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sweetsweetjellybean · 1 year

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If Tomorrow Never Comes | Part 1 | Empty Streets

Summary: Trapped in the Upside Down, Steve is prepared to die alone until he finds you hurt and in need of help. Doing your best to survive while the world catches fire, is there time for one more chapter in your story?

Inspired by As The World Burns

Special thanks to @myeuphoricmindset for her permission and encouragement. Please go check out her amazing fic.

TW: FemReader, Eventual Smut, Mentions of self-harm & death. No Minors 18+ Series Masterlist WC: 5807

Steve watches the tears run down the flushed swell of Nancy’s cheeks, her delicate fingers pressed to her lips. A sorrowful smile stretches his mouth, his soft hazel eyes meeting her sky blue. The last blue. The gaping maw of the rift stitching closed for good. Forever. With Steve on one side and the rest of them safe on the other.

It was finally over and they had won. He decided long ago he couldn’t live if he lost one of them. So, in a split second decision, he gave his life to save them all. It had to be him. No complaints.

The last glimpse of blue shrinks into a sliver of bright light resembling the waning moon, disappearing until darkness and the red glow of death are all that’s left. He places his hand on the seam of the solid black rock, bowing his head, whispering his last goodbye.

He walks alone through the familiar decaying streets. The buildings crack and groan, pieces breaking off, turning to sand before they hit the ground. With Vecna dead, the Hawkins he created will be swallowed by the desert and the electrical storms until the world collapses in on itself and explodes in something akin to a supernova.

He knew all this when he called for El to close the gate. When he pushed a resisting Dustin through into Robin’s arms. In the end, Nancy, the kids, they were all that mattered. He had to die to become the man they deserved.

The man he always wanted to be.

The ending of his story has been written–there's no more guessing before turning the page. Loneliness wraps its icy fingers around his shoulder, bringing the comfort of an old friend. He feels lighter now that he's shed the ties and obligations to those he loves. He's free to choose his own death and not without options. Armed and still carrying the backpack stuffed with preparations to survive the last battle, he can walk to Forest Hill, put a bullet in his brain, and fall next to his friend, forever sharing his grave, but he's not there yet. He'd rather go out fighting, and the monsters filling this place will be eager to accommodate.

The wind picks up, blowing the golden-brown strands away from his face as he watches red bolts of lighting scorch through the thick omnipresent fog blanketing the sky to strike the clock tower of the public library. The building stands tall and imposing, still intact in this realm, rotting and covered with ropey vines. A storm is coming. He’ll need shelter soon. Maybe the white and brick house on Maple street. He could crawl into her bed and close his eyes, pretending as he drifts off the sleep that it was a night he snuck through her window. With any luck, he’d never wake up. The ground trembles with the deafening booms of thunder, but as he walks away, it’s a quieter sound that catches his ears.

“Help me, please.”

“Careful,” Steve warns, steadying you with an arm around your waist before taking the binoculars out of your hands, letting them hang by the strap around your neck, “Stop walking if you’re going to use those or you’re going to end up catching your boot in a crack.” He motions to the gaps in the dry limestone bed of lovers lake.

“Where were you two weeks ago?” You ask with a wry smile, yanking down the handkerchief that covers your nose and mouth. “Maybe I’m too clumsy to be a geologist?”

“It’s okay to laugh, Steve,” you tell him when his tight-lipped expression doesn’t waver.

Fourteen days ago, he pulled you from a pile of debris through the raging winds into the windowless back room of a flower shop, where he helped you clear the sand from your eyes and stitched the gash in your leg. He sat on the floor across from you, back pressed against the mildewing floral wallpaper, the sweet putrid perfume of decaying carnations filling your nose with the scent reminiscent of a funeral while he explained where you were and why you wouldn’t be leaving.

As an undergrad from Perdue sent to study the rift, you had been harnessed, hanging just inside the opening of the gate, taking samples when the earth quaked and your tether snapped. If it weren’t for Steve, you wouldn’t have survived the night and he’s protected you since. Taking out stray dogs and a few bats while scavenging for food and supplies. He assures you there are other things out there. Worse things. You’ve heard their screeches and howls between the thunder claps late into the frigid nights while you lay pressed against his warm back—safe.

He’s the hero from the storybooks that you read as a little girl, trading the armor for a leather jacket and flak vest, but still just as tragic. A ghost moving through a fog. His sorrow blends him into the landscape, keeping you at arm’s length. If you had met before all of this. Bumped into him on the street or at a coffee shop, you still would have known that he was someone you could trust.

He casts a skeptical eye your way but you don’t miss how the corner of his mouth rises just a little. “I don’t like being out in the open like this.” His nose scrunches as his eyes roam the rolling gray clouds that keep the Upside Down in perpetual gloaming.

“We need to find water. I can’t keep brushing my teeth with flat Sprite.”

Gallons of sour milk and fermented juice fill the coolers at Bradley’s Big Buy, but the plastic containers of water all sit empty just like every river, well, and stream in this version of Hawkins.

“How many more days are we going to waste on this?” He stands just behind you while you scan the lake bed, so close you feel the warmth of his breath in your hair.

“You have somewhere else to be?”

Entire sections of town have disappeared. Neighborhoods and buildings are falling into unstable fissures and there are fires burning in the east. It won’t be long now but you need this and so does he. Something to focus on.

“Everything in this place is damp. There are constant storms–”

“But no rain,” he counters.

“That we’ve seen. There are plants. There are animals. There’s water. Does it look like the land slopes downward over there?”You point to a spot where the trees are denser and closer to the lake bed.

“I guess.” He squints in the direction of your finger until you hand him the binoculars that are still around your neck. He stoops and leans in close, pressing the glass to his eyes. “Yeah, it looks that way.”

“Then that’s where we need to go.” Taking back the glasses, you set out navigating the dry, cracked terrain. Picking your way through the vines and rocks.

As you walk along, Steve’s eyes stay fixed on a rowboat draped in the coiled, spiked tendrils. He swallows hard, face paling. The pained, haunted look marring his features has the dull ache of sympathy sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone.

“Steve,” your voice stays gentle as your fingers slide against the rough skin of his palm, wrapping around his fingers. He flinches and jerks his hand away.

“Sorry,” he says, like he’s suddenly realized you’re there.

“Are you okay?”

“Fi-“ he clears his throat, “Fine.” He continues ahead of you, walking toward the woods.

"No. No way."

The short, wide, yawning mouth of the cave was tucked at the bend of a steep hill covered by browned moss and woody stalks of dead brush.

"Steve–"

"We're not going in. No shot. It could be full of bats. Without another exit we could get pinned down."

“Then you can wait here,” you say, ducking under the cave's entrance.

After a click, the beam of your flashlight cuts through the darkness and bounces off the glittering limestone that drips down the walls of the narrow passage like candle wax. The darkness presses in, your panting breaths echo as your courage starts to flee until you hear an annoyed “Goddammit” and the heavy fall of Steve’s boots as he comes in behind you.

His eyes follow the beam of his light scanning the cave's high ceiling that’s crowded with sharp tipped stalactites before he wretches them to you, his expression turning wary. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I’m not worried.” Your hand wraps around his forearm sliding down the worn leather sleeve, stopping short of taking his hand, you give his wrist a light squeeze before releasing him.

“Are you always this tenacious?”

“Always.” You cautiously start down the tunnel, watching for loose rocks and small formations, “It’s a character flaw. I’m an eternal optimist. Everything happens the way it’s supposed to.”

“Hmmm,” he murmurs, looking away to study the walls.

After a curve, the passage widens and the rushing of water amplifies, up ahead a faint azure glow highlights a keyhole opening. Steve hands you his flashlight and reaches back grabbing the axe attached to the back of his pack. His hands adjust his grip on the handle as he holds it at the ready. With a silent tilt of his head, he motions you behind him as he pauses at the mouth of the chamber. Keeping the flashlights pointed low, you light his path.

“It’s a ledge. A big step down.” He calculates his movement before hopping down. He moves the axe to one hand reaching out for you with the other. Clicking off one of the flashlights you shove it in your jacket pocket before taking his hand, you try to gauge the distance like he had but your foot slips at the last moment. The clang of the axe hitting the stone floor reverberates through the cave when he drops it to catch you.

“Maybe you are too clumsy,” he comments, both hands gripping your hips. Your hands slide from around his neck to his shoulders, staying pressed against him longer than necessary, your eyes locked with his - the gold flecks a contrast in the soft blue light. The spell breaks and he steps back, bending to retrieve his weapon.

“It’s…beautiful.”

You’ve stepped into a glittering cavern. Luminescent turquoise orbs with trailing silky threads cling to the jagged domed ceiling high above a steaming basin of crystal clear water. The underground world's best impression of the starry night sky. This might be as close as you get to seeing it again.

“I’m impressed,” his axe hangs at his side with one hand on his hip, “You were right.”

His praise has you beaming as you move to the craggy edge of the basin and shrug off your pack.

“Make it fast,” he peers through the steam into the water, “I don’t wanna be around when whatever lives here comes home.”

“I don’t think anything does.” Dropping to your knees, you unzip your pack pulling out the supplies you’ll need and lining them up, “There are no tracks or vines or anything. There aren’t even any spores floating in the air. Didn’t you say they don’t like the heat?”

A fine layer of steam swirls just above the surface of the water, dampening your skin and curling the fine hair at your temples when you reach over the rim to collect a water sample. Carefully, you pour a little into the four test tubes and place them in a rack adding a test strip to each one.

“What about those things?” His finger extends to the neon lights above.

“If we were at home, I’d say glow worms.” You grip the hem of your sweatshirt, pulling it over your head and placing it on your pack.

“Whatever they are, they don’t seem too bothered by us,” he muses, “What are you doing now?” He steps closer, peering over your shoulder as you lower the rope with your geological thermometer attached at the end into the water.

“Measuring the depth and taking the temperature.” The water reflects the lights making it seem lit from below. It’s so clear you can see the metal tube of the thermometer hit the sandy bottom. Handing him the end of the rope you move back to your test tubes. Pulling out the strips, using your flashlight to compare them to the control printed in the kit.

"It's safe to drink." A wave of relief washes over you. Clean water greatly increases your chances of survival.

"Really? You're sure?" The surprise in his voice is clear. He didn't expect to get this far.

"I mean..yeah," you sit back on your feet, rubbing your palms over the denim covering your thighs, "We can add some iodine to be sure, but tonight we'll have drinkable water."

Hand over hand, he pulls the line out from the water. He lets the shiny metal tube dangle for a moment. The water runs down edges dripping back into the basin before he gives it to you to interpret.

"About four feet deep with a temp of 100 degrees. Perfect." Winding the wet string around the thermometer, you place it back in your kit and repack the rest of your supplies, leaving out your empty canteen.

"Perfect for what?" His brows draw in at the middle as he watches you loosen the laces of your boots.

"What do you think?" You pull off one boot and then the other, removing your stripey socks and then stuffing them inside.

"You're not getting in there," he scoffs, hands moving to his hips.

"Steve," you sigh, standing and unbuttoning your pants and lowering the zipper, "I'm absolutely going in there." The denim material is heavy and damp from the humidity, sticking to your skin as you peel the jeans down your legs trying your best to not let them drag on the dirt covering the cavern's floor. "It’s been two weeks since I've showered. I stink and so do you."

"This is stupid." His head shakes and he looks upwards, eyes roaming the jagged rock walls as you slip your shirt over your head.

"It's a necessity. Besides, hot springs are supposed to be really good for you." Your fingers work the clasp of your bra and it slips down your arms. His gaze returns as you drop the lacey garment onto the growing pile of your clothing. Now you have his full attention. Even in the dim light, it's clear his eyes darken.

Ignoring the way your heart beats wildly, your thumbs hook under the silk of your panties and they slide down your hips, "There's not much point in being shy."

With false bravado you face him naked and vulnerable, letting his eyes drink you in, "We have to take care of each other, right?"

The torrent of water is louder in the absence of his answer as it cascades through an opening in the wall feeding the basin. Holding his stare, you walk along the water's edge until you find a spot where the limestone dips and becomes smoother creating a natural point of entry.

"Be careful." He moves closer watching you step in.

A moan slips from your lips as you sink down letting the heat loosen the tension in your muscles, enjoying the slight sting while your skin acclimates to the temperature. Pinching your nose with your thumb and forefinger, you dip your head below the surface into the quiet depths.

He's crouching at the basin's rim letting his fingers trail through the water when you emerge, slicking back your hair, wiping away the drips clinging to your eyelashes. His lips part and you know what he's seeing, the astral light reflecting in the rivulets running down your throat, over your breasts joining the sheen covering your skin.

"Are you coming in?"

He pulls his hand from the water, fingers flicking away the wetness and you can practically see the gears turning in his head while deciding if it’s okay to allow himself this simple pleasure.

“It’s safe, Steve. You can live a little,” you say with your sweetest smile, bending your knees so you're submerged up to your neck, watching the cracks in his resolve widen.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” He asks with a heavy sigh, unsheathing the knife that he carries on his belt and placing it on a smooth rock at the edge of the pool.

“I’m the one who has to smell you.” Taking a few steps backward to where the basin deepens enough that you can tread water without being over your head.

His Baretta joins his knife before his fingers loosen the laces of his boots. He stands shrugging off his heavy jacket and vest letting them hit the ground with a thwack that echoes through the cave before pulling his dark gray thermal over his head adding it to the pile. Your arms glide beneath the water while your eyes travel the path from the dips in his collar bone over the expanse of his broad chest that tapers into narrow hips.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat as he works his belt loose and you don’t feel the slightest bit of shame that he's caught you ogling. The way the corner of his mouth lifts tells you he doesn’t mind either.

“You wanna turn around?” He asks, thumbs popping the button on his cargo pants before he moves on to the zipper.

“Nope. I’m good.”

His eyes roll before he lowers his pants and boxers, holding them in front of himself until he catches your gaze and tosses them aside. Your lips part as you suck in a much needed breath. His half aroused cock stands out from his body. Long and thick, the pink veiny shaft and perfectly shaped head bobs, swelling further under your scrutiny. He walks toward the shallow end, and you catch the full smirk twisting his lips.

“Now you can smile.” You splash him as he steps into the water shrugging, his grin continuing to broaden.

His eyes flutter closed as more of his body disappears into the steaming pool, gentle waves lapping at his torso, then shoulders, then neck. A low grown rumbles from his throat just before his head slips under completely. He resurfaces in front of you, muscles of his arms tightening as he pushes the hair from his face.

"Fuuck," his mouth remains parted as he draws out the vowel, a water drop clinging to his plush bottom lip, "This feels good."

It's hard to take your eyes off him in this light. Heat floods your belly, but it’s not the water, you want to be what’s making him feel good. He’s already given away his heart, you're certain, but she’s not here and you are.

"It's nice to be warm. It's so cold here." You drift closer, breathing in the heated air.

"You're cold?" He asks, brows knitting together.

"Sometimes…mostly at night." A pang of guilt has you wishing you hadn’t mentioned it. The last thing you want is to cause him any more worry. "Are these new?" You reach out, fingers ghosting over purple black bruises on his shoulder and chest.

His head bows looking at the spot you just caressed, "Maybe. I can't keep track." He straightens to his full height, chest rising above the surface, water running through the thick patch of chest hair revealing several more bruises in various stages of healing.

"I'm sorry," you swallow hard before continuing, fingers dancing over the freckles on his skin, "I know you're doing this–"

He coughs and sinks back into the water, patting his chest, "I think the steam is loosening up some of that shit we've been breathing in."

His head tips back and you follow suit watching the tiny glowing creatures attached to the rocky dome, their silvery tails gently swaying like they’re blowing in a breeze. There's beauty in their simple existence. Head dropping back down, you catch his stare, he’s closer now, and the way he looks at you sends all your thoughts fleeing.

