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Eden's Heir, chapter 4 - The Jump.

I can't believe it's been almost a year since I updated this. A lot has happened recently, not all of it good, but I'm still here, and will continue to be by hook or by crook! I've had to cut it into two chapters because the final fight between the Slag Demon and the Horsemen is taking way too long to write. Good news though, there'll be two chapters in [hopefully] quick succession. Hooray! Hope you like this one, guys, thank you all so much for standing by me and waiting so patiently.. I don't know where I'd be without your support. <3 <3 <3

Summary:

As you grapple with the horrifying, new reality you've found yourself in, Strife continues to torment you in the misguided hope that somehow, you'll spontaneously start to like him. His jokes are terrible. It's just a shame you have a weakness for terrible jokes. War, meanwhile, can't stop his eyes from wandering to your fresh, undeserved scar...

You suppose that when Strife said this would be ‘fun,’ he was only factoring himself into the equation. Because for you, there’s nothing very fun about having your particles ripped apart and rocketed through a portal which, according to modern science, should not and does not exist.

Well, modern science owes you a formal apology.

As it turns out, portals very much do exist, and they’re a lot less fun than the media has led you to believe.

The experience - though you hesitate to give it such a mundane moniker - isn’t… painful, per se, mostly because the whole process is over and done with so quickly that your brain and body aren’t given the time to notice that they’ve been squished through one end of a worm hole, reassembled atom by atom, and then spat out on the other side.

Perhaps more disconcertingly than the feeling itself is the fact that when you’re hanging for that split-second moment in a space outside of existence itself, you notice that the temperature around you inexplicably skyrockets.

And frankly, you’re not sure which is worse… The stale, unwelcoming chill of the Void, or the absolute blistering inferno that greets you within less than a second of leaving it.

Before you can even open your mouth to scream at the unnatural process your very human body is being subjected to, the space around you solidifies and stabilises again, and an unexpected jolt shoots straight through you when Strife’s metal boots collide with a hard, stone surface, jarring your stomach painfully against his shoulder pauldron.

At the same time, a wave of hot, dry air sweeps over you from head to toe, cloaking you in uncomfortable and immediate warmth that’s downright oppressive, thick and inescapable, as if you’ve just been tossed onto the fiery surface of the sun and left to sizzle.

Actually, now that you’ve experienced both extremes, perhaps you are sure which is worse. At least that sinister demon’s Void didn’t make you want to peel yourself out of your own skin.

Groaning miserably, you pick your hazy head up and suck in a breath that goes down about as well as spoiled meat, and then nearly retch at the unpleasant texture of heat sliding down the walls of your oesophagus like something squirming and alive.

Even the metal chain on your bag begins to grow warm against the skin of your neck, dangling down below your head near the Horseman’s holsters.

“Hot damn,” Strife announces, concisely putting a voice to your thoughts.

Your lashes are sticky from leftover tears, clumping together when you squeeze your eyes shut and attempt to pry them apart again. It takes a few arduous blinks before your blurry surroundings bleed into focus.

You rather wish you’d just kept your head down and your eyes firmly shut.

If there were any doubts left in your mind that teleportation really is possible, they swiftly fly out of the proverbial window when you catch your first, proper glimpse of the surroundings.

Wherever you are, it definitely isn’t the same place you were in barely ten seconds ago.

Bracing a palm against Strife’s solidly armoured back, you lever your torso up slightly to give yourself a better view of the world around you.

It seems that the portal – your brain starts to ache as it tries to accept the existence of those – has spat you out underneath the roof of an absolutely gargantuan cavern.

Roving your gaze back and forth, mouth ajar, you notice the walls, floor and ceiling are made entirely of dark, igneous rock, and yet all around you, you start to spot signs of… Well, perhaps not civilisation exactly, but definitely an external presence that gives you the impression that this is a keep of some kind, dug by hand rather than time or nature.

Two, immense pillars stand proudly at the far corners of the enormous chamber, large enough to prop up the roof of a veritable mountain.

Craning your neck back until it twinges, you squint through a haze of simmering air at the ceiling far above you, feeling a trickle of dread creep down into the pit of your stomach.

Bolted into the rock between the stalactites, there are numerous, gigantic chains hanging like eerie sentinel over your heads, so large and heavy that it doesn’t look as though anything short of gale-force winds could cause them to sway. You don’t dare to imagine what purpose they might serve.

Pale, unreachable light trickles lazily down from above, dappling little patches of the grey stone underneath Strife’s boots.

With your heart wedged in your throat, you swallow another curl of heat and let your gaze wander over to the side of the keep to where the ground falls away in a sheer drop several feet from the walls. It’s from the resulting pit that a vivid, orange glow rises, carrying with it the distinct sound of cracking, like glass windows slowly splintering apart, or a lake of ice breaking under a heavily placed boot. And below that sound, a deep, subterranean rumble serves as the background noise to this stifling place, constant and oozing.

Coupled with the acrid stench permeating your nostrils and the sweltering heat, you’re suddenly struck by the very disconcerting but plausible notion that you might have found yourself in the heart a volcano.

As if your day wasn’t horrendous enough.

All of a sudden, your ears are pricked by a low grunt from somewhere just a little too close to you, reminding you of your larger tormentor’s presence with a nauseating pang to the stomach. Consequentially, the unsightly welt on your forearm gives an insistent twinge.

