paused for a moment. "You're one of the newer ones around here, aren't you? I've seen you around but never had the pleasure to meet."

He stuck out his grubby hand, his sausage fingers extended shortly at you, waiting for you to touch them. You grimaced before wiping that expression off your face. Rule 1: Never acknowledge the fingers.

You stuck out your hand bravely and shook his greasy one. His strong grip tightened around your knuckles as he shook hard, almost breaking your frail fingers.

"Well, I'll just go get him. Stay there." He spat. The door firmly closed behind him, the staff room's view blocked once again. You peeped through the mesh windows and managed to decipher the blurred silhouette of the sofa and coffee counter. You backed away as the door swung open again to the familiar face of Officer Boggs, his much shorter height made you relax second by the second.

"Oh hi Y/N, shouldn't you be outside?" He asked before shutting the door behind him, leaving the both of you outside in the wide hallway.

"Well I am, but I forgot to give you this from last night." You replied, planting your hand into your pocket before pulling out the owners key. Boggs let out a chuckle as his rosy cheeks grew even merrier.

"I forgot I gave you this! I'm glad that at least someone doesn't take my naivety for granted" He continued. "I respect that about you."

He unhooked the jingling keys from his beltline and clipped the Cafertiera key on the chain. He had a proud collection of keys to his name - being a veteran member of the Prison, it did have its perks.

"Well thank you, I really appreciate that Boggs. You know, sometimes I don't feel like I fit in here myself." Sounded cliche, you internally facepalmed yourself. Normally you wouldn't be telling this to anyone, but Boggs had been there since forever so it was nice to tell at least someone your true thoughts about staying here.

"Oh now don't think like that, every prisoner when they first come in her feels like that, but don't worry, I'm sure that the others will welcome you soon. Have you tried talking to them? I know you're not the socially inclined person but give it a shot. Who knows? You might actually enjoy their company" He concluded.

When Boggs gave advice, it could go two ways: either it was incredibly awful which ended in bad decisions being drawn from it, or it could be genuinely heartwarming and sincere words of wisdom. Thankfully, this was one of those pieces.

You allowed yourself to run over the speech the superior had just given and smiled. You could spark up a conversation with Yancy, you could ask him about what that poem meant! Maybe that could be the starting point of breaking out of your introverted shell.

"Thanks Boggs, I really do appreciate you." You said, before heading off outside.

"Have fun! But not too much fun, I don't want for you to get hurt!" His yells sounded down the empty corridor.

The mid-day sun blazed down on the steaming concrete, the prisoners having that work-out glow. Yancy had rolled his short sleeves even shorter, exposing his lesser-known tattoos, and his private box was stuffed in his trouser leg conveniently, away from the guard's view. If anyone found out what was in this box..well, it would ruin him.

Racing became tiresome after a couple of hours so the prisoners resorted to lazily running laps around the small quarter, this included the songbird himself.

"I tell's ya T, you wanna stop off for a few minutes? this box is gettin' uncomfortable." He protested, shifting his weight from one foot to another, finding a comfortable spot in his trouser leg.

"Why, you chickening out? Scared that someone will beat your record?" T retorted.

The prisoners slowed to a stop. Yancy regrettably paused his track game and attempted to get his ragged breath back.

"No ya dingus, it's 'cause dis box is scratchin' my skin off! I swear I's bleedin' down my shin by now."

Tiny's retort turned into concern as they pulled over to the side of the quarter. Once out of sight, Yancy slowly rolled his trouser leg up to his shin and took out the small, worn-out box from the bottom of his leg.

"Your leg hasn't been sawed off Yance, but you sure you need to keep it there? You could hurt yourself."

Yancy chortled shortly, not willing to admit that his friend was right. After what happened last time, he was going to learn from his mistakes. He rubbed his fading ankle bruise as he remembered the time he stayed in the medical ward. But the question was: where was he going put the little thing?

His eyes scanned the usual nooks and crannies that he had hid stuff in before, but word somehow got out and now everyone was using them for their secret stashes. Great - so much for having the upper hand.

His eyes continued to look for somewhere to stuff the thing until his ears pricked up on the outside door swinging open. His frustrated face broke into a smile as he saw you walk out timidly, and perching on a weight bench.

"Here, can youse hang on to it for a hot minute, just don't open it alight," He said, his curious eyes never leaving your sight.

Tiny was startled. The Boss never let them hold anything of his, let alone the one thing he persistently never left out of his sight. Tiny slipped the matchbox into their shoe before taking a squat down the brick wall as they watched their mate stride over to the newbie, but chose not to follow suit.

You picked at the seat cushion like it was the most interesting thing ever to you, whilst plucking up the courage to go and talk to the most confident person out here. Your eyes managed to look up. partially blinded from the sun but saw the small huddles of prisoners near the water pitches, walking around, or down by the blind spot. Guards stood at every entrance broadly, letting people in and out of the area, their moist uniforms made you wonder how the hell they managed to keep composure in this heat.

Your moment abruptly came as you saw the man of the hour coming towards you, his wide shoulders fully exposed to the heats rays. You knew he worked but w-w-wow.