"It's nice here. Quiet," his arms sweep in arcs just below the surface, hands brushing against yours when they meet in the narrow space between you, "I can almost pretend I’m somewhere else."

"Yeah?" Floating closer, you look up at him from under wet lashes. There’s something in his eyes, a fire, making the gold flecks look molten. The gap between you narrows, his chest brushes your nipples. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. He moves away, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

“Do you do a lot of skinny dipping?” You ask, trying to draw him back in, craving the connection. He peers at you unsure if he should answer.

“Come on, Steve. Tell me your secrets.” Biting your lip to hide the mischief in your smile, you draw a cross over your heart, "I promise not to tell."

He raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. “I guess I’ve done my fair share. There was a girl-“

“There always is.”

“Are you going to let me tell you?” With a swift move of his hand, he sends a splash of water in your direction.

“Please, continue,” you giggle with a wave of your hand, licking the water off your lips.

“She and I would sneak out late at night. Meet at the lake to be together." He looks away as he tells you, lost in the memory.

"Midnight Love. Sounds romantic."

“I don’t think she would agree,” his eyes roam the stoney walls where glowing lights fade in and out, “She wanted more and I couldn’t give it to her. There was someone else.” He meets your eyes, wanting you to understand his contrition, “I should have been honest with her. Let her move on. I know better now. I’m all done breaking hearts.”

“Will you be honest with me?” It doesn’t matter what he's done. He’s shown you who he is, and that man is one that you believe in.

“Yes.” The word is heavy on his lips, the look in his eyes confirming his promise. “I can give that to you.”

Nodding your head in acceptance, you feel the shift, bared to each other, the wall between you falls to pieces like the replica of the town that surrounds you. It gives you the courage to ask what you really want to know, “What about the girl you’re in love with, the one that’s up there waiting for you with tears in her eyes? Don’t you think her heart is broken?”

“How did–"

Shrugging, you wait for him to continue.

“We weren’t together,” he confesses, “Turns out I couldn’t give her what she needed either.”

“That’s why you're here? Because you weren't enough for her? Your friends, don’t you think they need you?”

“It's not about her. It's about all of them,” he explains, his voice thick with pain. “Before all this, all the things I thought were important were just bullshit. They held up a mirror in front of me. It made me change directions, made me try to be better. But I moved too slowly and when they really needed me, I couldn't protect them. You know how you said everything happens for a reason?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this is it. This is my reason. I had to make sure they’re safe. They can all grow up and do whatever it is that they are supposed to do, be whoever they are supposed to be. Staying behind. Letting them go,” he lays a hand over his heart, “That’s how I became who I was supposed to be and I could finally give that to them.”

“Steve…” You want to scream at him that he’s wrong. He had to be enough for them because he was already everything to you. But it would rob him of the meaning in his death, so you stay silent and let the unspoken words sink beneath the water.

“Okay, it’s your turn. You owe me a secret,” his tone turns light, and he claps his hands together, rubbing them back and forth, “Make it a good one.”

“Let’s see,” you squint up at the ceiling, “I started sneaking my mom’s cigarettes junior year and blamed it on my sister.”

“Come on, you can do better than that. I bet a pretty girl like you has left behind a trail of broken hearts. I want the good stuff.”

“You think I’m pretty?” You ask, tipping your head onto your shoulder with a grin.

“You know you are,” his eyes roll, “Don’t try to get out of it.”

“Fine,” you pout, flicking water in his direction, “I don’t think I broke any hearts. Maybe bent a few. My friends are always losing their heads over some guy. Acting crazy. All in the name of love. I always wanted that, you know? To get swept away in some sort of fairytale romance. It just never happened for me. I thought there would be more time. I thought…"

You’ve been looking at life through a wall of rose-colored glass, sweetening your view just enough to avoid reality. Saying the words out loud, admitting it yourself–to him, you’ve crashed straight into it, the broken shards cutting you with the truth.

“We’re not going to make it home, are we?”

“Do you still want the truth?” He asks, knowing you already know the answer.

"I had a list," you swallow hard, ignoring the sting behind your eyes. "I thought if we could find water, we could check that off and solve the next problem and the next. Then we'd somehow figure out a way back. You told me from the beginning but I was too stupid–"

"Hey, you're not stupid." He moves a hand to your cheek, brushing away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "It's not stupid to have hope."

"But it doesn't matter." Your hand covers his, indulging in his touch a moment longer before pushing it away.

“That’s where you're wrong. It doesn’t change anything, but it matters.”

“I’m starting to feel tired. Would you mind if we leave?” Brushing past, you climb out onto the ledge. The water cascading off your body darkens the limestone floor. Your back stays turned away from him while you yank your underwear on over damp legs. The splashing sounds let you know that he is following suit. Your jeans are difficult to shimmy over your hips without drying off and you skip the bra entirely, leaving your shirt to absorb the water. Once you leave the warmth of the cave, you'll be freezing–you should have listened to Steve.

Another bad decision made with good intentions. The list of I’ll Nevers unfurls in front of you covering the path where your future should be. He had figured it out much sooner than you did. Everything you worked for and planned for was all just bullshit. Maybe if you had someone to hold up a mirror, your list would be shorter.

The cave seems smaller, the walls press in as you finish getting dressed and gathering your gear. Space will give you perspective, although you still dread seeing that terrible red sky.

"Are you‐"

Your breath leaves through your parted lips when his hand tugs your hip, turning you, pulling you flush against his chest. He looks down at you, eyes burning, wet hair plastered to the nape of neck drips water down the column of his throat soaking his thermal. The plush curve of his lips so close to your own.

"You're not supposed to be here," he growls as his grip tightens. "I wish you weren't. I wish you had never met me. I wish..."

The tears spill over your lash line and streak down your cheeks, you can taste their saltiness on your lips. His head dips toward you and your eyes flutter closed, holding your breath while you wait to feel the pressure of his lips. Longing and despair give way to a fear that he'll give you what you want because he grieves with you, and that will never be enough to stop the ache. But his kiss never comes. His touch lingers on your skin once he's let you go and you stand there with your eyes still shut as you listen to him walk away.

By the time you make it out of the cave, the scarlet sky has dimmed to a deep crimson, and Steve decides it’s best to stick to the cover of the trees and spend the night in one of the cabins nestled on the shore among the forest of dead wood, instead of crossing back over the dry lake bed. Mercifully, the rolling storm clouds are gathering west of here, across town, leaving the woods quiet beside the dry leaves crunching underfoot. Your silence is an itch under his skin. He wants to apologize, but he’s not exactly sure what for. He meant the things he said, but he hadn’t intended it to sound so harsh. The light in your eyes has been the only thing pulling him back from the darkness of his own thoughts, but he can’t keep pretending. He’s accepted that this was how his story ends, but the way you look at him tempts him into believing there could be another chapter.

A war rages inside him, confusion over when protecting you became something more. Something that feels like he’s betraying her, even though she’s a world away. The truth is, he wants you. Your endless hope, the smiles you dole out like they cost you nothing, like you don’t realize that they have become as necessary to him as the air he’s breathing. Every day, the feeling of you belonging to him grows, but it’s all mixed up with pain and resentment. He was to meet death with a calm embrace, but fate decided that peace was more than he deserved. Now he’ll fight with his last ounce of strength to give you one more breath, and part of him blames you for that. He wants inside you, to claim you as his, but he can’t accept your comfort without making the pain at the end worse for both of you.

These thoughts and questions, you, Nancy, are different currents clashing in a riptide, and he’s trying his best to keep his head above water. As the mist thins, a tiny cottage comes into view, partially hidden by the brush and the gloom. The flaking white paint and curling black shingles are tinged green with mold. With a lone vine, dry and dead, snaking down from the roof across the weathered door. He reaches out, wrapping a hand around your wrist, conveying with a look that you should wait here for him to clear the inside. Walking up the three stone steps, he unsheathes his knife to cut away the vine. It takes a few firm pushes from his shoulder to get the warped door to budge from its frame. The musty air hits his nose as soon as it swings open. This place has been closed up tight. Steve moves quickly through the small space, checking for any signs of creatures, but it’s untouched aside from a few dead vines wrapped around the exposed beams of the ceiling.

When he returns, you’re standing with your arms crossed over your chest, but the look written across your delicate features has changed to anger. His brows pull together, and his lips part to speak, but you beat him to it.

“I don’t wish that.”

“What?” He asks, confused.

“That I never met you. I don’t wish that,” you move closer until your toe to toe with him. “I’m here for a reason. My life has a purpose too,” you say, laying a hand over your heart, anger and sadness making your voice crack. “If you think you’re supposed to die for them. Then I’m here to make sure you aren’t alone.”

The way his mouth gapes in surprise only fuels your resolve.

“You’re not supposed to be alone.” You turn away and walk inside. He follows, shutting the door behind you.

A chill seeps through the damp mattress and the thick stack of crochet blankets piled on top. Despite being fully clothed, the cold works its way through the layers of material straight through to his skin. He’s lying on his side, staring at the closed door of the bedroom, replaying the words you said over and over. He can feel you behind him. Tiny pockets of heat wherever you connect, your forehead pressed to his back, hands tucked between you, the material of his sweatshirt balled in your fist. He’s still not sure what he should have said. The rest of the evening was spent without discussion. In his head, every sentence he forms is chased away with the image of you standing in the cave with your eyes closed, ready to be kissed. His instinct is to act first and think later, but this time the consequence is your heart, and he’s never been more unsure.

“Did you hear about the drunk geologist?”

“What?” It takes a second for your words to break through his thoughts.

“He finally hit rock bottom,” you deadpan, your breath warming his back. “Do you know what kind of fruit geologists eat?”

His mouth quirks. Somehow you know just what he needs.

“Pome-granite.”

He rolls over to face you. Your eyes gleam in the darkness, lashes fluttering, your lips stretched into a smile, you’re so beautiful, and it makes him feel lightheaded.

“You know you have to be patient with us geologists…we all have our faults.”

“God, these are so bad,” he says, his hand landing on your hip, his thumb finding its way under the edge of your sweatshirt to draw circles on your skin.

“I have more.” Your hands smooth up the front of his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, eyes locking with his, and he can see it again, the hope. It’s a beacon in a fog guiding him home.

“Of quartz, you do.”

Your giggles make his smile bigger until he can feel it in the apples of his cheeks. It feels like it’s been forever since he’s felt like this–you make him happy.

“Let me warm you up,” he says when your laughter subsides. His hands smooth over your shoulders until they’re wrapped around your back, pulling you closer, not stopping until your forehead is against his lips and there is no space left between you. Sighing softly, you push a leg between his, until you fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Thank you,” you whisper, but as your warmth fills all the cold places inside him, he knows he should be thanking you.

AN: Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear what you think? Are these two going to make it? Did you spot the easter egg from our friend @loveshotzz? I'll give you hint this ties in to one of her fics. Do me a soild and reblog if you liked it. 💋 -Jelly

Part 2 Here

#steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #steve x reader #steve harrington x fem #stranger things fanfiction #if tomorrow never comes

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viasblogs · 4 months

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Plead - Ellie Williams

picture by strangerdais on pinterest!

- Summary: you and Abby were childhood friends until she betrayed you, holding you back as one of her friends murdered your brother. You and Ellie spend your days tracking her down for sweet revenge.

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“I always wondered why I struggled to be vulnerable. I could never decide between the silence of my mother or the rage of father.”

- Warnings: the story may not follow the storyline, oops Sensitive subjects, death, torture, Abby’s an ass, knife play, guns, murder, revenge, name calling, strong language, tw: owen, intense fights, skull cracking, 1.5k words, not proof read (will be done eventually)

“Oh hey- Abby? Is everything okay?” You pondered. She had stormed into the room, a cruel expression pinned onto her once soft features. Your eyebrows furrowed as you let her drag you by the arm out of the room.

She didn’t make any sound, not even breaths, as she dragged you to a house. It was old, weeds and plants growing out of every crevice. Not one window was fully intact, and inside the walls were painted with blood.

You mouth fell open at the scene in front of you. Your brother was chained to a pipe in the corner of the room, red dripping down his face and nose as it looked at his lips.

“What happened? What’s going on?” You said hurriedly. As you tried to run over to him, Abby pulled you back by your shirt. You clawed to get her hands off you, and when you looked up at her face you could see the rage behind her skin.

A man walked in, blonde with a beard, and a pipe dusted with blood in his scratched hand. Tears welled in your eyes as you tried your best to run forward.

“Abby, what the fuck? Let me go!” You screamed, trying to push her hand away. As the man creeped closer to your unconscious brother you sucked a mouthful of air in.

“No, no, no!” You screamed, the man’s pipe connecting repeatedly with your brothers head, chest and neck. You turned to Abby once again, your eyes glazed with disappointed and fear. Her eyes seemed empty, almost as if she was locked in a trance.

Once your brothers chest had stopped pulsating, Abby still wouldn’t let you free. You were held to watch as the mystery man smugly left the room, his greedy eyes fixated on the blond behind you.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?” You sobbed as you turned around the girl you once called your best friend, “you’re fucking evil, Abby.”

Suddenly, it was two years later. The memory still haunted you daily. You felt it didn’t matter how far you tried to outrun it, your brothers face followed you everywhere.

It was as if he lived behind your eyelids, you saw him every time they closed. You could still feel the same amount of rage you did while living it.

So that being said, during late September, you gathered all of your guns and knives. You collected necessities and put on your coat ready for the freezing winter nights.

The sky was black, freckles of silver blinking down at you. As you stared up at them, you wondered if it were actually possible to touch them. Your legs dragged you through Jackson, house lights all switched off.

“Where are you going?” A familiar voice asked you. You turned around on your heels, looking in the direction of the voice.

“Ellie, go back inside.” you said out loud. You knew if you told her your plan she’d make you stay, but you couldn’t. Your head was longing for nasty revenge. You tried to keep walked, but she ran out and stopped you with a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, you don’t have to be the villain, you know?” She spoke. You felt she knew what you were up to, and was surprised. She knew about what happened, and she knew Abby killed Joel.

She continued, “but I do. So let’s go.”

She started walking in the direction you were going, but you stood still. If in a different circumstance, you would’ve laughed at her words.

“Ellie, you’re not coming with me.” You sternly mumbled to her, “you have a family, Ellie. A child!”

Ellie stayed quiet, as if assessing all of her options in her head. Eventually she nodded, turning around and walking back into her house. You were upset by the lack of goodbye, but continued forwards anyway.

You stood at the edge of Jackson, overlooking all of the houses from a hill. The sun was rising but still hidden behind mountains. You had to be completely gone by sunrise, so if someone tried to find you they couldn’t.

You set out for Seattle, where you father lived (last time you checked.) He belonged to the Washington Liberal Front, and you a sneaky suspicion that’s where Abby would be.

As you walked you daydreamed about smashing her head against a wall, then thought that probably wasn’t healthy. So, you switched the daydreaming about strangling her instead.

You felt as thought you were walking for days, though it was probably only about 1 pm. You were now in the town over from Jackson, the wooden building creating an eery vibe.

However, you didn’t have time to be afraid, and you used your need for revenge to stroll through. That was until you heard the yells of angry men.

You hid behind an old car, the windows all smashed in. Their guns shit at the metal, and you were suddenly rather nervous. Yet, you knew you couldn’t die now. You had started this, it was your job to finish it.

You pulled your pistol from your jeans, poking up from the hood of the car, shooting one of them between the eyes. Fighting had always been your strength, you weren’t good at being stealthy.

As a guy ran full speed behind you, you grabbed a rusted pipe from the ground and swung. The hit made him stumbled, so you grabbed him by the shirt and swung him into the car, then using your hand to crack his skull.

You panted as you looked around, eyes scanning desperately for anymore people. You spotted a man behind the car opposite yours and pulled out your revolver, holding it ready.

When he popped his head up, you shot. It hit him in the shoulder though didn’t kill him completely. You ran over, shooting him two more times to be sure. When you were sure that was all of them, you started a run.