Twisting your head to the left, you nearly jump out of your skin to find War has appeared out of thin air beside you, straightening to his full domineering height that easily clears his brother, and subsequently, you. The hooded behemoth only spares you a disinterested glance before his pale, blue eyes dart away again just as quickly and he stomps around to Strife’s front, out of view.

A breath you didn’t know you were keeping behind your teeth shakes itself loose.

You have to peel your tongue from the roof of your bone-dry mouth like a strip of velcro before you’re able to form a small, hesitant question in a voice baked hoarse and thin. “What is this place?”

No sooner has your meek question faded below the rumble of the cavern’s ambiance than an entirely new and harrowing sound punctures the otherwise quiet air.

Howling along the cavern walls comes a piercing, anguished scream, stemming from a place much deeper than you’ve already seen. It’s a raw sound, broken and terrified and primal, like a man with his humanity stripped and skewed just enough that he can’t quite be called human any longer. It prompts a sharp gasp out of you as the sound ricochets off the rocks, curdling your blood and raising the finer hairs on the back of your neck.

As if he’s entirely unconcerned with such a horrifying occurrence, Strife plants his free hand squarely on a hip and draws in a deep, obnoxious breath through his nose before he sighs it all out again, casting a casual glance around with all the air of a man surveying a pleasant sunrise.

“Ahh~ Screams of suffering, chains hanging from the ceiling, no sign of an exit…” he sighs wistfully, clapping the back of your thigh with his palm and announcing, “Yep! We’re definitely in a dungeon.”

He seems oblivious to your apprehension as you dart your eyes to every darkened corner of the cavern as if you might find the source of the tormented scream, curling your legs up under your dress until your knees bump against the Horseman’s chest. “A-a dungeon!?” you gulp, kneading your fingers between the gaps of Strife’s armoured spine, “A dungeon for what?”

Distracted for a fleeting moment by the foreign sensation of fingertips pressing against his leather under-armour, the Horseman almost forgets to respond.

It isn’t until he notices War’s expectant glare burning a hole into the side of his visor that he gives his head a shake and promptly shrugs his massive shoulders, swinging himself around to face away from his brother, and in doing do, bringing you almost nose to chest with the surly giant.

“Beats me,” he hums, utterly heedless of the fearsome stare-down currently happening just behind his head, “Probably for the poor bastard we just heard screaming... And a few others, to boot.”

Angling your head up, you have to gulp past a rather thick lump in your throat as you peer meekly up at War, who in turn, glares right back down at you, his eyes glinting ominously from within the shadow of his hood.

Reluctant to drop your gaze or even breathe for fear of provoking him by committing some unknowable slight, you shrink against Strife and duck your head, peeping up at him through your lashes as you tap your forefinger against one of the silver armour pieces interlocking across your captor’s back.

“Um,” you start, hearing Strife’s helm brush against your dress when he turns to listen, “C-can you, uh, put me down now…” Then, following a notable stretch of deafening silence, you squeakily tack on a hurried, “Please?”

There’s no guarantee that being on the ground will be any better for you than dangling over an uncomfortable, metal shoulder, but you’re at least willing to entertain the illusion that you’ll be safer on your feet without Strife dictating your every move. A modicum of control is better than none at all.

And truthfully, you’d just like to end the humiliation of being carried around like a sack of distraught potatoes.

Yet for some, inane reason, the armour-clad Horseman doesn’t seem as eager to relinquish you as you are to be relinquished.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” he drawls, bumping his shoulder up and down playfully, no doubt to pull a rise out of you which you frustratingly give him in the form of a gasp before he continues, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

Still glaring down at you, unimpressed, War gives an exasperated huff, blasting a jet of warm air onto the crown of your head.

“Put her down,” he states firmly, lifting his gaze from you at last, “You will need both hands free if we run into trouble.”

Knocking his head back over a shoulder to address you, Strife grins beneath his helm and murmurs, “Ha. You’d be amazed what I can pull off one-handed.”

Trying your best to ignore his boast, you roll your eyes and start to squirm, wriggling around under the weight of his arm. “Ugh,” you complain, “Will you please just put me down?”

“Mmm…” Humming obnoxiously, Strife sucks his teeth and replies, “Depends. You gonna try and run away again?”

That, at least, gives you something to consider. Are you going to try and run again? They certainly haven’t given you much of a reason not to.

The scar War gave you still burns when you bend your arm a certain way and the flesh pulls and stretches beyond the limits of the tissue.

More to the point, how do you really know any of what they’ve told you is true?

How do you know you’re not on Earth right now, somewhere remote, yes, but escapable. Because they told you you’re not?

You don’t know these giants from Adam.

You can’t trust anything they say. You don’t trust anything they say. And while you’ve undeniably found yourself smack-dab in the middle of some seriously unnatural goings on, that doesn’t mean you have to accept everything at face value.

Reality might be breaking apart around you, but you don’t have to join it, tempting though it may be to curl up into a ball and sob until the problem sorts itself out.

Desperate, your brain falls into a tailspin as it tries to rationalise such irrational circumstances.

Outwardly however, you’re aware he’s waiting for a response, so, sweeping your tongue nervously over your bottom lip, you finally croak out a hesitant, “No?”