"Finally decided to join in the fun eh?" He sprung up the conversation.

Chuckling, you look down, embarrassed and in amusement "And I'm guessing that this is the newest trouser look. Is this asymmetric chic? or is this just you trying to use illusion to become taller?" You threw a double whammy at him.

Yancy's shocked eyes bored into your own mischievous ones for a brisk moment. Suddenly, he exaggeratedly placed a hand on his chest before crumbling to the grass floor. "Oh de pain! I can't bear it anymore! Not another short joke!"

Other people around the quarter edge were starting to laugh along with his flailing and happily applauded when he finished his piece. The cheering and jeering died down as the conversation drifted back to normal, as Yancy dragged his trouser leg down and sidled up next to you and he bumped his hard shoulder next to yours.

"What a Drama Queen." You continued, letting out a small smile.

"What can I's say, I got's to get ma training in somewhere." He replied "So how's it been with you? Finish dat book yet?"

It was as if he read your mind! The topic of the poetry book caught your attention as you chipped away at your social shell. "Uh, not yet, but I did want to ask you a couple of questions about poem 19. You know, the one you recommended I read?"

The prisoner stretched his arms and placed them behind himself. "Oh yeah! It's one of ma favourites! I personally thinks its about de good and bad sides to love and once you've actually caught feelings for someone, it pains you to do things dat even surprise yaself. Youse got me?"

You would have never known that Yancy had a passion for literature, just listening to him made you even more dedicated to spending time with him. Boggs was right with his advice, it didn't bruise your ego that bad to socialise with new people, as it made you question what other things the man had up it sleeve - or trouser leg.

You rephrased yourself, "Ok then Yance, do you read poems often then?" your feet started to dance around the grassy floor, flattening pieces of green.

"So do you analyse poems often then Yancy?"

The man interrupted you "Oh please, call me Yance, only the big dog calls me Yancy."

"I used to when I was a youngin', my family hads a nice library ya see. Dey's had Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and some oder authors I can't remember but when youse a fabulous actor like myself, you gotta keep up ya noggin' in check." He smiled and looked out onto the busy area, almost reminiscing about his past life.

He never liked to bring up the subject of his past but when Yacny was with you, it felt- right. To finally talk about childhood memories and just laugh about them, instead of it always being dragged back to the soul reason why he was locked up at Happy Trails in the first place.

His strong arm planted on the side of your small shoulder as he gave you a tight squeeze. "How about youse? Do you read?"

"I-Uh... I"

Words formed in your mouth, yet your tongue was on holiday, not responding to any sentence your brain was throwing at you. Butterflies were born in your stomach as your face started to feel warm, too warm for your liking. What was happening? Were you having sunstroke!?

"Youse ok? Ya looking a little warm d'ere" Yancy said, dropping his arm from your side. "Youse want me to go grab you some water?"

This signalled your tongue to finally come back to work. "Oh. No, I'm fine thanks and yeah, I read, that's what I was going to ask about you actually." You said, forcing confidence.

"No way! Heh, I guess great minds think alike huh?" He replied, grinning his addicting smile. He looked over to where he left Tiny and an idea sprung in his scheming mind. "Hey, youse wanna come over to the wall, I got's a friend who you could meet. I mean, only if you wanna?" Yancy laughed, trying to sweetly coax you deeper into socialisation.

You hesitated. This man sure was alluring, but risking another episode like that caused you to reconsider. You bit your bottom lip, slightly, your eyebrows became sewn together as you weighted up your options. Either go over and run your social battery out completely, or decline and recover from this moment.

"Thanks Yance, but I think I'm done for the day." You responded. "All this talking and warm heat" and maybe some other things "has made my head spin a little."

"Ok, well if youse's sure." Yancy stood up once more and punched your shoulder "See you around Keys!"

You saw him walk back to his mate and sit down together under the shade of the building. You blissfully made your way back inside of Happy Trails, back with you and your own thoughts.

Its blasting air conditioner made your arms tingle as you pulled out a chair in the Cafeteria and went to reach for the poetry book. The silence hung much thicker in the air as you sat uncomfortably. Is this what withdrawal felt like? To be isolated not a minute after being surrounded by people. You kind of missed the feeling of having someone to talk to, but everyone had their boundaries - even you. You tried not to linger on the thought of feeling like you let Yancy down. He gave you the opportunity to help you overcome your fears but you didn't take it. Maybe next time you would take it, but for now, you did something new today: You should be proud of yourself.

You scanned around at the empty chairs and tables, the occasional guard whistling by the Cafeteria's door frame before you brought your head to the window. Your eyes soon spotted Yancy sashaying around with his friend. They must have said something funny because he soon showed his pearly whites, his chest rising and falling as his strong hand clutched his chest. Your eyes couldn't tear themselves away from this scene. The jailbird was the only person who actually tried with you. Smiling to yourself, you looked back up and your breath hitched. He was looking directly back at you and giving you a small wave. His smaller companion followed suit, shooting their hand straight up, frantically joining in. You sheepishly waved back before opening the book from you left off.

"Missed me Y/N?"