You entered an old shop, the shelves bare. A man walked in through the door, the bell above him ringing. He was talking to himself, telling you to come out and fight him as you hid behind the counter.

You grabbed your knife, waiting for him to round the corner. You noticed he wasn’t carrying a gun like the other, just an old wooden baseball bat. As his shoe popped into frame you stabbed his ankle, him swinging his bat at you.

You held your cheek as you ran, the man closely behind you on a dodgy ankle. As you ran out of the store, you pulled out your revolver again, turning around to shoot him. You caught him once in the leg and once in the stomach.

That was enough for him to fall, so you kept running. You spotted a horse tied to someone house and whispered an apology had you grabbed the reins and hopped on, leading the horse out of town.

When you were fat enough away, you stopped the horse, trying his leashes to a tree branch. He was cute, a black horse with a white patch behind his ear. You scavenged through your backpack, finding a cloth and wiping away at the blood dripping down your face.

“Well,” you sighed, “that was fun.”

The horses ears perked up, as if he was listening to you.

“We need to get you a name.” You stated to yourself as you climbed back on him. Then you wondered if maybe he already had one. You started guessing names, trying to see if he would answer to any of them.

“Ugh, this is impossible!” You groaned, the horse casually walking along the trail of the woods, “I bet it’s some stupid shit, like screwdriver.”

The horse turned its neck slightly to look at you, and for a second you thought you got it right. When your tried again, he ignored you.

Maybe it’s something similar You thought.

“Nail? No, okay. Let’s try… Bolt! Fuck okay.” You listed a bunch of tools, “Hammer?”

When the horse stopped and turned to completely look at you, you laughed. Who come up with the name hammer?

“Okay then, Hammer it is.” You chuckled as the horse Hammer started his walk again. You slowly ventured further into the forest, the sky above you blocked by a blanket of dying leaves.

You stopped Hammer down by a river, finding a place to set up camp for the night. You decided that was your best option as you didn’t want to tire Hammer out before you could get close to Seattle.

You tied his reins to a tree branch, curious as to if he’d run off if you didn’t. You sat on a log, your head in your hands before you set up the your sleep arrangements.

You didn’t like the idea of being in a tent, so you settled for just a sleeping back. With a “humph!”, Hammer laid down next to you, almost shielding you with his large body.

You stroked his stomach before drifting off into an uncomfortable sleep.

You woke up to the sound of gun shots and clicker, which had became a lullaby for you. You sat up faster than the speed of light and reached for your shotgun, lifting it up.

You looked across the river bank, a herd of clickers twitching their way across the river. A gunshot snapped you into reality and you pointed your gun at the culprit.

“Ellie?”

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alpacaparkaseok · 3 months

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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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thanotaphobia · 5 months

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kintsugi kid

tubbo and fit post-purgatory conversation, i'm just practicing voices ngl, and loving it

crossposted to ao3

⋆

The air smells like sea spray and blood.

Tubbo hasn’t really taken the time to clean himself up, since the boat left the shores of Purgatory. The dried blood has congealed under his nose, making his skin feel tight and warm whenever he scrunches up his face. He can feel it cracking when he moves, but he makes no effort to wipe it away. Occasionally, above the smell of the sea and his own sweat, he smells it. Thick and irony and tangy, in the way all blood is. There’s some spattered on his hands, underneath his fingernails– a cut on his arm has stopped actively bleeding, but every time he shifts the dried blood on top cracks and some more oozes out, sluggish.

He’s sitting on the left side of the boat, tucked up between the inside wall and the railing that leads to a short drop into the water. He’d thought about throwing himself off it, in the first hour or so. Swimming back to the island and trying to find the eggs again in the wreckage– a little radiation never hurt anyone.

The mushroom cloud had kind of killed that vibe, though.

He’d chickened out before he could convince himself to jump.

Knees against his chest, Tubbo places one cheek on his leg and thinks. He stares out at the invisible horizon, the blue sea melting into the sky like there’s no line at all. He can barely tell where the clouds stop and the whitecaps begin. Occasionally, a spray of water comes up the side of the boat as it sails endlessly forward, piloted by some invisible force.

He’s alone, for the first time in a while. Thinking back on it, Tubbo actually can’t remember the last time he was truly by himself. For the past two weeks, there’s always been some member of his team with him, or on a voice call with him, even when they were physically separated. It was easier with a buddy system.

Tubbo knows there are others on the boat, sure. Phil, Fit, Bagi, Mouse, Roier– they’re all here with him, and maybe a few others who had swum out after they’d pushed away from the shore. He thinks about Tina. He thinks about Bad. He thinks about Dapper.

In the frantic first few hours, Tubbo hadn’t wanted to be alone. But Phil had collapsed the moment he felt he could, his wings ragged and limp behind him, dragging like two wet canvas sacks along the decks. Fit had stayed with him to watch over him while he slept, not by Phil’s request, but it was easy to see he didn’t need to ask. Phil found a couch inside the boat and practically fell into it, and Fit sat beside him. Within seconds, Phil had been out.

When Tubbo had tried talking to Roier, the guy had all but run away from him, unresponsive and distant. Bagi and Mouse were talking to each other in low tones, and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt.

So he’d hidden himself away, the sudden silence of everything but his own breath and the waves is a strange relief.

He thinks of it like a debrief. Sitting on the edge of the boat, he’d taken mental stock of his body– all his limbs were intact. His mechanical pinky and ring finger were still in working order, although a bit creaky. His nose is definitely broken, sore and crooked in his own line of sight, and he’s got more cuts and bruises than he can count. Around his wrists are rope burns, red and shiny and angry. But despite the pain– all his joints move, none of his bones are broken, and he’s alive.

He’s alive.

Tubbo starts crying.

He hates crying– hates when his nose and throat get clogged up, and he’s already been pretty consistently spitting out blood for the past four hours, so he tries to hold it back. But the tears come faster than he can even admit to himself, so he stops trying not to cry and just sits there, silently staring out at the water as his vision blurs and tears drop from his cheeks to his knees, leaving dark stains in the fabric of his pants.

It’s just… he tried. He tried so hard to fight and to save Chayanne and Tallulah and all the other eggs. And none of it seemed to fucking matter in the end.

Tubbo’s not upset about losing to Phil. He knew that would be the outcome the moment the observer had said it was happening. Tubbo’s ability to win hinges on his confidence, and a one-on-one with Phil is something he knows he can never win.

His insides feel like they should be on his outside. Raw, unfettered grief pours through him like water through a sieve, all his cogs and gears stuttering to a halt and skipping back over that thought like a broken record.

He tried. He tried. He tried.

For a while Tubbo just sits there, not even bothering to wipe away his tears as guilt rolls over him like one of the waves crashing against the side of the boat. He probably looks a mess, but he just doesn’t care. It’s too tiring to care.

He stops, though, when he hears footsteps. Sniffles and wipes away the wetness on his face, really only managing to smear it. Someone comes around the corner of the ship, gripping the railing as the ship pitches this way and that.

“Hey, dude,” Fit says. Tubbo turns his face away, feeling himself burn with shame as he does. He doesn’t want Fit to see him like this; doesn’t want Fit to see how much of a fucking mess he is.

“Hi,” he says, hurriedly trying to scrub the blood and tears from his skin. Fit’s footsteps come closer, then stop, and there’s a soft thud as he sits down. “Is– is Phil up?”

“Nah,” Fit says. “But Mouse and Bagi are watching over him. I wanted to come and see if you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Tubbo says quickly– maybe a little too quickly, because when he finally looks over at Fit, the man is watching him with one brow raised. “Uh– how are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Fit says. He’s sitting criss-crossed, hands resting on his knees, back straight and expression quiet, but intense. “Mourning the loss of my son, yet again.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says, and again, guilt tears at him. “God, Fit…”

“At least he’s alive, you know?” Fit says, and he looks away from Tubbo, glancing out over the water. “That’s kind of what I’m getting from this, now. Processing everything. Realizing that hey, at least they’re alive. And that’s better than not knowing.”

“I know,” Tubbo says, and he squishes his legs closer up to his body, curls himself into a tighter ball. “I just feel like I could’ve done more.”

“Same,” Fit says, eyes narrowing. Tubbo watches him for a second, then shuts his eyes. He hears Fit inhale sharply a second before he speaks, “He called me dad.”

“What?”

“Ramon. He called me dad, before we had to run.” Tubbo doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to open his eyes either, not when Fit sounds like that. Choked up and uneasy, so unlike himself that Tubbo wants to cry again. “He’s never called me that before. I don’t know why I’m so broken up about it.”

“He’s your kid,” Tubbo says. “Of course you are. I’m not any of the eggs’ parents but I still feel fucking awful, dude.”

“Hey now, you did your best,” Fit says, moving the topic away from Ramon in a way that Tubbo notices, but doesn’t point out. “Tubbo, don’t feel bad. You did what you could. You were an amazing leader.”

“I choked,” Tubbo says. “Fighting Phil. I knew I was going to lose, I just felt it in my gut. I can’t win against Phil. He’s… he’s Phil. But even if I had won, I’d just be kicking myself over that damn wheel. It’s all a big fucking mess, FitMC. How were we supposed to win?”

“I think that was the point,” Fit says. Tubbo opens his eyes at some point, and he can see now Fit is watching him, the sadness in his eyes hidden by a stony face. “I think that thing was never going to let us win.”

“But it had the eggs,” Tubbo says, desperate, trying to get all his thoughts out to Fit and failing. None of his words seem right. “It had them, it wasn’t lying about that, and it just– it just took them again. And ElQ.” His voice cracks on the last word, and Fit just silently sits there with him as Tubbo starts chewing on his lip, through the dry, cracked skin and down to blood again.

“I don’t know what’s happening anymore,” Fit finally says. He glances out over the horizon, and Tubbo presses his tongue into his bleeding lip just to feel the sting. “At first I thought it had something to do with the Federation, but now I don’t know. I don’t think the eye is connected to them, not directly, at least. I don’t know. Tubbo, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tubbo says miserably. “Besides, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” Fit says. “Tubbo, you did amazing. You did what you could. That’s all I could ever ask for.”

“But I could’ve done more,” Tubbo says, and Fit shakes his head vehemently.

“No, kid,” he says. “Stop. Listen to me. You did good. Okay? You did fucking good, you worked with what you had, you made the blue team what it was. You were a leader, a real leader. There aren’t a lot of people out there like you, Tubbo. They don’t have what you have, that determination, that stubbornness, that genius. You did everything you needed to do, okay? Don’t blame yourself for what happened. It’s not your fault. We’re all in this together, and we’re going to finish it together, no matter what that eye says. It tried to tear us apart, and look at us now.”

“But everything is still different now,” Tubbo says. It scares him. Fit just nods.

“I know,” he says. “But you aren’t. You became better, Tubbo. I can guarantee that without you, a lot of us would’ve come out a lot worse for wear. Hell, we probably wouldn’t have even gotten to see the eggs. So don’t blame yourself.”

Tubbo knows what he’s trying to say, what he’s trying to do, but it still hurts. He thinks Fit is trying to reassure himself in the same breath he reassures Tubbo– and he hopes it’s working. He can see it in Fit’s eyes, that shared desperation, that fear that neither of them really want to face. And Fit has a point, too. They all tried, and even at the end when they were supposed to be at their most divided, they came together. Tubbo thinks back to them all searching for the eggs, and thinks maybe, his and Phil’s fight was the catalyst for shaky trust between them all. Purgatory had been hell– but he’d learned things there, too.

“I hate this,” Tubbo says. “I hate how all this fucking violence and betrayal and shit is supposed to make me better. I don’t want to better, because I’m not fucking good at all, Fit.”

“I get it,” Fit says. “I really, really do.”

It hits Tubbo then what Fit is referencing, and he stops. They’ve never talked about 2B2T as anything other than surface level news and small talk, but he knows Fit’s life had been there, and Tubbo thinks he had some experience, too. There’s a comradery between them that only shows up between the chaos, something intrinsic and violent down to their cores. Tubbo flexes his left hand and watches his mechanical fingers– the ones he can’t remember building– open and close. He feels like a cracked plate, but instead of gold filling in the cracks, there’s nothing but emptiness and forgotten memories.

“Everything else aside,” Tubbo says, and Fit blinks, long and slow, “did you… have fun?”

Maybe his word choice is wrong. Maybe he doesn’t mean fun. Maybe he means something more akin to did it feel like home?

Fit blinks again, then nods. “You know,” he says, “after everything, even despite it all… yeah. I think I did.” He pauses, the silence stretching between them like the gum on a grappling squack. “And I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“I don’t blame you,” Tubbo says quickly, because he doesn’t. He gets it, more than anything. Sometimes the crazy feels more familiar than the sane. “I mean, Cellbit straight up said he wanted to stay, so.”

“I would’ve stayed, I think,” Fit says. “If I had a chance to get Ramon out of there.”

“Same,” Tubbo says. “But the nuke–”

“Yeah, no,” Fit says. “We’re more useful to the eggs alive than dead in a ditch.”

They both fall silent for a moment. The wind whips through Tubbo’s hair, getting in his eyes and sticking to his still-damp skin. Neither of them want to admit it out loud, but Tubbo knows they’re both thinking it– maybe Fit’s excuse is just that. An excuse, a selfish reason to keep on living. But at the same time, it’s true. They can’t help the eggs if they’re dead.

“Dapper’s out,” Tubbo says after a second. Changes the direction of the conversation. Tries to ignore the shame yet again. “Bad’s got to have him somewhere. We’ll meet up back at the island, right?”

“Right,” Fit says. “Yeah, no, Bad wouldn’t let anything happen to Dapper now.”

“We got Dapper, so we can get the others,” Tubbo says.

“Very true.” Fit sighs. “Man, this fucking sucks.”

Tubbo laughs, dry and brittle. “You can say that again.”

He feels like he’s aged twenty years in two weeks. Based on the wrinkles gracing Fit’s forehead, he’s feeling the same. But after another long stretch of taffy-like quiet, Fit shuffles and stands with a groan, stretching his arms out over his head. In the distance, the sun is setting, casting tangerine and peach streaks across the ocean and sky.

“Come on,” Fit says. “This boat’s a beast, it’s got showers and beds.”

“Like actually?” Tubbo asks. The idea of a shower, a proper shower with hot fucking water and soap sounds like heaven right now.

“Oh yeah,” Fit says. “Feather pillows, dude.”

“Holy fuck,” Tubbo says, and he stands, knees complaining as he does so. His whole body is stiff and sore and exhausted, and he feels guilty for enjoying the luxuries for about two seconds before pushing that aside and focusing on the fact they have luxuries. “I am going to be in the shower for actual hours.”

“I think Bagi’s in there right now, but you can have it next,” Fit says, reaching out to pat Tubbo on the shoulder. He doesn’t miss how Fit gives him a once over, something warm and concerned in his eyes, and Tubbo suddenly feels… better. Not great, but better. “And then we can sleep.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Tubbo admits, even as he feels the exhaustion dragging at his limbs and eyelids. Fit laughs.

“I think you can,” he says, and they both start to make their way towards the door to the inside of the yacht. “And hey, Tubbo? I meant it when I said you did good. You’re a good kid. I’m proud.”

Something in his chest snaps, a thread so taut with nervous tension Tubbo had grown used to the pain. In its wake is a quiet, gentle warmth, and he pitches sideways– later, he can blame it on a lurching wave or a misstep, but for now he just unapologetically throws himself into Fit’s side and tightly hugging the other man’s torso.

“Thanks,” he says, just as Fit’s arms come up to hug him back.

#qsmp #q!tubbo #q!fit #q!ramon #qsmp purgatory #gnashing my teeth over these two #my writing

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iibonniee · 8 months

Text

Cherry Lip Gloss | Part 2

Pairing: Im Changkyun x Reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: totally fucking angst, no fluff (i got rid of that and this mini series has none of that), mentions of drinking, semi stalking (?) author almost cried

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 2.2k

Masterlist | Part One

Alcohol and a soft, crisp breeze.