The silence that follows is damn near chilling.

Twisting your neck up and back over your shoulder, you catch the shine in one of Strife’s luminous eyes peering at you, narrow and thin with obvious scepticism.

 “Huh,” he says, clicking his tongue, “That didn’t sound very convincing. I’m not very convinced.” Casting a look over at his brother, he adds, “War, are you very convinced?”

Predictably, War’s only response is to glower down at the shorter Horseman and grumble impatiently at the back of his throat.

Nonplussed, Strife returns his attention to you. “I don’t think he’s very convinced.”

You have to press your lips into a firm, immoveable line and swallow back the vulgar words you’d just love to spew all over his shoulder…. Instead, you heave in a hot, arduous breath and slowly reiterate, “No. I won’t try to run away.” Then for added measure… “Again.”

You loathe that you can feel the scrutiny of not one, but two apocalyptic beings boring into the side of your head with suspicious, calculating glares.

Just as you’re beginning to consider whether pulling his hair will get him to drop you or kill you, Strife suddenly perks up, his sinister doubt disappearing as he raises his chin to pipe, “A’right. Good enough for me.”

Taken wildly aback, you let your mouth hang open whilst Strife simply raises his arms and lays two oversized hands on your hips, causing your jaw to snap shut before you can emit an embarrassing squeak of fright.

With far too much ease, the Horseman lifts you up and off his shoulder.

The moment you lose the stability of his armour under your stomach, you begin to tilt forwards. Choking on a gasp, you throw your hands up and brace them on each of his forearms.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha,” he chuckles brightly, to your immense dismay.

It’s a disconcerting sight. From the tips of your fingers to the heels of your palms, your hands don’t even wrap halfway around his armoured wrists.

Gawking down at your appendages, they seem so lost against the enormity of the arms that lower you gently to the ground.

As soon as the soles of your shoes touch a solid surface again, you waste no time in ripping your hands away from him and staggering backwards, trying but failing to extract yourself from his sturdy grasp.

Before you can get very far at all, fingers of solid steel bury themselves into your dress at the hip and you jerk to an immediate halt for fear of tearing the fabric by struggling. Arms held aloft to avoid touching his own again, you throw a wary look up at Strife’s visor, reluctantly meeting those sharp, alien eyes and finding they’ve narrowed to thin lines of gold, gleaming brightly against the shadows cast by his helm.

“You’re gonna have to get used to sticking close to one of us, kid,” he warns, his tone brooking no argument and devoid of any previous jocularity, “Cause as nasty as you think we are, I guarantee there’re things in here that are a thousand times worse.”

The well you typically draw your courage from ran dry long ago, long before you came here, long before you quietly agreed to marry Cain. So, you aren’t sure where you find the nerve to jut out your chin and bitterly remark, “Worse than trying to slice off my limbs?”

Sudden movement freezes you in your shoes as War emerges from behind his brother, moving to stand at his side and swallowing you up in the egregious shadow he casts across the ground.

Ignoring his approach, the gunslinger continues to hold you still.

“Yeah,” he replies simply, “A lot worse.”

Squeezing your lips into a tight, anxious pout, you swallow, unnerved by the way his gaze instantly dips to watch your throat bob around the undulating motion.

Gradually, you lower your head, losing the defiance of a jutting chin to instead tuck it timidly away against your chest, consumed by the sudden and unwarranted ideas that start to flash in your mind’s eye, showing you gruesome fates that could await you just around the corner.

If two gigantic maniacs wielding guns and a sword aren’t the worst you could face…

Just what the Hell have you walked into?

Regarding you closely for a few more moments, Strife eventually gives his head a satisfied bob, deeming that you’ve read him loud and clear.

Gingerly, he starts to peel his fingers from your dress, wincing when the gaps in his gauntlets pinch the delicate fabric as he returns his hands to his sides. Regardless, all of his muscles remain bunched, ready to spring into action at the first sign that you might go back on your word and attempt to flee after all.

He’s almost more caught off guard when you don’t move.

Instead, you murmur a soft, “Thank you,” which just about smacks the jaw clean off his face. Staring down at you, his lips parted by a fraction, he watches you fiddle with a jewelled band of gold sitting at the base of one of your fingers for several seconds before he remembers to blink.

Indifferent, and admittedly ignorant of his sudden bout of silence, you try to distract yourself by absently brushing the palms of your hands over your dress, tutting softly at the creases and rumples in the tulle.

It’s all you can think to do now that you’ve got a little freedom back.

Nearby, War shifts his immense weight to stand even closer to Strife’s flank, and together, the brothers share a sidelong glance before returning their attention to the fussy, little human in front of them.

Even with the helm obscuring most of Strife’s angular features, War only needs to take one glance at his profile to catch the distinct and unmistakable gleam of fascination bleeding through the cracks in his armour.

Typical Strife, he scoffs to himself. The minute something new and shiny comes along, it’s all he seems to be able to think about. And there are very few things newer and shinier than a lost human dressed from head to toe in sparkling, white garb.

Hauling his eyes up towards the cavernous ceiling, War lets out an exasperated sigh and brusquely elbows Strife aside, sweeping him backwards with the palm of his prosthetic gauntlet, much to his brother’s belligerence.

“Hey!” he barks, though he goes entirely ignored.