Leather kept tan skin warm as the trees did another wave, allowing cool air to whisk away the once bearable air. Everything was silent besides the sound of water crashing on rocks. Not a single soul. Just silence and nature. Lips met the rim of the beer bottle; a long drag, then a mournful sigh. It had an addictive taste. To enjoy something so deadly will always come at an untimely cost.

Somber brown eyes met and enjoyed the view of the sun meeting the ocean. The sun seemed at peace, no matter what cycle it had gone through. He appeared at peace. He wished he was at peace. Rosy red cheeks had the cool breeze nipping away at him without much care. His vision blurred for only a moment, and he blinked away the threat of tears.

Inhale, hold it in, exhale. Don’t think about the consequences.

He didn’t. Instead, he listened to the same sound of the waves hitting the rocks while his mind continued on with the war he had wanted to desperately forget about. Life was never a kind thing. Not back then, and certainly not now. A man so broken is never meant to be fixed. All the pieces were lost where he once walked. Never to be recovered or fixed.

There was no way for him to collect them. To fix a hollow shell that was cracked beyond repair. A man who’s been through it all will certainly never see the bright side of it. Not him. It felt like his fate was set in stone. That this was the life he was meant to live. One so painful, yet the pain is never physical. His heart is the main victim in this story.

Don’t close your eyes. Never allow the tears to show. You’re stronger than that.

Strength. He was losing it. Each time the seconds met the minute and the minute met the hour, the feeling of growing weaker was welcomed. A quick swirl, brown eyes watched as the liquid swirled around in the bottle, soon growing still just seconds later.

Being envious is a nasty trait for anyone to have. How could a man be envious that the sky had the sun? That the moon had the stars? It was a question nobody could answer. It would only swarm around one’s mind until the day they took their last breath.

Stupid decisions come with stupid outcomes. Don’t think about it.

Does a heart realize how broken it is right away, or was there a waiting period? The sound of waves was just a mere distraction from heartbreak. Brown eyes once again blinked rapidly to avoid the onslaught of begging tears. A head shake, then a sigh.

End of the bottle, end of the road road. A path he walked down, but with every turn, he found it led to a steep drop to death. With a flick, the glass bottle flew almost in slow motion to the wet rocks below. Brown eyes watched closely as it bounced off one rock, then two, and landed. Unbroken and surviving.

How could one be envious that an object found a steady spot to land while the man with a beating heart felt like he was falling? Perfectly intact while his own beating heart was broken beyond repair. Large, shaky hands found a tired face to cover. Count to ten, and everything will be okay.

Blink the tears away. Don’t be a fool.

The heart knew what was happening. It was breaking while beating a steady and healthy beat. How does it hurt so much? Why does it hurt so much? He knew. But a brain so smart was attempting to save a heart from cracking anymore.

How many times does a heart have to beat to know when it will be okay? How many gasps of air are needed to feel like one is breathing properly?

Hell felt like a place on earth. Slowly waiting for one to accept that there was never a bright side. And god, was it ugly. An inescapable place. A suffering.

Accept what happened and move on. Living in the past will not allow you to move on.

Move on. It's such an easy thing to think about, but when one is faced with the task, it’s simply complicated. A task often unbearable and unbeaten. But time still ticked an ugly and nasty beat that he had wished would pause for a moment and allow him to take a break. How could he move on when it came down to feeling like the past was all he had?

A past with good memories. Memories that brought ease and not pain. An ear that would listen to a story that happened during the night was now an ear that would listen to another.

Breaks don’t happen. Learn to keep going.

But heartbreaks happen. Months, no, a year, and it was still the same. A constant cycle of rinse and repeat. Throw a smile, walk proudly, and don’t let them know. Smile. If they see, they’ll show pity, and pity is for the weak.

Love was always such a nasty thing. A pain that one could think about for a lifetime. That he would think about for a lifetime. Hands found warmth in the pockets of leather jackets in attempts to find something but came back with nothing. Not even enough money for another bottle.

Give yourself time. Take it slow. It will be okay.

A scoff, then a sarcastic laugh. Slow was never enough. Slow can never be enough. Taking it slowly only meant he would learn what it meant to break. Three times, only to be met with a wave. What went wrong? What did he do wrong? Why was he such a fool?

Don’t think about it. You’re damaging your heart more.

A blink, then eyelids decided to remain shut. For a mind not to think about hurting a heart more was a task in itself. A life that was meant to only experience nothing more, but pain and loss were what he would have to accept for himself.

His heart was aching, begging for anything, hoping to take the pain away. A shaky, pathetic breath came from him. A life where he could be happy was nowhere to be seen. Not even in one’s wildest dreams. He fucking hated having to pretend to be happy.

Your heart is in shambles. It’s broken beyond repair. She hurt you.

He shook his head. No. His mind wouldn’t shut up for even a moment. The growing aggravation was enough to drive a sane man mad. Teeth gritted together in an attempt to suppress an emotional scream. He couldn't bear anyone else hearing that.

A heart fighting with the mind. An ugly one that not even a voice from an angel could calm it down. This was hell. His heart was going through hell.

You hurt her. You didn’t mean to. You watched her leave.

Three times was too much but always felt like it was too little. There are too many chances to ruin something but too few to keep it going. A man so broken was undeserving of love. Love was never meant for someone like him.

Brown eyes watched as the waves soon grew closer to the water’s edge, of how the jealousy was real. He could leave. Never turn back. But why would he? Home was here. Home was where she could possibly return.

It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I promise.

Promise. Every person has heard that seven-letter word throughout their lives—more times than they can count. He’s heard it. It’s hard to believe anything would be okay when an outsider could see that his life was nothing more than a mess that could never be fixed.

Getting lost in a trance, his mind didn’t even realize the sun finally met the sky for a kiss goodbye. Stars now out, wishing everyone had a good day while the sun had said its goodbye no less than ten minutes ago.

Brown eyes were met with darkness, and eyelids greeted someone whenever they shut for more than a second. For a moment, silence was all that could be enjoyed. His heart was silent and steadily beating as his brain finally stopped arguing with his heart.

You can’t hide from your demons forever. It will be fine.

He couldn’t remember the walk to his car or the long drive back to the dorms. He knew the buzz from the alcohol had long since worn off with the sun's departure. All he knew was that he stood there almost awkwardly. How could one feel so unwelcome in a home that was their own?

“Changkyun.” He didn’t realize his eyes were closed momentarily, not even when he had been silently counting to ten to calm his unknown nerves. Eyes now opened in shock, they met with old but familiar eyes.

Count to ten if anything gets worse. You can't always hide from your demons, Changkyun.

His mouth opened and then shut. How does one feel like they’re suffering while the steady flow of oxygen flows through so easily without missing a single beat?

How could he feel so damn pathetic under their gaze? Why did he come inside? Why was he hyperventilating? And why did it feel like the world was against him constantly?

“I–” A stumbling idiot. His breath caught in his throat as he watched their worried eyes. Even as the days turned to months and the months finally met the year, he grew to hate how their eyes never hid the worry. “I’m fine.”

Lying always comes at a cost. You should know this.

“You’re not fine, Changkyun.” Hyunwoo was the first to speak up. Changkyun hated this. He hated the little interventions they threw at him. He was fine. He swears.

“Talk to us. Stop shutting us out.” It was Jooheon who spoke up next. The worry that laced their voices caused him to hate himself. If he wasn’t so addicted to the thing of the past, he wouldn’t be the cause of all their worries. He wouldn’t be the cause of all the tension and finger-pointing he knew they did behind his back.

“I just want to be alone.” His body was on autopilot. Quick strides took him to his room, where the door was locked, and the voices outside calling his name were blocked out. His phone was in his hands in seconds, and once again, on autopilot, he found himself searching for her name on Instagram. Thankful she hadn't blocked him.

The more you break your heart, the harder it is to repair it. Stop doing this to yourself.

He knew it was wrong. He knew it was wrong to ignore the pleas of the other members, but he also knew it was wrong to not give his heart a break. Shaky hands clicked on the first picture that popped up on her page. A beautiful diamond ring, her nails done to perfection, and a caption that eagerly said, “I said yes! I can’t wait to take your last name.”

And god did that fucking hurt.

Tears rushed to brim his eyes like a broken dam. His usual choked sob that he tried to silence wouldn’t fall for the command this time. It bounced off the four walls, back into his ears, and under the door's crack.

You’re breaking your own heart. You can be happy with someone else. Stop doing this to yourself.

He was a fool. How many times must he beat himself up and apologize for her to know he’s being honest? Must he rip his heart out to show her how broken it is? Must he break down in front of an audience and sing her name out just to get her back?

He hated this unknown man. He hated how his thoughts were quick to act and go against him. He shouldn’t be in her life. He was an imposter. Unimportant to the story, to their story.

He treats her well, I bet. Holds her tight at night. He surely wouldn’t do what you did.

“Stop it.” Changkyun’s choked-out sob was louder than before. “Stop working against me. Please.”

His pleas fell on deaf ears. He knew his heart was in a war with his brain. One would surely fall victim to either love or hate eventually.

Stop making stupid decisions you know your heart won’t be able to repair. Don’t call her.

He knew his heart was already a broken vessel that couldn’t be repaired anymore. Shaky fingers and blurred eyes quickly dialed the number the other members kept deleting.

One ring turned into two, two into three, then, “Hello?”

He knew this was wrong. It was so fucking wrong. It was wrong to call, and it was unfair she picked up.

“Changkyun?”

His world stopped, and his breath caught in his throat as he heard her say his name oh so softly. The tears couldn’t be stopped. He was choking on the sob that couldn’t previously escape, and he worried it would scare her off.

What was he to say? His previous attempts at begging her to come back always quickly fell on deaf ears. How could he do this to himself? Why would he do this to himself?

Because you’re a fool in love, Changkyun.

#kvanity #monsta x drabble #monsta x imagines #monsta x x reader #monsta x fanfic #changkyun imagine #changkyun angst #monsta x angst

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 3 years

Text

Bad Dreams - Bucky Barnes x Avenger (f)reader

Summary: You and Bucky are adjusting to civilian life after the Blip, some nights he needs you more then he realizes.

Warning: bit o angst, soft Bucky, fluff

Masterlist

It had been a long fucking five years alone, sure you had Nat and Steve around at the Avengers Facility. But no matter how much time you spent with them doing whatever to keep your mind busy, at the end of the day, you were undoubtedly alone. You liked it that way at one point in your complicated life as an Avenger, but after the blip, you absolutely despised it.

No one had expected what would have happened to be so terrible and tragic, or it to even go the way that it did. You had never even heard of Thanos or what the fuck kind of weirdass monsters could exist from other parts of the galaxy until they showed up knocking. How rude huh.

Life was peaceful before hand, well for the most part; you were an Avenger, someone who was part of the team. A conjurer of flame and ash, a Phoenix held within that was not afraid to use your power, and you used it well.

Then as per usual, shit went down and low and behold you met the one and only James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s old friend with the metal arm and troubling history. Not to mention a face to die for, or at least one that would cause a bit of a chaotic scuffle between your two friends. They clearly had other priorities apart from yours at the time which was keep Steve out of jail, don’t burn anyone, and refrain from flirting with his 90 something year old friend. You tried your best in most of those areas. Most of them.

Nonetheless, you fell hard and fast for the blue eyed man, and him the same for you, his feisty little firecracker with a heart as big and bright as a dragons. So when he went to Wakanda to lie low and get some much needed help. You followed.

With a heartfelt goodbye and a lasting kiss, he went under for a couple long weeks until Shuri and her expert team of scientists were able to fix what those bastards at Hydra had done to him.

For a short yet blessedly peaceful amount of time did you and your dark haired lover live safely within the Wakandan borders. In a small and beautiful little village by a lake, a hut all your own to shelter you from the heat and rain that poured hard onto the earth, and most wonderfully of all you had Bucky.

Life was simple for the first time in a long time, you spent the days helping out the locals and teaching the children how to properly swing a stick in defense, you know completely normal leisure activities. Spending the evenings making a big fire to tell stories under and cook the best food in Wakanda.

And the nights? You spent those wrapped up in Bucky’s arm, although most times you would be the big spoon which he loved more then anything in the whole world. Telling you it’s not just because you’re naturally warm, but that he’s been admittedly a bit touch starved from the years alone and lost. And for that you would always hold him closer.

Then that fateful day came crashing into your lives like a waterfall against rock, your friends had shown up claiming some being called Thanos was coming to take a stone out of Vision’s head. Yeah that was a new one.

The battle wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either, you were able to save many lives by scorching the beasts that pursed onward. Letting whips of flame slash hard against the enemy with great skill and force from your bending. Then the world seemed to still, and the wind swayed the trees oddly.

Then HE came, the Titan from another world, he threw down all in his path without an ounce of mercy or remorse. You and Wanda were so close, so damn close to stopping him, but then he threw you back with the whole force of the gauntlet and a moment later Vision was dead.

Your head was bleeding and a fresh scar had marked your jaw in a bloody red slash from the impact. Though your mind didn’t have time to register nor care as Thanos abruptly disappeared into oblivion, leaving a confused Thor in his wake. Much like the rest of the Avengers.

Then to your horror, one by one, your friends began to turn to ash and dust. Gone. You raced for Bucky nearby, praying to who’d ever listen to spare him or you for that matter. You just needed ten more seconds and then you could have held him one last time, touched his precious skin, ran your fingers through his long dark locks.

Looked into his ocean blue eyes, but no, the universe laughed as you gasped in panic, then it snickered as you screamed. Cheering you on as you sobbed in a cyclone of your own fire until the ground was scorched to shriveled dry earth. And no more tears could fall, your throat raw and heart broken in two.

Your world was gone, a memory forever kept locked inside your heart and soul. He was gone, he was your world, Bucky made your life better and you his.

For the coming months you were a mess, an angry and frustrated wreck of a person. Functioning by sheer will power and Natasha to keep you afloat in your new dreary little world of nothingness. You envied Steve for his ability to keep most of his shit together, and where almost enraged by Tony who had everything still intact. Pepper and a child on the way, how cruel the universe appeared.

You would wake up in the middle of the night sweating, your heart racing a mile a minute and usually part of the wall behind you would be burnt and blackened. You never set fire to anything thank god, but fuck, your heart hurt so much.

You wanted to scream most days, but as one year rolled into two and then three, the dull dreary ache in your body subdued to a tiny flicker of sadness. It became almost nonexistent during the day as you went about Avenger business, only to burn hot and angry at night.

You wanted to move on and forget, but you couldn’t, he was too important. They all didn’t deserve to go like that, none of them. And so another year passed, then it was year five since the blip, more months passed on. Until out of nowhere something or perhaps someone miraculous lit the way into a new sense of hope.

Resulting in the return of everyone who had been lost before, including your Bucky. And from that moment after the battle, when at long last you had finally found him, you knew life would never be the same.

——

Rain pours relentlessly from outside your apartment window, a rhythmic pitter patter near your bedside that aids in keeping you asleep and unbothered for the time being. No sooner do you reach the climax of your dream that consists of you being chased by a giant monarch butterfly with no weapon but a sandbox plastic shovel, do you wake. Strange dream.

All your senses flooding back into you as you feel for your lover in the darkness, your eyes still closed as you do so. Your hand slides across the crinkled bedsheets to no avail, the spot next to you is undeniably empty and rather cold.

oh, Bucky.

Cracking one eye open you glance at the alarm clock where it reads 1:10am in big red letters, illuminating the nightstand that it sits on. You take in a deep breath and roll onto your back to stare up at the ceiling, this has become a reoccurring event with Bucky in the following months since his return.

In Wakanda things were different, it was like a nice prolonged vacation away from all your problems and responsibilities of the world. Now, you two have an apartment somewhere in New York City all your own. Bucky goes to therapy and does his best to integrate back into his new role as a civilian while you work as an Avenger part time. The other half used for being a supporting loving girlfriend to Bucky and a hacker on the side for extra cash in the bank.

You get it though, he’s adjusting the best he’s able to manage right now, and even when he swears the nightmares are gone for good. You know him too well to believe that shit, you can see it in his eyes, he may have been a master assassin at one point. Now he’s with a skilled and almost equally as weathered Avenger who’s seen her share of people really going through it.

It’s not like you were doing any better, you’d wake up screaming in the dead of night from another nightmare involving losing Bucky again. That only lasted for a month or so, but still, it sucked and hurt every damn time. So you get it, nightmares can be a bitch.

Blinking the bleariness out of your eyes, you yawn into the darkness and take a moment to listen to the sound of the rain. It’s peaceful and calm, and though you’d like nothing more then to roll over and fall back into the dark comfortable void of sleep. You long to see Bucky again, even if you saw him not even two hours ago.

Pulling the blanket off of your body, you slowly sit up and face the blurry window that overlooks the glowing city, well more so the park close by. Pushing some hair out of your face, you stand and take a brief moment to stretch before letting your right hand emit a beautiful blue flame.

It proptly lights up the dark room into a shadowed yet still visible one, with a lazy proud smile, you move for the opened bedroom door. Your flame lights the way down the hall until you wander past the tiny kitchen and stop in your living room to the sound of heavy breathing coming from the far end.

You give a lopsided smirk to no one in particular as you pad over to the man who’s sweaty and shirtless on the wooden apartment floor in nothing but his boxers and a single blanket that’s not covering much. Well he sure looks like a hot mess, your hot mess that is.

He gives you an apologetic glance before staring tiredly back at the nearby wall. You extinguish your flame and gently nudge his leg with your sock, “How’s the floor?” You ask with a tinge of humor to lighten the mood.

He lets out a breathy laugh before looking back up at you, “Solid.” Quips Bucky in reference to the hard floor and perhaps his take on the makeshift bed, always one for a bit of humor huh.

Chuckling you crouch down to better meet his shadowed gaze, “I guess so,” You mutter with a shrug, “....afraid I might burn you in my sleep?”

Shaking his head, he gifts you the flash of a smile, “No. Not this time Y/N.”

You smile back before sitting down next to him, you look down at his hand before reaching out to take it without any resistance, “I know it’s the nightmares Bucky.” You whisper softly, your eyes sincere and true, “You don’t have to hold it all in okay, I don’t.....I don’t want you to do that.”

Letting out a reluctant sigh, Bucky frowns, “I know Y/N....I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I just love you too much to see you hurting. I’ve missed you for what feels like a hundred goddamn years and I don’t want you to slip away from me..” You add with a sad smile, “Never again.”

Squeezing your hand gently, Bucky nods, “You’re not going to lose me okay. I promise you that much alright. I love you Y/N.” And he means every word.

“That’s good then. Can you at least tell me something to ease your mind from what’s bothering you?” You ask with a hopeful smile, “Please. Remember what the therapist talked about with speaking your thoughts and feelings....it’s like emptying a treasure chest or some shit.”

“Right.” Laughs Bucky, “Can’t say you’re going to find any gold in here.”

“Shut up I don’t care.” You muse with a shrug, “I’m here to listen.”

“As the lady wishes.” Retorts Bucky with a half-assed bow that caused you to break out into a small smile at his cheekiness.

“Wait.” You pause.

“What?”

“Can we sit on the couch for this I wanna lay next to you.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky fakes his annoyance as you patiently await his answer, “Fine.” He confirms, quickly standing up and taking you with him, “But you gotta lay on me I’m kinda cold now.”

Bucky falls onto the large comfortable couch with a dramatic huff as he pulls you onto his shirtless body, “Weren’t you just all sweaty?” You wonder with a raised brow as he quickly wraps his arms around your waist.

“Yep.”

“Gross.”

Bucky chuckles, “Well you’re making me talk about my feelings.”

“That’s because you won’t talk about them with your actual therapist.” You sass back.

“I hate it when you’re right.” Mutters Bucky into your cheek as you snicker at his adorably dramatic self.

“I think your brain short circuited and misplaced the word hate for absolutely love and adore.”

“Maybe.” Adds Bucky as he steals a sweet kiss, “I’m still working through things you know.”

“Okay smartass. Now tell me what’s on your mind.”

His chest rises as he takes a deep heavy sigh, he stares out the nearby window that keeps the rainy city from being bothersome. You can’t completely see his face due to the darkened room, but you’re close enough to see the way his face turns into a frown.

Suddenly you think maybe you shouldn’t have bugged him to speak about his nightmares. Until he purses his lips together and glances those big beautiful blue eyes down at you, the flash of a smile revealing itself in a split second.

To give him a bit more confidence and perhaps to calm his nerves, do you reach a hand up to gently caress his stubbled cheek, “Was it the Starks again?” You whisper softly in question, knowing how much it still haunts him. Among all the others.

Closing his eyes, he leans into your touch, “Not this time.” Mutters Bucky before taking that hand in his as he rests his head against the couches puffy arm. “Someone else.....Someone who got in the way. Wrong place wrong time.”

“oh.” Slips from your mouth quietly, you’re not sure what else to say, but you’re still hoping he’ll speak a little more about it. “Do they have anything to do with your list?”

It’s a shot in the dark, but you’re well aware of Bucky’s goal to make amends with his past and the people tied with it, maybe someone might be linked to it by chance.

Bucky takes another weighted breath, you can just sense how terrible he feels about this person. “Bucky take your time, it’s okay I’m right here.”

Looking for a positive sign you watch as he closes his eyes once again before moving his head a little bit so that it rests against yours, “I know....it’s just, difficult.”

“Always is.”

“Yeah.”

Kissing your forehead, his flesh arm wraps around your waist as he makes himself more comfortable before continuing, “I was in some government building at night.....tasked with eliminating some special high end target. I finished the mission in under a minute, but uh....there was a civilian who saw everything.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.” Mumbles Bucky against your skin as he takes a moment to gather himself, soon he shifts underneath you once more before letting out a soft breath, “I shot him.”

A bang of sadness washes over you in that brief second and then a sparking anger for what Hydra had forced him to do. You keep silent and wait for Bucky to continue on with his story.

“That guy I killed. He um....he uh, he didn’t deserve that....but I had to.” Bucky’s voice is shaky as he puts his words together, “And you know what’s the worst about this?”

“I’d like not to imagine it but I know you should tell me.”

“You remember Yori?”

“Of course, he takes us to that great sushi place sometimes.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as he hugs you tighter against his bare chest for some kind of comfort, his voice nothing but a regretful whisper, “I killed his son.”

Your eyes soften as he reveals who this mystery civilian was, “Damn.”

“Out of all the people in this world and I meet the man who’s son I murdered for Hydra.”

“That’s almost a sick joke.”

“I know. God I’m so fucked up.”

“No.” You protest softly while he hides his face in your neck, “I know you’ve heard this a thousand times but that wasn’t you. It wasn’t the real James Buchanan Barnes alright, you didn’t have a choice. Those fuckers took that away from you.”

“I know Y/N, but I still did it.”

“Bucky look at me.” You ask kindly, to your genuine surprise he lifts his head from your neck to look into your determined gaze, “You’re not the only one here who was manipulated and had their freedom taken from them by Hydra. I’ve done terrible things too, but you know what? We were never truly ourselves then, they molded us into their weapons and now.....they can never touch us again. You understand me?”

Tears whell up in Bucky’s shimmering eyes at your truthfully honest words, he had temporarily forgotten that you were once an unwilling participant in Hydra’s mind stone experimentations many years ago.

“I understand....” Mutters Bucky as he swallows hard, “what would I be without you?”

Giving him a small tearful smile, you gently wipe away a stray tear from his cheek, “A little bit more alone I’d say.”

“You’re a hundred times braver then me you know that? I couldn’t image five years without you and these fucking nightmares.” Admits Bucky as he moves to rest his head in the crook of your neck, “I’d go insane.”

Appreciating this close proximity and his heartfelt confession, you smile into the darkness, “I think I did. Thing is about shitty situations like that....life moves on and finds a way. I have you now, I thought I would lose you forever.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Me too.”

#bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #Bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x y/n #the winter soldier #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #marvel x y/n #marvel x you #marvel #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier

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taestefully-in-luv · 3 years

Text

The Island | KTH (Four)

Summary: You’re just two strangers waking up in a room on a lonely island where a company in the business of love has placed you. They believe that thanks to their in depth research you two are destined soulmates. What happens when your ‘soulmate’ and you want nothing to do with each other but falling in love is the only way to leave?

Pairing: Taehyung x Female reader

Genre: strangers to lovers, very slight enemies to lovers, soulmates au, roommate au, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, slight crack, and drama.

Word Count: 11k

Warnings: swearing, sexual tension (?) implied sex

Notes: this is not a reflection of Taehyung’s art! Just saying lol But anyway, hope you guys like this chapter. Tae and oc sure have a lot of moments huh. let me know if you want to be added to the taglist, or send an ask if just want to chat about the stories!:)

Taglist: @ggukkieland @707sblog @peacedreamer14 @dopedreamfireparty @everythingnamjoon @taebae19 @typicalgenzworld @mooniyooni @getmemyfries @helenazbmrskai @justinetingball @jpeachytaev

Previous --- Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Month 4

“What the fuck is that?” You point accusingly towards the paper Taehyung is excitedly holding up.

“What do you mean,” he grins. “It’s you!”

“…throw it away.”

“What?! No! I worked hard on this!”

“I look like a god damn frog.”

“In the painting or in real life becau—"

“THE PAINTING!” You leap towards Taehyung and reach for his atrocious artwork. Can he even call this disaster art? No offense, no actually, full offense but its ugly as hell. Taehyung lifts it high above his head.

“Listen, listen…don’t you think this hurts my feelings a little y/n? I worked hard on th—”

“I swear to God Taehyung…if you don’t burn this—"

“OKAY OKAY! No need to put out threats!” he pouts almost theatrically. You eye him up and down, waiting for him to make a move towards a trashcan but he just stands here.

“Well? Go throw it away.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, no.”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, “What do you mean no?”

Taehyung narrows his eyes at you and laughs under his breath as he steps closer to you.

“First of all, you don’t tell me what to do. I prefer if it’s the other way around.” He smirks, “And second, I am still going to keep it. For the memories.”

You chew on your lips for a few moments, letting his words sink in. But for the memories?

“For the memories? Why would you want to remember any of this?”

Taehyung frowns at your words, he looks genuinely offended.

“I might not like our situation but…”

“But what?”

“Fuck, don’t make me say it.” He says while turning red. “You know, I still want to make good memories with like, you.” He admits softly.

You finally give in, gently reaching for the awful artwork. Don’t get it wrong, Taehyung’s art is usually so beautiful. He does landscapes and abstract pieces and they absolutely blow you away. But his portraits of people? Disgusting.

“Fine…” You smile down at the painting in your hands then look back at him, “But if I see this hung up anywhere I am burning it myself.” You smirk. “And I will take great pleasure in that.”

“Oooooh please tell me more about your pleasures.” Taehyung wiggles his brows at you.

“You’re the worst.” you smile, “Anyway, do we have a deal?” you stick out your hand for him to shake.

“Deal!” Taehyung cheeses, slapping your hand down and going in for a quick hug instead. You’re surprised to say the least, you kind of guessed Taehyung was the affectionate type but you didn’t expect to be on the receiving end of it. “I’ll be in my art room most the day. Movie night though?”

“Yes, movie night.” you oblige.

“Yay.” He chirps happily, skipping off to his art room down the hall. You can’t help but smile as he disappears from your sight.

But then your heart pinches in your chest. You want to feel happy. Are you just ungrateful? You should be happy. Taehyung is finally being himself around you and you finally feel like you aren’t as alone. But it’s all a façade technically…he’s got no one else, just like you have no one else. In the real world…if you two met would you become friends like this? Or is this all forced? Is your entire friendship fake? You feel your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach, you hate these thoughts.