Stepping sideways into the spot Strife had once occupied, War places his back to the smaller Nephilim and clears his throat, curious at the way you quickly stiffen like a prey animal and gradually lift your head.

He stands so close that you have to tip it all the way back before you’re even able to meet his eye, reminding him of how much smaller humans are. Smaller, and weaker…

The colossal Horseman almost can’t quite believe that for a member of a species so vulnerable, you don’t seem to possess any weapons. Natural or otherwise.

His eyes drift down to the long, pink line he’d marked you with. You hadn’t tried to claw or bite or do much of anything to stop him, not that it would have made an iota of difference. You were helpless… And he…

A pair of snowy white brows twitch microscopically inwards.

“Do you know how to fight?” he utters at last, lifting his gaze to meet your otherworldly stare. He doesn’t miss how you seem to be fixated on something behind his crimson hood, and if he has to hazard a guess, you’re staring directly at Chaoseater’s hilt.

Pulling a face, you look back at him and croak, “I… I-I’m sorry?”

Briefly wondering why in the nine Hells you’re apologising, he presses, “Have you any weapons training?” When all he receives it a blank stare, he casts his mind about for something primitive you’ll have heard of and adds, “Swords? Axes…? Bows?”

“Guns?” Strife eagerly pipes up from somewhere behind him.

Heaving an irritated sigh, War half turns his head over a shoulder and snaps, “She is a human. She doesn’t know what guns are.”

“I… What?” you peep, wrenched from your stupor by the absurdity of his declaration, “Uh… Yes, I do.”

Bemused, War raises his brow at you and retorts, “No, you do not.”

For a moment, you’re so dumbstruck by his apparent ignorance that you forget how much larger and more dangerous he is, enough that you pluck up the gall to scoff at him and insist, “Uh. I’m pretty sure I do? Humans have been using guns for centuries.”

Raising your hands, you start to knock a list off your fingers, unaware of the behemoth’s eyes growing wide.

“Shotguns, rifles, pistols-“ you state, pausing to throw a hand out and gesture at the guns in Strife’s leather holsters.  “Revolvers-!”

You’re unprepared for War to suddenly move forwards, instantly cutting off your rambling list and sending your glimmer of nerve scurrying back down your throat as he leans towards you, filling your field of view with his indomitable, ferocious scowl.

On a reflex, you tilt backwards with a hand on your chest, blinking owlishly up into the depths of his hood.

“How could you possibly know about firearms?” he demands, the sigil on his forehead burning with fiery heat as his temper flares.

Shaking your head rapidly, you stammer out, “I.. I don’t, I’m not-“

“-Hey,” Strife tries to interject, “C’mon, War. You’re scarin’ her.”

Disregarding his brother, the Horseman raises his voice and growls, “Who has been supplying you?! Speak!”

Your hands wring together as you try to form an answer, struggling in the face of someone who has proven they have no qualms about hurting you. But all you can produce is another pitiable whimper. “Nobody! We just-“

Before you can utter another sound, a large, silver hand suddenly appears over War’s shoulder, grabbing the metal pauldron that’s been forged in the likeness of a snarling face and tugging him away from you.

“War!” Strife barks, trying to wrench his brother around to face him, “I said back off.”

Savagely tearing his arm out of his grasp, War rounds on him, nostrils flaring like a raging bull. Flinging his arm out towards you indicatively, he bellows, “If humans are being supplied with weapons-!”

“-Then why’re you takin’ it out on her, and not the asshole trying to arm her species?”

War’s teeth click shut, his shoulders heaving with every breath he pulls into his train carriage chest.

Letting out a sigh, Strife sends a sideways glance at you, lowering his voice to add, “Come on. Look at who you’re trying to intimidate.”

Begrudgingly, War follows his brother’s line of sight.

You’re well aware you aren’t exactly giving humanity a good name right now, shivering like a wet leaf and holding your injured arm guardedly against your chest, all the while stifling a sob and eyeing War as if he’ll draw his sword and run you through at any moment.

For several, terrible seconds, the Horseman’s sneer remains locked in place, rigid and threatening, but as he watches you cower away from him, something in War’s almighty resolve shudders…

And yields.

Slowly, at a pace that would make a glacier yawn, his hard snarl recedes.

“See,” Strife points out, “You just look like a dick.”

The furious expression is back on War’s face in the blink of an eye, but at least this time, he aims it at his brother, opening his mouth to suck down a sharp breath, ready to berate him…

Rocks skitter across the ground somewhere too close for comfort, snatching the attention of your unlikely troop.

As one unit, Strife and War spin towards the far end of the chamber where the noise had come from, reaching for their weapons and placing their broad, armoured backs to you.

It would be the perfect opportunity to make a break for it, if you weren’t frozen solid by the prospect of running into whatever made these juggernauts so jumpy.

The former Horseman draws both of his guns from their holsters so quickly, your eyes can barely keep track of the movement. War, in the meantime, takes a gigantic step backwards as he swings his accursed sword over his shoulder, crowding you into a clumsy retreat to avoid having your toes stepped on.

Frantic, you try to peer through the gap between the titans, scanning the chamber walls for any sign of life.

“What the hell was that?” you can’t help but whisper-shout, hardly daring to breathe.