He’s so different than you thought he would be…he’s lighthearted, he’s funny, he’s silly, he’s talented, he’s human. And don’t even get started on flirty Taehyung…You really thought he was some closed off asshole but as time goes on and he becomes more and more comfortable you see the real him, and you really enjoy it. And you hate that you enjoy it. What are you like? Are you still a brat? Does he still think that? You chuckle to yourself, he probably does. Has he grown so comfortable with you that he’s not as angry about being stuck here with you? No, you imagine he’s still really upset about this whole thing. He just doesn’t voice it to you as much anymore. Maybe he’s avoiding the subject. You can understand why. It’s awkward. This place wants to get you two together but neither of you are interested in the other romantically. You just don’t see it happening.

~~~~~

Taehyung is just relaxing in his room on the verge of a glorious nap, he is finally dozing off, eyes slowly closing when his head snaps up in reaction to a loud crash coming from downstairs. Now what the hell could that be? Panicked, he rushes to his feet. He flies down the stairs in record time trying to find the source of the loud bang. He stands in the living room, glancing around the area for any sign of you. Are you okay? Where are you? Shit. Frustrated, he runs his fingers through his hair and as calmly as possible calls out for you. But nothing. Fuck. Your name slips past his lips in growing panic.

He decides he is going to charge each room in search for you, when he reaches the door to his art studio. He can hear muffled words on the other side of the door.

“Shit. Damn. Fuck.”

He instantly roll his eyes to the back of his head, literally so far back all that’s seen is the white of his eyes.

“Such foul language for such a pretty mouth.” He whispers to himself, slowly creeping the door open, exposing a distracted and distraught you.

“Motherfucker!” you huff, your hands on your hips, eyeing the mess you made. God damn did you make a fucking mess. On the floor is a canvas, brushes scattered and a rainbow of colors splattered all around.

“What. Are. You. Doing.”

Your head whips in his direction, your face turning many shades of reds. He stands at the doorway making his presence known, looking at you expectantly, judgement in his eyes. At least he hopes you can see the judgement in his eyes. Because he is definitely judging like hella hard.

You continue to stand here, your blush deepening. He is too frustrated to find it anything but annoying. You begin to stutter out words he can’t make out. You are trying your best, that much is obvious. You’re trying to explain yourself but he can tell you’re only becoming more and more flustered at the situation. He is sure his annoyed expression doesn’t help your ability to speak. Whoops.

“I-I was…well, you said, well remember you said…” You try. You really try. He almost wants to laugh, but not quite.

“I-I said? I said what?” He keeps his stoic demeanor intact, just stressing you further. He’s almost having fun with this. Almost.

“Well, Taehyung…listen,” you try again. “You said,”

“I said?”

Your eyes scan the room as if there’s something here that will help you.

“Words y/n. I need you to use your words.” He demands, maybe having a little fun stressing you out. He sees your blush become such a deep shade of red that even he feels embarrassed.

Finally, you releases a long breath and words begin spilling out of your mouth.

“You said you wanted to keep that frog picture—“

“Your portrait, you mean.”

“Yes, yes whatever. Anyway, you wanted to keep it for the memories, right? You…you…you’re sentimental like that or whatever.” You pause to take a breath. “And and…”

He raises a brow at you, taking a few steps forward, mindful of the mess you made.

“And?”

You raise your head to look into his eyes. You’re staring so intensely that he wonders where you got this wave of confidence from. He stares back just as seriously. Your eyes are the same as usual, dark, plain, boring. For the most part.

“And…I decided that maybe, that maybe I want to…paint you…too?” you step forward. “You know, for the memories.” You tear your eyes away from him. But he sort of wishes you didn’t.

His brows pinch together at your little idea. You want to paint him ? He studies your face seeing if maybe there’s anything else. You look tense under his gaze, he admits that makes him feel kind of good. Is that mean? You look so incredibly shy, and it is so fucking...something, he doesn’t know what but it’s something. He continues to observe you and your shy expressions.

He looks down at you and breaks into his best shit eating grin, his hand reaches down to ruffle your hair.

“Yes!” he lightly chuckles, “Let’s make lots of memories!”

It looks like you’re in a daze, his reaction catching you off guard, he guesses. Taking a moment to collect yourself, you look up into his eyes again.

“Yeah, lots of ‘em.” your smile slowly begins to fade, “We won’t be here forever, so we have to leave with lots of memories.” you mutter.

Taehyung feels himself go soft at your words.

“y/n…” he slides his fingers down to cup the back of your head, fingers gently massaging your scalp. “When this is all over…we can still be in contact, you know?” Your eyes travel to the floor, eyeing the mess you made. He’s still getting over that.

“I know…but Taehyung, I still feel like I don’t even know basic things about you! Like what even is your favorite, uh, I don’t know, animal? I can’t tell you how long I have been wondering that and—”

“Then let’s have a whole night dedicated to that. Let’s drink some wine, paint some pictures and learn everything there is to know!” he moves his hand forward, his fingers playing at the ends of your hair, “Like, what shampoo did they give you because your hair is soft as fuck.”

You give him an unimpressed look,

“I know you steal my shampoo sometimes, I’m not dumb.”

“Don’t know what you are talking about.” He cheeses.

“But okay,” you grin at him, “Let’s do that.”

“I love Koalas and sloths!” You’re laid out on your stomach, swinging your legs above you while sipping on your red wine.

“You can’t choose two!”

“I just did.”

“Fine. Mine is…drum roll…its…” he pats the floor repeatedly.

“Oh come on! Tell me! I’ve been dying to know!”

“Its…lion!” he lays next to you, resting on his side. He eyes the painting you are working on. It’s supposed to be him…supposed to be.

“I like lions too.” You add more color to the background of the canvas. He can hear the smile in your voice.

“Sheesh…and you think I am bad at drawing people…”

“Stop being a hater!”

“ME?” he stares at you incredulously.

You and Taehyung are a few glasses of wine in already. He can tell its hitting you harder than its hitting him, you’re extra talkative and all giggly. He’s painted a picture of the beach while you’ve worked on a portrait of him, it’s amusing to say the least—the portrait. Pretty quickly glasses turned into bottles. Bottle number 3 has been opened and now he is also talkative and all giggly. He’s a giggly lil thang when he’s drunk, and he is drunk.

“Okay,” he sits up, sitting on his legs. “First impression of me, go!” he laughs, for literally no reason.

“I thought you kidnapped me.” You state plainly, “So like, a creepy person.”

His jaw drops.

“I’m offended!” He lays his hand over his heart. “You thought I was creepy?! And there I was thinking you were just some hot chick I hooked up!” Yes, he called you hot to your face. He is drunk, he is allowed to do that. Yeehaw.

“Okay to be fair, that thought crossed my mind too.”

“That I was some hot chick you hooked up with?”

“I never said hot.”

“But you were thinking it, right right?” he wiggles his eyebrows in the most exaggerated way.

You smirk before chugging back the rest of your wine, reaching for a new bottle.

“Okay, maybe I thought it.” You admit, your sly smile growing.

“Want me to open it?” he gestures towards the wine bottle.

“Please.”

He reaches for the bottle of wine, his hands brushing against yours. He hates that he feels a quiet fire in his insides when he touches you. He hates how when his skin makes contact with your skin there is an automatic heat that lights up and warms him, burns him almost.

“Do you have someone? That you like?” You slur out, curious about Taehyung’s love life.

“…Yes.” Taehyung admits softly.

“I am what they call a ‘Dilf’” Jin states confidently. The rest of the boys share a look of confusion.

“You literally aren’t a dad?” Jimin looks at Jin with a puzzled smile.

“But you can’t tell me I am not a ‘dilf’ though.”

“Okay Jin, you’re a dilf.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, going back to his book.

“I wanna be a dilf too.” Jungkook whines and Taehyung nods his head in agreement. Jin shakes his fingers at the boys and speaks up.

“You have to earn the title.”

“Yeah, by being a dad.” Jimin deadpans.

“Let the man have his dreams.” Yoongi says before putting his ear bud back in his ear and nodding along to whatever song is playing.

“My dream is to finish this assignment.” Hobi groans into his pile of papers on the table.

“This is your fault for going back to school for your masters!” Taehyung teases. He has just recently dropped out of school and he is loving it. He watches as his friend works night after night on paper after paper and Taehyung no longer has to worry about things like that. He can just focus on the music.

“Are you guys using this chair?” Taehyung hears a sweet voice cut off all their chatter. He looks up to see this gorgeous girl with light brown hair that reaches her waist and eyes as bright as the sun.

“Uh, no.” Taehyung clears his throat, “You can take it.”

“Thanks.” She smiles at Taehyung and then at the rest of the boys before she’s dragging the chair to the table next to them.

“Holy shit.” Taehyung whispers to Jungkook, “She’s so pretty.”

“That’s Hana.” Jungkook looks over his shoulder at Hana and her friends. “I have a class with her.”

“Bro, introduce me!” Taehyung begs. “You literally owe me.”

“From what?!”

“I let you fuck that one chick like 2 years ago even though I saw her first.”

“Oh? You let me? Really?” Jungkook rolls his eyes. “But anyway, sure. I’ll introduce you.” He says nonchalantly, picking up his drinking and taking a sip.

“Taehyung?” you wave your hand in front of his blank face. “Taehyung?” “Huh? Yeah?” he starts snapping out of his memories, “what’s up? What did you say?”

“I asked her name.” you smile awkwardly, “The girl you like.”

“Hana.” He quietly clears his throat, “What about you? Do you have someone?”

“After my ex? I am staying away from men for a while.” You laugh, “Like, can you blame me?”

Taehyung can’t help by frown at your words.

“Don’t close yourself off…” Taehyung whispers to you. “You’re too pretty for that.” He slurs out and you blink at him repeatedly.

“I’m pretty?”

Taehyung scoffs and rolls his eyes playfully.

“Like you didn’t know.”

Hours pass you two by, more wine has been drank and you two are giggling like school children. Taehyung is folded over, laughing a storm as you do your best impression of a dolphin. You can’t help but fall over and laugh your head off as well, the alcohol obviously has made you two crazy.

Taehyung finally calms down and looks at you with soft eyes, “So, what’s your biggest fear?” he asks, leaning forward.

“No!” you laugh. Fucking laugh. “Listen, we can go back to our serious convos another day…right now I wanna…” you slur your last words, “wanna talk about fun stuff.” you give him the most sleazy wink he’s ever seen. It kind of works for him though.

“Okay.” He agrees easily, “Tell me the story about how you lost your virginity? Don’t leave anything out”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Wanna know the dirty details huh?” you part your lips and smile.

“Dirty? I bet it was as vanilla as vanilla gets.”

You frown at his words, “I’m not vanilla. I’m fun, I swear.” you pout.

“I didn’t mean it as boring babe. I just mean you probably lost it to like your high school sweetheart, your first love, blah blah blah. The romantic shit.” You exhale a short breath…babe? You like the new friendly nickname, you admit.

“Actually it’s the opposite.”

“The opposite?”

“First year of college. Random guy from a bar. Total one night stand type of situation. I didn’t even tell him it was my first time. I think he probably just thought I was really inexperienced. “ You laugh to yourself. Sounds like a situation you might regret but there is no bitterness in your tone.

“Oh wow. y/n the cry baby can do one night stands?” he teases.

“I’m full of surprises you know.” The glint in your eye tells him he’s going to find out eventually.

“Well then what are the dirty details?” he pries further, leaning into your space again.

“Hmm, don’t think I am drunk enough for that.”

“Oh, I can grab another bottle of wine.” He teases, “But fine.”

“About your comment about me being vanilla…” you begin but Taehyung is cutting you off with the shake of his head.

“I didn’t mean it bad—”

“Are you into vanilla sex?”

Taehyung’s eyebrows crawl to the top of his forehead and his mouth falls open.

“Why are you asking that?” he breathes out, his eyes darkening.

“They paired us together, you know? We probably have more in common than you think…my guess that means sex too.”

“I know we have that in common.” He smirks, “I’m guessing you never looked in the other room?” he quirks a brow at you. “You might find it interesting.”

“The other room?” you tilt your head to the side, “Oh? The one upstairs next to your bathroom? Yeah, I stuck my head in there once…I saw it’s just another bedroom.”

“Is it really just another bedroom though? You didn’t have a look around?” his sly smile grows on his stupidly handsome face. “Like I said…you might find it interesting.”

“What are you talking about?” you slur, “Why would I…?”

Taehyung rises to his feet, walks towards you and leans down until he’s softly gripping your arm and pulling you up.

“Let’s go explore.” He chuckles, “I want you to see the room.” He’s guiding you out the art room, you two stumbling through the door.

You both begin to make your way upstairs, his hand never leaving your arm as you two walk. You keep bumping into him and he only laughs, squeezing your arm every few moments. You guys walk through the hall until you’re standing outside the bedrooms door.

“Go on.” He looks at you with a smirk, “I want you to explore this bedroom.”

“You’re being weird.” You giggle, opening the door.

And just like you thought, it’s just a bedroom. There’s a large bed in the middle of the room against the wall, and a couple of dressers, a closet, a huge ass mirror and other normal bedroom things.

“And?” You glance at Taehyung.

He looks at you with an amused smile. “Explore.” He commands.

You give him a weird look before walking through the room, your hand slides against the dresser that holds the extra large mirror. You catch your reflection and smile at how drunk you look. Taehyung walks behind you and eyes both of your reflections, he steps close to you and chuckles.

“I like this mirror.” He whispers. “Great view of the bed.”

“Uh yeah?” you look at him through the mirror, “I guess so.”

“Explore the drawers.” His evil grin makes you nervous…you look down at the drawers and open the first one on the left, there’s multiple things inside but you can’t tell what they are. You stick your hand inside and grab the first thing it can find. You pull this object out and bring it closer to your face, your drunken vision making it hard to identify what it is. Then your eyes are expanding and you drop the object in the drawer, the loud thud making you jump.

“What was that?” Taehyung whispers, “Something you know right?”

A dildo. Your eyes scan the rest of the drawer only to see more, along with other toys. You quickly slam the drawer shut and turn around to face Taehyung, who is standing so close behind you.

“What the hell?” you stutter out, turning red.

“That’s not all. Check the closet.” He says quietly, pointing towards the closet. And you listen, you walk forward until you’re standing beside the sliding door. You open it and see various articles of clothing.

Lingerie and outfits. Maid, nurse, etc. You stare at the clothes in disbelief.

“What is all this?” you turn to face Taehyung.

“You tell me.” He says chuckling, “Seems like we like the same stuff.” He shrugs. “Maybe you can,” he walks closer and is touching the maid lingerie, “wear this next you’re cleaning the house.”

He’s teasing you. Your stomach twists and turns, your heart is jumping out of your chest and you feel so fucking warm.

“S-Shut up.” You lean back on the door.

“Oh baby, I think you and I both know who tells who what to do here.” He breathes out, not looking at you as he still plays with the material of more lingerie.

“Taehyung,” you sigh, “The cameras can’t hear you in here.”

“Ah,” he turns to face you, “Right. Should we head back downstairs?”

“Yes.” You slur out, feeling quite dizzy.

Month 5

It’s the bright white screen you know all too well…it has you releasing a shaky breath as you wait for the black letters to eventually appear.

“Hey Taehyung…” you call out for you roommate who is making something to eat in the kitchen. “I think we have an incoming message from our,” You pause, huffing out. “Our little friends.”

“Oh. Oh shit.” You hear Taehyung whine from behind you. “I thought they were finally starting to back off…” he sighs out. “Let’s see what these fuckers want.”

Request:

Skinny dip for 1 hour. Must be within a foot of one another.

Ex-excuse you? Ex-fucking-cuse you? Skinny who what for when what? Your eyes bulge out of your head. This has got to be some sort of joke.

“Hell no!” you yell out, not even sparing Taehyung a glance.

Voice full of panic, Taehyung is quick to bring up the alternative.

“The penalty!” he rushes. “What’s the penalty? We will just do the penalty!”

Penalty:

No power or running water for 3 days.

“No pow—what the fuck?” Taehyung shakes his head, disbelief written all over his face.

“Wait! And no running water? Like, we can’t flush the toilet for 3 days? That’s bullshit!” you drag your hands down your face, “And wont the stuff in our fridge go bad?”

Several long moments pass between you two and not in a cool way. There’s nothing cool about this shit. There’s tension filling the air around you both. Awkward tension.

“Isn’t this too much?” Taehyung finally says, obviously not able to tolerate the silence any longer.

You both exchange worried glances with one another before Taehyung says some shit you don’t like.

“Let’s just do the request.”

Your eyes basically pop out of your head.

“Are you out of your mind—do the requests? How could you say that so easily!” you mumble, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“I feel like it’s the best choice.” He gives his honest answer. “Plus, you’ve never seen a naked man before? We will get over it y/n. Knowing me and you, we will be laughing about it in a couple days.” He finally turns to face you, throwing a wink your way, “You know it’s true.”

You mull over your options and hate that he’s right. You very timidly respond with a quiet ‘okay’ and avoid his eyes. His dark, intimidating eyes.

Your heart is racing, No, that is an understatement; your heart is on the verge of explosion. Your nerves are scattered and pounding from the inside out. You are freaking out. Naked with Taehyung? And he seems cool as a fucking cucumber.

“Let’s meet outside once it’s completely dark out.” You suggest.

“Read my mind.”

“…Of course I did, we’re” you roll your eyes. “Soulmates.” you laugh bitterly to yourself, “anyway, I’ll just see you tonight.”

“So you’re just going to avoid me until tonight?” Taehyung asks, “It’s not like they’re asking us to fuck.” He sways on his feet, “Just keep your eyes on my eyes and we will be fine.”

“Right.” You choke out, “Because it’s that easy.”

“Are you saying it’s impossible not to check me out?” he teases and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“Shut up.”

“Brat.”

Night fall approaches sooner rather than later. You wish it would have taken a million years to appear but nope, here you are. You stand outside with Taehyung in front of you. You’re in an oversized t shirt and loose shorts, keeping it simple since they’re coming off anyway. Taehyung wears his usual sweats and a white tee. You two are standing next to the pool, knowing the time has finally come. After leaving Taehyung earlier this afternoon, you took a much needed nap to clear your head.

“Don’t let your eyes linger.” You mumble, nodding your head in his direction.

“Ha, I was going to say the same thing to you.” He pokes his tongue out. Taehyung looks fucking comfortable as fucking always. Like, this doesn’t bother him in the least.

Luckily, the tension is tolerable. So you decide to make the first move. You begin unbuttoning your shorts—

“Woah! Woah! Woah! Wait!” he yells. His arms flailing, trying to stop you.

You scrunch your nose in annoyance, “What?” you ask, not too pleased since you are just trying to get this over with. If you got told 5 months ago that you would be in a hurry to get naked in front of this guy you would ugly laugh. Yet here you are.

“It’s just-it’s just…we should go at the same time.” Taehyung rushes to say.

“Oh, okay. Pants first, let’s go—”

“No! that’s awkward.” He shakes his head, “shirt first.”

“Okay, okay.” You oblige, “weirdo” You whisper loud enough that he can hear you.

The two of you begin with your tops, you try to focus your eyes elsewhere but they naturally skim the skin of his chest and abdomen as his shirt comes off quickly. Taehyung doesn’t even try to look away as you undress, his dark, intimidating stare causing you to feel chills. You slip off your pink t shirt, exposing your bare torso that is laced with a pretty black bralette. His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Okay, next is our bottoms right?” You gulp. He only nods.

You continue the job on unbuttoning your shorts, letting them fall to your feet exposing your matching black panties. Yes, you wore a sexy matching set on purpose. If he’s going to see you like this why wouldn’t you want to look good? You would do that for anybody. You can feel him eyeing you as he slips off his sweats, leaving him in nothing but a pair of blue briefs.

Finally, you are left in nothing but your underwear. You eye him over, his body is so fucking nice it makes you feel bad for even standing next to him. His briefs are a light blue, leaving little to the imagination. You can literally see the outline of his—you know what. Is he sporting a semi, right now? You do an up and down of your own body when you realize you have more clothes than him!

“Hey this is unfair!” You whisper, covering your chest with your arm. “I have to strip my bra off and you what, just get to watch?”

“Oh? So I am allowed to watch?” he responds playfully. It’s that same teasing tone you’re still trying to get used to.

“Well, you’re obviously going to see…” You grumble, lowering your arm. “Welp, here goes.”

Taehyung swallows rather hard, his eyes trailing your body pretty shamelessly. You reach in front of you, unhooking the bralette and letting the straps fall off your shoulders before letting the whole thing fall to the ground.

“Uh, okay.” Taehyung clears his throat. “Now our underwear.”

“Right.” You say while reaching for the band of your panties, pulling it back a bit and letting it go, the material slapping against your hips. You swear you see his dick move at that.

“Okay.” Taehyung’s breathing is heavier than before, “On 3? 1…2..”

“3!” you shout in unison.

You both begin stripping away your last piece of clothing. You’re the first to be fully undressed. You let your panties drag down leg by leg until they join the pile of clothes at your feet. It’s not that you’re trying to do this in a sexy manner, but if it comes across sexy—then so be it. Taehyung pauses mid action, his eyes scanning your body again. God, you are starting to get really nervous again. His gaze absolutely thrills you, you can admit that. You’d live a life of torture to have him stare at you like this all the time. You see him lick his lips then shake his head. You didn’t just imagine that right?

“Hurry up.” You plead.

Taehyung finally drags off his briefs. By the looks of it he looks mostly hard, as his cock springs free. Holy Fuck. Your last ex—Ben—was not this…blessed. Taehyung has every right to be as cocky as he wants, he’s earned it. His dick is long in length but he also seems to have girth. How is one man blessed this much? You would have to have your hand wrapped around it—or your lips—to really know how thick he is. Jesus fucking Christ, what are you saying? You think your best excuse is that you are dick deprived. Also…how long have you been staring? You will say long enough by the look Taehyung is giving you. It’s that shit eating grin that just screams he is one cocky bastard.

“Okay,” you clear your throat, forcing yourself to look into Taehyung’s eyes. “Let’s get in the pool.”

“You got the timer?” Taehyung chuckles.

“It’s laying on the ledge.” you point at it, walking closer to the pool. “Ready?” you look up at him, waiting for his response.

“You look beautiful by the way.” He says out of nowhere. “I mean, as always.” He winks.

You blush pretty fucking hard at that, you can feel all the heat rush to your cheeks, lighting you on fire.

“Are you-are you ready or what?” you grumble.

“Always.” He grins, reaching for you hand. “Let’s go.”

You two tip toe into the water, pausing every few seconds to get use to the temperature of the water. You stop once the water reaches your collarbones, you walk towards the wall, lean against it and face forward. You turn the timer on and you both exchange a few words but you remain mostly quiet, You don’t think either of you know what to say. Every minute that passes (about 15 to be exact) has your nerves spiking.

You hear Taehyung sigh deeply as he inches closer towards you. Now why would he do that? He inches so close that your shoulders are touching, he sinks a little further into the water and then surprising you, he rests his head on your shoulder. What the fuck is he doing?

“We can have a foot of space between us.” You remind him awkwardly.

Taehyung remains quiet, you only hear his soft breaths.

“Taehyung?”

“You know how hard it is going to be to get the image of you naked out of my head?” He whispers with a chuckle.

“Don’t start using me as masturbation material.” You joke, your eyes looking out at the water. It’s calm and bright from the lights inside the pool.

“Start? You think you haven’t entered my mind before?” he jokes back. At least you think he’s joking.

“Stop playing.” You laugh awkwardly.

Taehyung is quiet again and you can feel the tension that always visits you two starting to build.

“Do you…have you…have you thought about me before?” you manage to slip out, surprising yourself.

“You’re asking if I’ve—”

“If you’ve thought about me when you have ‘alone’ time’ ya know?”

“Do you think I haven’t?” he lifts his head and stares at you. “y/n…I’m a guy. And you’re kind of the only person I see.”

Oh. It’s not like I see anyone else. His last words repeat in your mind. Of course, that makes sense. He’s stuck with you, of course you’ve entered his mind, probably against his will or whatever.

“I see.” You say softly. You step to the side, getting further from him and he frowns.

You two stand here, barely speaking. Maybe another 20-30 minutes pass when Taehyung dramatically huffs out.

“Listen y/n…about earlier.” Right earlier. When you made a fucking fool of yourself. Asking your friend is he has ever jacked off to you before! Before he can continue you slap a finger over his pouting lips, shushing him.

“Do you really think now is the time?”

“We have time to kill—”

“—okay! So let’s talk about something else!” you happily offer.

But you guess Taehyung isn’t having it, he steps closer and rests his head on your shoulder again, his breathing picking up. Why is he breathing so hard?

“Just hear me out, okay?”

You only stare ahead, exhaling deeply. What to do…maybe there’s no harm in hearing him out, right? Oh wait there is harm! The feeling of fucking rejection. Why does it feel like rejection? You don’t know. Why the fuck you care? You don’t know that either. But he’s fucking sulking, like a baby. You thought you were the baby here? You guess he needs to have a turn every now and then…

“fine.”

“You probably,” he sinks in the water just a little deeper, “hate me, right?” you don’t hate him…”Me, your friend, has had dirty thoughts about you, yada yada,” he closes his eyes.

“ wait what—” This is because he has had dirty thoughts about you?

“So about what I said…I’m sorry…”

“Taehyung it’s fine,” you rush to say in embarrassment, “I don’t know why I asked! Seriously, it was stupid. I crossed a li—”

“Wait why did you ask?” That’s when you freeze. Yeah why did you ask?

“Uh…”

“Why?” he stands up straighter, his head tilted towards you.

“I was just curious Taehyung.” you defend. “It’s not that deep.”

“Curious? About me?” he raises he brow, he pauses while thinking over his words. “Like, sexually?” he finishes, caution in his voice.

Fuck. What did you get yourself into?

“Taehyung…I already said it was stupid. Plus,” you decide to be bold again, “Hearing it was only because I’m the only one here or whatever didn’t do great things for my ego.”

“Wait—” you hear him stifle a chuckle. “That’s what you’re mad about?”

“Well…” you drag out the word with a pout. You don’t mean to be such a baby yet here you are.

“Wow! I thought you were mad because I’ve thought about you impurely, not because it wasn’t a good enough reason why…wow.” He laughs! He’s basically laughing at you!

“Well?”

“Oh my God, y/n. You’re joking right? I can’t just say I have the hots for my friend now can I? That’ll just—”

“Do you?” your voice is much smaller and quieter than you anticipated, like it barely escaped. Taehyung stays quiet for a second too long that it makes you ten times as nervous.

“Are you…” Taehyung looks at you with a look on his face you can’t quite place, “I’m naked in a pool with you right now and I am going crazy. Absolutely crazy.” Taehyung sighs out heavily, a frown taking over his face. “You’re ability to be so naïve just…baffles me.” He admits, defeated.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a beautiful girl y/n. Of course my mind has wandered. It doesn’t mean I—fuck. It doesn’t mean anything deep or anything like that. But yes, being with you and your fanfuckingtastic tits is giving me some trouble.” He says darkly. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you checking me out either.” He smirks. “We are human.” He finishes.

A long, deafening silence accompanies you both. Its sitting in the water between your bodies. Just lingering, waiting for one of you to break it in half and drown it in this very pool. But no, it remains. And that person won’t be you. But several minutes have passed by and he is still fucking quiet. Maybe you should be the one to say something? You’re about to you swear , but you hear Taehyung grumble something under his breath.

“What’s that?” you say.

“I said, it’s only fair if I ask too.” Ask what? Oh. Wait. That?

“Ask what?” you ask, pretending you don’t know.

“You know what.”

“Nope.” you say, popping the ‘p’.

“y/n.” “I’m not answering that.”

“Come on.” He leans his face towards your neck, his breaths hitting your wet skin. “It’s only fair.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” he pushes on. “Come on y/n, have you thought about me when you get yourself off or not?” he asks, his voice really low. How does he get his voice so deep? Fuck, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Maybe once or twice I have thought about you too.” You admit, feeling a rush of adrenaline as the words leave your mouth.

“Once or twice?” he repeats lowly, “What did you think about?” his words crawl on the side of your neck as they leave his mouth.

“I’m not answering that.”

“I want you to tell me.” He sounds so breathless while being so demanding.

“Nope.”

“You’re no fun.” He chuckles. “Aren’t you curious about what I think about?”

“Not really.” You lie. “Don’t worry about my imagination. It’s the only action I’m getting anyway.” You laugh.

“When’s the last time you had sex y/n? Please tell me it wasn’t with your ex…”

“Yeah it was.” You admit and Taehyung pushes his head back, not liking you admission.

“Why haven’t you?” he asks.

“I felt so betrayed Taehyung…it’s sort of hard to trust anyone after that.” You sigh, “He hurt me bad. I’m…”

“You’re what?”

“I just don’t feel comfortable.” You say softly, “I don’t think I will for a while.”

“I see…I’m so sorry. I wish that didn’t happen to you.”

“It’s in the past now.”

Ben holds you close as he comes, his hands leaving behind their marks on your body from how tightly he holds you.

“Fuck yes.” He groans, “Did you come?” he asks quickly, breathing hard into your neck.

“It’s okay.” You sigh out, “As long as you feel good.”

“I felt amazing honey.” He kisses the side of your neck over and over. “Shit, we gotta get going. We’ll be late for work.”

“Do we really have to take separate cars?” you whine.

“Just for now babe.” He promises, lifting himself off your body, leaving your pussy aching for more.

“Okay…”

“He look so handsome today as usual…” you hear Layla talking to some of the other girls. “I’m telling you…he’s going to ask me out. He’s been eyeing me lately and complimenting me.” She gushes, catching your interest.

“Who?” you ask, setting your belongings down on your desk.

Layla turns to face you, waves her hand and smiles.

“Ben.”

Ben? Like your Ben? Her boss Ben?

“Ben who?” you blink at her and the other girls laugh.

“Obviously the only Ben we know!” Layla giggles and you feel your chest tighten.

“You think he’s going to ask you out?”

“Yes girl! He comes to my desk a few times day, calls me gorgeous, so on and so forth.” Layla says quietly so only you girls can hear. You feel your heart drop.

“I don’t think so.” You speak up. “Ben wouldn’t. He’s already seeing someone.”

“Oh really? Who?” Layla scrunches her brows together, “Because—”

“Me.” You blurt. “He and I are…”

The other girls stop their giggling and look at you with shocked eyes.

“There’s no way.” One of them says.

“y/n, are you serious?” Layla blushes, feeling a little embarrassed now.

“Yes, for months now.” you admit. “But we weren’t telling anyone…yet.”

“Wow! I can’t believe this!” another girl says, her hand coming to her mouth.

You then in a hush hush voice tell the group of girls yours and Bens story. You tell them how he pursued you, you finally agreed and how you two have been dating for over 6 months. They gush and gasp and giggle. It feels good to finally tell people, you think.

But unfortunately for you, it wasn’t good at all.

“y/n?” Taehyung knocks you out of your daze. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” You sigh, feeling weak. “I’m okay.”

Taehyung looks at you with pity, his eyes full of it. He stands tall and floats until he’s standing in front of you.

“I’m going to hug you.” He states calmly, “I really need to hug you.”

“Taehyung…” you step back until your back hits the ledge. “Now isn’t really appropriate.”

“I don’t care. I’ve already seen you naked.” He says nonchalantly. “C’mere.” He opens his arms wide for you and you shake your head.

“I said, c’mere.” He inches closer and closer. “Or I’m coming to you.”

“Taehyung.” You whine, but you let him get closer to you.

His wet arms reach out for you, he’s gripping your shoulders first before his hands easily slide down your arms until they’re under water holding on to your waist.

“C’mere.” He repeats. And you slowly inch closer towards him, your arms hesitantly circling around his middle. And then he’s pulling you in to his chest…he sighs when he feels your budding nipples graze his skin, he sighs when he feels the fullness of your breasts being pushed into him, he sighs when he feels you.

You release a long breath as you hug him, maybe you needed this. This type of human contact. You pull back and look up into Taehyung’s dark eyes, he’s already gazing at you.

“Thanks.” You mumble.

“I think of you because you’re cool. And really pretty.”

“Huh?” Why is Taehyung suddenly complimenting you?

“When I’m—you know. I think of you because you’re cool and really pretty. I could think of anyone ya know? That’s how an imagination works. But I still think about you.”

You’re sure your face is a dark crimson, with how hard you are blushing. How are you supposed to take this new information?

“W-Well,” You find it hard to look into his eyes. “I guess, same.”

“Because I’m pretty?” his tone is lighter all the sudden, you roll your eyes.

“What do you think? Timer should be going on any minute now.” Taehyung throws a glance over his shoulder towards the timer.

“Hmm…” You turn, reaching for the timer, your wet hands getting ahold of it. “Less than 5 minutes.” You read it.

“Oh.” He sings, “If you have a secret, share it now!” Taehyung chuckles into the water, his lips creating bubbles on the surface.

“You want to know even more about me?” You stand a little taller, the water reaching the tops of your breasts. You see Taehyung’s eyes linger for a second before meeting your eyes again. “If you wanna know anything, just ask.” You reach your arms over your head, releasing a yawn.

“Okay…” He places his fingers on his chin, “It’s about me though.” He stops, his fingers dragging down his neck. “Ah, never mind.”

“What?”

“No, it’s weird.”

“Aren’t we passed weird?” you giggle.

“No, it’s really weird.” He sighs out, sinking down into the water until his head is fully under.

You watch as he rises back up, the water cascading down his golden skin, the water from his hair dripping onto his shoulders.

A few moments pass, Taehyung stands here thinking to himself while you just shamelessly watch. You watch as he chews on the inside of his cheek, his eyes upward, scanning the stars. He hums some tune to himself, deep in thought. Honestly, you love when he does this. He looks so…good. Not in a sexual way, you swear. He just looks so him. So Taehyung. He goes from chewing on his cheek to his bottom lip, his teeth digging into the plump flesh. You gulp, God he has no idea how good he looks like this.

“Well?” You ask impatiently. Trying to wave away any more of those thoughts you were just having.

Taehyung releases his bottom lip from his teeth as his lips form into a pout, his eyes closing.

“I’m thinking…”

“Less thinking, more asking.” You feel way too curious about whatever it is he wants to say. And the minutes are passing you by.

Taehyung opens one eye to look at you, he exhales, and faces you.

“Does it sound like I’m in love with Hana?” he says quietly.

“W-What? You’ve only really brought her up once…”

“But when I talked about her did it seem like I have deep feelings for her?”

“She thinks I only like the idea of her” Taehyung mumbles to Jimin and Namjoon. “She doesn’t think I like her as much as I say? Which is so stupid!”

“Isn’t she right though?” Jimin asks with a frown, “You only ever talk about how pretty she is…”

“Jimin means you don’t really have that much in common with her, do you?” Namjoon questions softly. “You don’t…you don’t seem as into as you have been in the past. Are you sure you actually like her?”

Taehyung stares at his friends in disbelief, not believing his ears for one second.

“What are you guys talking about? I fucking like her.” He grits out.

“Are you sure you aren’t just lonely—”

“I don’t want to hear this.” Taehyung stands up from the couch, “I’m going to go see her.”

Taehyung makes it to Hana’s apartment but her roommate answers the door and frowns when she sees Taehyung,

“Yes?”

“Uh, I’m here to see Hana.” He gestures inside the apartment.

“Right…” the roommate stands off to the side and lets Taehyung in. “She’s in her room.”

Taehyung walks through the apartment and down the hall until he’s knocking on Hana’s door. She opens it quickly, hugging him and pulling him inside.

“Hey you.” She smiles at Taehyung and he smiles back with his teeth.

“Hi.”

“What brings you here?”

“Just came to hang out, maybe watch a movie?” Taehyung sways from side to side, trying to not make this awkward.

“Sure, you can choose the movie.” She goes to her desk, grabs her lap top and gestures towards her bed. “We can watch in my bed.” She says shyly.

“G-Good idea.”

“So how did you like it?” Taehyung asks excitedly. ‘Castaway on the Moon’ just finished and he is so happy he got to show her his favorite movie.

“Honestly?” she chuckles awkwardly, “I didn’t really like it.” She admits. “it was weird.”

“It’s not weird! It’s amazing,” he pouts and she giggles.

He does feel really disappointed that she doesn’t like his favorite movie…is that a red flag? No, he’s just being dramatic, he thinks.

“Next time I’ll choose the movie.” Hana cuddles closer to Taehyung. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Taehyung…” you begin, “Where is this coming from?”

“She doesn’t think—my friends too—don’t think we have a lot of chemistry. That I’m forcing myself to like her, but that’s not true! But sometimes I feel confused. And I thought I could get an outside opinion.” He admits, “But this was stupid you don’t have to answer.”

You can tell him you believe in his feelings or you can tell him you don’t think he’s even talked about her enough that you take his feelings seriously. But will that hurt him?

“I—”

Beep beep beep beep beep beep.

The fire place is turned on, creating a safe and cozy atmosphere. The gas lit flames burn a hole in the tension that fills the room. What sort of tension? Not sure.

Taehyung and you are sat comfortably on the sofa, sitting with crossed legs facing one another, your knees just barely touching. A bowl of popcorn rests between you and blankets wrapped around your bodies. Separate blankets, of course.

Taehyung and you have decided to move the party inside (with clothes: on) and continue talking.

The ringing of the timer didn’t completely ruin your conversation only delaying it.

“And I don’t know,” he takes a handful of popcorn and stuffs it in his mouth. “I think we would make a cute couple.”

“Yeah but like I asked, what sorts of things do you two talk about? Not if you guys are a cute couple.”

“We talk.” He states.

“Okay…about?”

“Stuff.”

“You aren’t helping your case.” You sigh out, biting your lip. “I want to believe in your feelings Taehyung but…”

“I know.” He cuts you off, “I know.”

“So why are you forcing it?” you reach for some popcorn yourself, “Why do you want to like her so bad?”

“I don’t know….” He admits softly, “I really don’t know.”

“You’re unsure of your feelings.” You say bluntly. “That’s what it seems like.”

“Maybe I am.” He wraps the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “I’m like you…I don’t know what love is.”

“And just like me, you’ll find it someday.” You promise him with a sweet smile. “Right?”

“You will for sure.” He breathes out, “I think I’m a ….”

“A?”

“God, I don’t even want to say it.” He throws his head in his hands. “But I think I am a hopeless romantic.”

“I just want some cute love story with a cute girl. And Hana is perfect.”

“But does she thrill you? Challenge you? Make you laugh?”

“She’s…” fuck, he doesn’t even know. Does he even know Hana that well?

“Hey y/n…” Taehyung looks up at you, his eyes finding yours and you shrink in your spot.

“Yes?”

“Can we watch my favorite movie? I’m curious what you might think about it.” He gazes at you and you nod your head slowly.

“Sure Taehyung.”

“Also, you can call me Tae.”

“Holy fuck.” You sob into your hands. “The fucking noodles.”

Taehyung looks over at you with a soft smile as he has his own tears falling down his face.

“I know right?”

“He finally felt like he had purpose Tae,” you look at him with a pathetic scrunched up face, tears still leaving your eyes.

“EXACTLY!” Taehyung wails, “EXACTLY!”

“This movie was amazing, and how everything turned out...wow…and how she…and he…my goodness. I’m still crying.”

“I told you!! I am so glad you enjoyed it.” He moves closer to you on the sofa without thinking.

“Only lame people wouldn’t like this movie!” you basically yell out and Taehyung scoots even closer, his shoulder bumping yours. But you barely notice, still too invested in the movie.

“Yeah.” He agrees with a smile. “You really must be my soulmate.” He jokes with an awkward smile. “No one else really likes this movie.”

“Ha-Ha.” You roll your eyes, “But anyway, that’s crazy since it was so good.”

“Stop praising it or I’ll have to marry you.” He jokes again and you start turning a rosy pink.

“Stop.” You whine, swatting his shoulder.

“Let’s call it a night, yeah?”

You and Taehyung clean up the kitchen and living room and head upstairs for the night, he walks you to your bedroom door and lingers.

“Tonight was crazy. I saw you naked.” He brings up the request and you go redder than red.

“We can literally never talk about it again…”

“Am I allowed to think about it at least?” he winks, his voice low and making you feel tense.

“Goodnight Taehyung.”