Neither of them replies for a time, not even Strife, who has his revolvers aimed out at the room, his arms still as statues as if he isn’t even vaguely affected by the weight of his guns.

Seconds tick by at an agonising pace, and the three of you wait, and wait, straining your ears to try and pick up another sound. But aside from the crackle of lava cooling as it hits the air, everything remains perfectly still and silent once more.  

After another minute, War grunts, lowering his sword and casting a dark look up at the ceiling. “We’ve lingered here for too long,” he remarks, half turning to peer down at you again, his eyes skimming over you from head to toe.

“So,” he starts, “You’ve handled guns?”

Shaking your head, you hold your hands out helplessly and say, “No, I mean, I know about them, but I-I’ve never actually shot one.”

“I could teach you,” Strife pipes up, thrusting the revolvers back into their holsters with casual ease.

“Now is hardly the time, brother,” War snaps, still eyeing you pensively.

Something very strange has been hovering about you like a miasma ever since you crashed into his brother in the Void. Something unplaceable that he can’t quite put his finger on. You are human, that much is confirmed, but you’re not like any human he’s ever heard of. It’s a troubling notion, that some unseen force might be trying to arm your species. If that’s the case, they’ll need to figure out who. Then why.

But in the meantime, he and Strife have a job to do, here and now.

First thing’s first…

“… Never handled a weapon,” he murmurs aloud.

It makes sense, he concedes. Humans aren’t a war-faring species, so it’s little wonder that you don’t know how to use weapons… For War, however, a Nephilim who has been holding a blade since the day he was risen from dust, the concept seems so alien, not to mention disconcerting.

Inclining his head, he gives you another once-over before turning away, stating matter-of-factly, “You will be a liability.”

It’s such a blasé statement, accusing, as if you’re culpable of something you’ve had no control over thus far. It actually makes you recoil as you draw your head back to fix him with an incredulous frown, lips parted, and your brows furrowed heavily above your eyes.

Despite every fibre of your being telling you that there’s a terrible idea forming at the back of your mind, you take a step away, lean your weight on your heel, and start to size him up.

Now, you’ve picked some battles before, tried to stand up to people you had no business standing up to. Cain and Delilah nipped that streak in the bud back when you thought asserting your opinion on matters of marriage should make a difference. Those battles were wildly different from this one, and you lost, every time, worn down and beaten back from the woman you used to be by wills stronger and more tempered than yours. You used to think you could face the world bravely, and all it took were a few people to show you that you weren’t as strong as you liked to think you were. It humbled you, and over time, you learned an easier life was synonymous with a passive life.

But you’ve been passive a lot lately.

Maybe you’ve been running on cold feet for too long. Maybe this whole, nightmarish interruption to your routine is finally catching up to you and numbing you to sense and logic, but truth be told?

You really don’t like hearing that this is somehow your fault.

Balling your hands into fists, you swallow thickly, and steady yourself with a noisy breath, wondering if this will be the moment you get to learn if there’s a Heaven as well as a Hell.

“Hey! I didn’t ask you to bring me with you, okay?” you say in a wobbly voice, staring at a spot just past his left arm to avoid his glare lest your words fail you completely, “Maybe, if I’m such a liability, you should just leave me to find my own way home!”

His head snaps properly in your direction with such velocity, you let out a gasp, flinching backwards and shrinking in on yourself again, your eyes darting to his lips that curl just the slightest in one corner, and the little bit of gall sitting on your tongue shrivels up and dies at the back of your throat.

Oh well. It was nice to have your guts back while it lasted. Just a pity they’re probably about to get ripped out of you for raising your voice.

For a number of unpleasant seconds, War merely regards you like you’ve just completely thrown him for a loop, neither raising his sword nor his fist to send you spinning off your mortal coil into the aether.

Finally, just as you’re beginning to fidget under his inspection, he quirks his brow at you and slowly states, “If you leave… you will die.”

You were expecting him to lose his temper again, to shout you down or put you down, not remark on your chances of survival.

“Oh, as if you give a shit about that,” you huff guardedly, curling a palm over your marred forearm and eyeing the Horseman like he’ll tear you in half for daring to call attention to the injury he caused.

War’s stance and expression don’t change in the slightest. He only continues to observe you coolly from inside his hood, ignoring the frequent looks Strife keeps flicking between the pair of you.

After a further spell of silence in which you seem to grow impossibly smaller, he at last gives an appraising hum and straightens his shoulders, jerking his head towards his brother and declaring, “You will stay close to Strife.”

Wait… You will?

“I will?” you say aloud, sending the other Horseman a distrustful glance. Strife, for his part, looks conversely pleased with the verdict, his head tipping coltishly to one side as he gives you a little wave.

… Well, you suppose if you have to choose between the two, the less time you spend near War the better. You assume he feels the same about having to be close to you, at least until he adds, “If we run into trouble, his guns allow him range. He will not let anything to get close to you.”

“They’re welcome to try,” his brother says cheerfully, thumbing the stock of a revolver.

Wilting like a helpless flower plucked from its patch of earth, you weakly ask, “Do I have a choice?”

Giving a hearty chuckle, Strife takes an exaggerated step closer to your side and pivots on his heel to face the same direction, cheerfully replying, “Ah, c’mon. Don’t be like that. I thought you humans were social. Safety in numbers, and all that?”

Disconcerted by his proximity, you lean away from him, cupping your elbows. “That’s not true for all of us,” you mumble.

You hear his intake of breath and prepare yourself for yet more inane chatter, but at that moment, you jump as another howl – distant but hair-raising – comes drifting into the chamber from some unknown offshoot deeper in the keep’s depths.

“Fucking hell,” you quake, your voice shaking like glass on the verge of shattering.

At your side, Strife mutters, “My sentiments exactly.”

Raising his head to catch War’s eye, he swings his chin towards the only visible exit; the apex of a wide, stone staircase that winds down away from the chamber, disappearing into a tunnel below. “You wanna take point?”

War’s response is a rich, throaty hum, accompanied by a decisive nod. “Indeed, we have wasted more than enough time here. Let us find Vulgrim’s troubling demon and pry the artifact from its cold, dead hands.”

“Ohho-okay!” Strife grins, suddenly gleeful as he claps his hands together, “Now you’re getting me excited.”

Rolling his eyes, War turns away and makes for the stairs, swinging his arm up to clip Chaoseater into its usual place on his back. Blankly watching him leave, you give a start when something metal and solid nudges at the small of your back, prodding you to stumble forwards awkwardly until Strife’s knuckles drop and he falls into step beside you, one stride for every two and a half of yours.

 “I love it when he gets like this,” he remarks.

 Begrudgingly, you resign yourself to trail after his brother and ask, “What? Murderous?”

“Oh yeah. Even he can be fun.” Tilting his head to the side in thought, he adds, “On occasion.”

Sweat has been steadily gathering on your forehead, and as you finally begin to move, a tiny droplet breaks free of your brow and trickles slowly down the side of your face. Of all the days to get swept up in a Universe-spanning caper, it would be the day you elected to wear one of the most awkward and cumbersome dresses known to man.

“So far none of this has been fun,” you huff, reaching up to flick the sweat drop away with a finger.

Strife’s boots hit the top step and he twists his helm sideways to shoot you a mock-offended smirk, “Not even me?”

You don’t bother to respond to that, instead throwing nervous glances around the room as you lift the front of your skirts and start to descend the staircase, your heels clacking noisily against the hard stone underfoot and echoing off the high walls. Somewhere nearby, you can hear liquid lava squeaking and splintering as it hits the marginally cooler air, though the heat only seems to grow more stifling the further you venture.

Absently, you wonder if you remembered to put your setting spray in the bag.

The staircase spirals down into the depths of a tunnel, twisting out of view and giving you no concept of what might lay ahead. To your left, you note the presence of tall, metal spikes jutting from a pit that runs alongside the stairs, like a wrought-iron fence whose purpose has been retrofitted into an inefficient and hostile railing. From the corner of an eye, you spot something round and ivory impaled halfway down one of those spikes. A single glimpse is all you need before you immediately avert your gaze to the stairs ahead, heart thumping in your chest. Behind you, a pair of dark, unseeing eye sockets seem to sear into your back as you continue your descent.

As you move lower, more signs start to appear that you aren’t the only visitors to this keep. Sconces line the wall, roaring with open flames that cast the path ahead in an orange glow. Two, iron firepits stand on either side of the staircase at its base, and it’s here that War has paused. It strikes you that in spite of his size, he’s slightly more camouflaged in this place than he was in the void, his scarlet cloak and dark grey armour blending well with the rock and heat around him.

As you and Strife come to a stop behind War, you lean sideways and find yourself peering tentatively into the space beyond his bulk.

The tunnel has opened up into another spacious chamber, and the path beyond the stairs has opened up too, into a vast, circular area with no walls or boundaries, nothing but another deep pit that sweeps around it, carrying a river of flowing, basaltic lava to somewhere further into the - as Strife had called it -‘dungeon.’

Maybe you really are in some kind of volcano. The urge to find a way out of here increases dramatically, but with Strife watching your back a little too closely and War cutting off an escape from the front, your options, at the moment, are quite limited.

At last, War takes a step out onto the level ground, then another and another, stalking forwards with his head on a constant swivel, vigilant. Strife, in the meantime, walks out with a confident swagger, ensuring to walk slightly behind you to keep you moving up in front.

Tearing your eyes off the pit, you focus instead on the behemoth stomping ahead of you. He’s already on the other side by the time you and Strife make it halfway across. For a split second, you almost let yourself feel a pinch of guilt for wearing such inappropriate shoes and slowing the Horsemen down, but you’re just as quick to take the feeling and grind it up under said heels, curling your lip distastefully. You weren’t exactly given a chance to pack for this ‘excursion.’

“Y’know,” Strife says abruptly, breaking you from your thoughts, and just in time too. You glance down and see the lip of the platform’s edge rise up to meet you. It likely would have tripped you if you’d remained lost in your head. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Death will be pleased to hear it,” War remarks from up ahead.

The back of his hood receives a simmering glare, but Strife is quick to brush the dig aside and continue, “If Lucifer is as dangerous as the Council says he is, why’d they send just the two of us?”

If the uneven ground didn’t manage to trip you up, his comment definitely does. Stumbling on the heel of your foot, you hurriedly try to right yourself, swatting irritably at Strife’s hand that reaches out to steady you. There’s that name again. Lucifer. Would it be naïve of you to hope that their ‘mission’ doesn’t somehow involve the Biblical Devil? You’ve managed to survive for the better part of an hour, but you don’t like how the odds are quickly stacking up against you with every step you take.