~~~~~~~~

Month 6

Today is one of those days…Taehyung is in a bad mood and you’re being a brat. He hates how much you’ve been teasing him today…he is sorting through his feelings for Hana but you insist on walking around with small shorts and low cut tank tops, claiming it’s ‘hot’. He finally has you cornered though, he’s finally had enough. He’s got you pushed up against a wall, his face so close that your breaths mingle with one another.

“You’re really pushing me today…” Taehyung leans closer, his warm breath fanning over your face. “Today’s not the day y/n.” he warns.

“How am I pushing you? I’m literally not doing anything.” You jut your bottom lip out and look to the side.

“You’re being…such a fucking tease.” He decides to say, “Which is giving me a real headache.” He leans down, his arms on either side of your body.

“So I give you a headache?” Your eyes look up into his and you smirk. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You are real annoying, you know that?” he can’t help but chuckle, but then he’s exhaling a deep breath and rolling his eyes. “Ask for forgiveness.”

“Ask for forgiveness?” you scoff. “Seriously? And what am I asking forgiveness for?”

“You’re lucky I’m not telling you to beg.”

“Beg?” you scoff again. “Who do you think you—”

“y/n.” his dark eyes gaze into yours. His hand slides down the wall and then it’s at your waist. He pulls you in and leans his head down closer to your face, you feel the lump in your throat grow as you ty to swallow it down.

“Y-Yes?”

“Ask for forgiveness.” He tells you again, this time much more softly.

“And if I don’t?” You stare up at him and he chuckles.

“Do you really want to find out?” his gaze doesn’t waver as he looks at you…the way he stares at you makes you feel bare in front of him, like he’s stripping you of your clothes, of your skin, everything.

“And if I do?” you whisper. “What happens if I do?”

Taehyung narrows his eyes at you as he licks his lips repeatedly…you’re really testing him aren’t you? He can’t tell if you’re toying with him because of the cameras or if it’s because you’re a brat.

“y/n.” he says your name like the sound of a slow breath. It feels intimate, the way he calls out for you. You can’t help but gulp as you blink up at him.

“Y-Yes?”

“You want to beg, don’t you?” he smirks, he pokes his tongue out as he eyes you. You can see the amusement in his eyes. “You want to…” the words are dying on his tongue because what can he say? Everything he wants to say would probably be deemed as inappropriate.

“I want to what?” you tilt your head up, your eyes scanning the entirety of his face and he leans further into your space.

“Just do as I say, tell me you’re sorry and we can move on.”

“Do as you say?” you lean back until your head is lightly hitting the wall, “You think I would really listen to you?”

“Such a brat.” His hand doesn’t let go of your waist as he leans back as well. “Why do I deal with this? And yes,” he rolls his head back. “I think you would very much enjoy listening to me.” He pauses and bites his lip. “If this company really thinks we’re a match made in heaven then I am sure you can assume what I mean.”

You silently gasp, a blush painting itself brightly on your cheeks.

“Ah,” he leans in again, “So you do know what I mean.”

“Taehyung,” you mumble, “Sometimes your flirting for the camera is too much.” You whisper quiet enough the cameras can’t hear.

Taehyung leans down until his mouth is at the shell of your ear and you can hear the smirk.

“Who says it’s for the cameras?” he leans away from you again, he finally drops his hand from your waist and is about to turn to leave when your hand flies to his shirt.

“Wait.” You blurt out, “I’ll…” you look off to the side. “I’ll say sorry”

“Oh?” Taehyung looks amused to say the least, “Go ahead, then.”

“Only if you tell me what’s wrong today.”

“It’s nothing.”

Your hand goes from the middle of his shirt to his shoulder and you look up at him with big, doe eyes as he blinks down at you over and over.

“What?” he whispers.

“Please.” You whisper back, “I’ll be good,” you promise in a low voice.

Taehyung feels his chest get warm, the heat traveling from there to his toes. He looks at you with his serious expression and softens.

“You are good.” He breathes out. His gaze intense as he stares into your eyes.

“Then…” you pause. Taehyung keeps his eyes on your eyes until he’s not. His eyes slowly travel down your face until he’s staring at your lips. He notices how plump they look, how your tongue darts out to wet them. He feels himself being drawn closer to you, leaning in further and further.

“…Taehyung.” You say breathlessly and Taehyung blinks repeatedly, clearing his throat as he leans back again.

“Fine, don’t apologize. Brat.” And he’s stepping away from you and you watch his back as he walks away.

Taehyung. Is. Such. A. tease. And it drives you absolutely insane. You’re sure the company that watches you is having the times of their lives as you suffer. Why does he have to go this far? It only makes you want to challenge him and go even further yourself. There was a moment, right? Where he acted like he was going to kiss you? Of course he wouldn’t actually do that. This is just for show but god, it still drives you nuts.

Taehyung rushes to his bedroom, slamming the door shut as he rests against it. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s just frustrated. He misses Hana. But why do you have to be so infuriating and you know, hot. And it makes him angry. He wasn’t actually going to kiss you, of course. But there was a moment of strange tension that he…he can’t describe. Taehyung slides down the door, falling to the ground. He remembers his first kiss with Hana, it was sweet and nice but like, he doesn’t remember it being intense not like how it feels when he gets close to you.

“Taehyung!” Hana giggles as she pats his back as she’s thrown over his shoulder. “Put me down!”

“Never!” Taehyung laughs just as much as he runs around in circles. “Ugh, so heavy though.” He jokes.

“Hey!” Hana hits his back, “Come on, put me down.” Her giggles softly relax and he’s setting her down back on the ground, her feet finally planted on the ground as she keeps her arms loosely thrown around his neck.

“You really love carrying me.”

“Holding you is fun.” He smiles, “And you’re not actually heavy. Actually you weigh nothing.”

“Yeah, right.” She playfully rolls her eyes.

“So.” Taehyung chuckles awkwardly, looking into Hana’s eyes.

“So…” she steps closer to him, tightening her hold around her neck. “We’ve been hanging out a lot …” she flutters her lashes, “And..”

“And?”

“I kind of want you to kiss me.”

“Oh.” Taehyung’s eyes widen. He was not expecting that. He smiles at her and nods his head. “Yeah, I can do that.” He teases, leaning in until his lips are against hers. He pulls back but she pushes herself forward to kiss him more and he sighs in her mouth, loving the feel of her lips.

“We should do that more often.” Taehyung breathes out and Hana giggles.

Taehyung groans into his hands, recalling his memories. He does miss Hana but he feels like every time he thinks of her…he somehow is also thinking about you too. But it’s not like he’s thinking of you like that but yeah, you’re on his mind. And he’s got to chill out. He stands up from the floor and walks to his bed, throwing himself on it with a bounce. He’s still so frustrated. He recalls dinner yesterday, how he…

“I’m staring at you because you have sauce on your lips.” Taehyung says from across the dining room table.

“Should I get it for you?” he teases, standing up from his chair, the sound of it screeching against the floor makes you flinch.

“No, no.” you shake your head, “I can do it myself.”

“What if I want to help you though?” Taehyung tilts his head with innocent eyes. “I’ll clean you up.”

“Tae—”

Taehyung walks to your side of the table and bends down until his face is level with your face, he smiles at you and raises his thumb up to your lips. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip slowly, the heat of his finger making you sigh out. He leans in closer as he finishes wiping the sauce off your mouth. When he finishes he takes a moment to look into your eyes like he’s searching them for something. He’s not sure what though. You feel yourself being hypnotized by his gaze, you, yourself stare back at him just as deeply…you think he’s going to lean away any second but instead he brings his hand between your faces and brings his thumb to his mouth. His thumb pushes past his lips and he’s licking it clean, the action purposely agonizingly slow.

“There. Got it.” He breathes out, “All clean.”

Your eyes widen just the slightest…he’s a tease. A fucking tease.

Taehyung’s eyes light up in amusement when he watches how you flush under his hard stare and he starts laughing.

“W-What?” you spit out, your embarrassment has you stabbing your food with your fork. “What’s funny?”

“You.” He says with a grin, the air is starting to thin out as he laughs. “You make me laugh.”

“Glad I can entertain.” You roll your eyes.

You’re so…fuck, you’re so sexy. Taehyung has been wanting to admit that for a while, but god, he has to really fucking control himself. But he’s trying to keep these thoughts at bay because he needs to figure out what he’s doing about Hana.

He lays here thinking of all the moments he has flirted with you for the camera, he groans into his pillow when he has the hardest realization. Is it really for the camera? The tension between you two is so fucking thick, the air is suffocating, making it hard to breathe. The intensity…the thrill. You are the only one who makes him feel like his world is burning with a passionate fire. Hana is nice but you? You’re you and he’s realizing how much he likes that.

He’s realizing a lot. It’s been 6 months and he thinks he is ready to admit that this is beyond what he signed up for. He signed on to get along, but this? This is a whole other journey he’s going on.

Taehyung sits up in bed, his face gone pale as he makes his realizations. His mouth hangs open as his mind races. Does Taehyung just want to fuck you? Or….does Taehyung like you?

Suddenly, there’s soft knocking on his bedroom door, his head snaps in that direction and he knows it’s you—well duh, who else would it be? He scrambles off the bed and he’s opening the door. You’re wearing yoga pants and a long sleeve shirt now with an innocent smile on your face.

“I turned the AC down.” You say. “Now I won’t make your life hard by wearing hardly any clothes.” You’re teasing him and he’s going wild for it.

“Oh really?” he breathes out, “Are you going to say sorry?” he teases back, his breathing picking up.

“Should I ask for forgiveness?” you mock him and he raises a brow at you.

“I’m going to make you beg y/n.” he says lowly, “Keep this up and I’ll be carrying you to the other bedroom.”

Your smile drops at his words. What does he mean by that? He’s taking the acting too far…

“You ever begged before baby?” He walks closer to you, making you uneasy. You step backward further into the hall and sigh out.

“Maybe.”

“From now on, you’ll only ever do it for me.” He says so low, that you barely hear him. But you do hear him and you shudder.

“Taehyung.” You warn softly, you push him by the shoulders, backing him into his bedroom. Once inside you close the door and look at him expectantly.

“What?” he rolls his eyes at you.

“You’re being too much…” you whisper. “But fuck, I gotta admit you’re good.” You breathe out roughly, “It almost feels real.”

“I wasn’t kidding earlier.” Taehyung walks towards you, his hand reaching out to touch the ends of you hair, “Who says this is for the cameras?”

You glance up at him, clearly confused.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh y/n.” Taehyung feels his heart start to race. “This just got a lot more interesting.”

#bts #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #taehyung fanfic #the island chapter 4

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

Text

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.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #imagine darksiders #chwh #cold hands warm heart #reader #eideard #Reaper x reader #whump #hurt/comfort #angst #blood #language #father-daughter #relationship #anger #stages of grief #fanfic

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