“Death and Fury attend to other matters,” War responds simply, “It is not our place to question the will of the Council.”

Apparently unable to let his brother’s earlier tease slide after all, Strife rolls his eyes and quips, “It’s not my place to question your wardrobe, but I still think your armour could use some more creepy faces on it.”

You’re not sure how much you like trailing in between the sizeable men, especially when the more sizeable of the two slows his gait to aim a vicious snarl over his shoulder. “Must everything be a joke to you?” War snaps, “The Council-!”

“-Ugh!” Cutting his brother off with a pompous groan, Strife throws his helm back. “You really need to lighten up.” Then, lowering his voice to a deeper pitch, apparently for the sole purpose of mocking the far scarier Horseman, he taunts, “The Council this, and The Council that! You wanna hear an actual joke?”

Facing forwards again, War responds with a firm, flat, “No.”

Strife, of course, doesn’t seem to have the same reservations as you do about antagonising someone with the name ‘War.’

In fact, you carry yourself so rigidly in fear of being caught in the middle of a scrap that you almost have the wind knocked out of you quite literally when Strife chimes in with a phrase so familiar to you, you just about choke on your own spit.

“Knock knock…”

The classic setup, so universally understood that you almost wonder if humans are born with an inbuilt recognition system designed to identify two simple, unassuming words.

The three of you pass beneath an open portcullis, but you barely notice the jagged bars of iron looming above you because you’re so busy trying to pick your jaw up off the ground.

You can’t see Strife’s face, and you don’t dare turn around to gape at him in case you end up taking a painful tumble. Instead, numbly, you continue to stare ahead with unblinking eyes, vaguely taking in the narrow path ahead of you, and the apparent end of it fast approaching.

War makes a dismissive sound, an irked mutter of something too low for you to make out.

Clearing his throat when he doesn’t receive a response, Strife prompts, “You’re supposed to say, ‘who’s there?”

You can’t quite believe you’re hearing this. Perhaps the idea that you’ve been drugged isn’t so unlikely after all because this isn’t something you could ever come up with sober.

Ahead of you, the stone pathway falls away in an abrupt drop, and the ceiling of the tunnel disappears, both opening out into yet another cavern, this one more spacious than the first two.

Or, you continue to muse to yourself, maybe you really did die in that church graveyard, and the chemicals released in your brain have conjured a hallucination of this pair of giants to serve as some unconvincing reapers who will guide you into the afterlife.

War comes to a stop at the edge of the escarpment, and unseen by you or Strife, his expression scrunches up in confusion and he asks, “Why would I give away my location? I would simply smash through the door and face my assailant.”

Oh. Wow. That’s…

“Ugh, you’re hopeless,” Strife complains as he draws to a halt just behind you and his brother on the rocky ledge. For a second, he’s distracted with casting his keen eye over the chamber, so he doesn’t notice you lower your face to the floor, your lips pursed like you’re trying to keep a cough in.

He does, however, notice straight away when, instead of escaping through your mouth, the sound you’re desperately trying to hold in finds its escape through your nose instead, and out jumps a sharp, unbecoming ‘snort!’

It’s unexpected. So much so that you’re just as surprised to hear it as the Horsemen. At once, you slap a palm over the lower half of your face in horror, a cold rush of dread trickling down into your stomach.

Eyes blown wide open, you stare at the ground, only too aware of the heavy silence that settles over you like a blanket, thicker than the heat pressing in all around you. You’re not even willing to raise your head because you can feel two sets of eyes watching you from above.

For too long, all you can hear is the ringing in your ears and your own pulse throbbing just beneath the skin of your temples. The silence swells, tuning up like an orchestra, deafening you to every sound save for that accursed, high-pitched ringing caused by the crushing grit of your teeth.

“Did…?” Strife’s voice cuts through the atmosphere like a headsman’s axe, “Did you just… laugh?”

Your jaw eases apart, and the ringing fades.

The telltale ‘clunk’ of War’s boots alert you to him turning from the ledge, pointing himself in your direction instead.

Suddenly and appropriately alarmed that you just snorted at someone nearly three times your size, you instantly shift from freeze to flight and throw your head up, only to find yourself blinking apprehensively into War’s face, etched with his signature frown.

“I-I wasn’t laughing at you,” you rush out, backing away from the scowling Horseman a little too far and ending up colliding right into Strife’s torso.

With a tiny yelp, you leap forwards again, tossing glances back and forth between them whilst they continue to stare you down. “It’s just-! I haven’t heard a knock-knock joke in so long, it… It just surprised me.”

A pause ensues, and then quietly – eagerly – Strife asks, “You know what knock-knock jokes are?”

Wondering why that’s his first question, you offer him a timid nod. And then you’re immediately flinching away from him when he barks out an abrupt, disbelieving laugh and straightens up, his chest swelling proudly.

“No kidding. Y’know, not to brag,” he brags, jabbing a thumb into his sternum, “But I practically invented knock-knock jokes.”

Well, who are you to argue with the man carrying two guns? “O-oh?”

“Brother,” War complains, “We do not have time for your-“

“-Here! Here, try this one,” Strife rushes out, leaning towards you a little too fast for your liking, “Knock knock.”

You start to get the impression he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this to come along for quite some time. Sparing his brother a nervous glance, you wet your lips and tentatively indulge him, “Uh, okay, who’s there?”

Taking a breath as if he means to brace himself, Strife says, “The interrupting War.”

Oh… Oh, for God’s sake...

You try to steady the muscles in your cheeks, sending another wary look over at the juggernaut clenching his fists by the ledge.

Still, with Strife waiting for an answer, you slowly and dutifully sigh, “The interrupting War wh-“

You knew it was coming. You knew the gist of the punchline if not the punchline itself, but you’re still wholly unprepared when Strife cuts you off by crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a loud, resounding growl.

 “Grr! The Council~!”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you immediately purse your lips, your cheeks aching with the effort of keeping a straight face. You wonder if this is the start of another emotional breakdown because the joke isn’t even particularly funny, but there’s just a familiarity to the formula that almost comes as a welcome relief, like Earth isn’t so far away after all.

A brother teasing his sibling… There’s something almost human about it, abating just the tiniest modicum of terror bubbling away inside your stomach.

Clearing your throat, you keep your lips puckered and inhale deeply through your nostrils in an attempt to compose yourself. Perhaps its Strife’s enthusiasm that lends itself to the humour of the situation, or perhaps it’s simply the absurdity of such a large and formidable brute doing something as innocuous as telling you a knock-knock joke at the expense of his brother, but whatever the case may be, when you open your mouth to tell him it wasn’t that funny, your lips spring up at their corners, contradicting you immediately.

“Think it needs some work,” you say, your voice wobbling.

“Needs work?” he parrots, his own mouth quirking into a grin as he clocks your expression, “Then why are you smiling?”

It takes no small amount of effort to wrestle your face back under control. “I’m not smiling,” you insist, “That isn’t how humans smile.”

Strife, naturally, isn’t fooled at all.

“Ah ha! It is! She’s smiling!” he gloats, jabbing his thumbs at his own mask, “I’m funny! And you-!” Swivelling his head up to War, he pokes a finger at his brother’s face and declares, “You were wrong.”

You make the mistake of glimpsing underneath the stoic Horseman’s hood, wincing when you find him sporting an expression of absolute thunder. He glowers down at you as if to say, ‘Now look at what you’ve started.’

Outwardly, he flattens his brows and exhales slowly through his nose, “Yes, you must be very proud that you’ve found the one, sole creature in the Universe who finds you almost as funny as you find yourself.”

Flapping a hand dismissively at his brother’s words, Strife blows a snort through his lips and tuts, “Ah, you’re just jealous she likes me better.”

You decide not to chime in with the fact that you don’t, in fact, particularly like either of them.

Besides, if War is at all concerned with his new ranking, he certainly doesn’t bother to let you know.

“If you are quite finished cheapening our reputation…” he growls, whirling away from Strife and stepping up to the very edge of the platform.

“Oh, I haven’t even gotten started.”

Before you can protest, the masked Horseman lays a hand on your back and nudges you forwards until you’re standing next to his brother, then takes up his own lookout on the escarpment to your left.

Snugly sandwiched between them, you squash your arms into your sides, grimacing at the sharp angles of their armour that threaten to snag your dress as you try to shuffle backwards, but you don’t manage to retreat further than a few inches before you happen to cast a cursory look out at the view ahead and promptly freeze in your tracks.

Eyes bulging, your jaw falls open and you let out a soft, incredulous breath, your brain racing to take stock of what it’s seeing.

“Oh god.”

The path ends abruptly, falling away just a few paces from the toes of your shoes. And waiting beyond the precipice is a rock-walled cavern of absolutely phenomenal scale, far larger than those you’ve already come through. At its centre, rising from a chasm down below, there’s a rocky platform large enough to fit your house within its dimensions several times over. From what you can see, there isn’t any conceivable way to cross over to it, save for sprouting wings and flying. You’re not even confident you could pitch a tennis ball across the gap and have it land on the other side.

Scalding heat prickles your brow, and when you glance down to see where it stems from, you give an audible gasp as you look past the toes of your shoes and over the pathway’s crumbling edge.

Far, far below you, a stomach-churning drop lays in wait.

Thirty… forty-something feet of shimmering air is all that stands between you and a vast lake of red-hot lava.

“Hey, look down there,” Strife’s voice twitches your ear.

At your side, he raises an arm to point at the platform and says, “See that grate?”

With no small effort, you wrench your eyes off the pit of death and lift it to the level of raised stone, blinking your eyes hard to moisten them again after staring at the lava.

At once, you spot what he’s indicating.

Right at the centre of the platform, set into the stone floor itself, is a large, circular grate, vaguely reminiscent of the bars of a prison cell.

From the darkness below it, you can just make out a faint, pink glow seeping through the metal gridiron.

War answers his brother with a hum that vibrates in your chest.

“What’d you think?” Strife prods, “Reckon that’s where they’ve stashed Vulgrim’s artefact?”

Studying it for a few seconds, War eventually nods. “Something is definitely down there…” he murmurs, “No doubt that grate is heavily fortified.”

Shooting him a sly look, the smaller Horseman adds, “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you to pick the lock though, right?”

It’s disconcerting to see War with any expression other than a scowl, so to witness him return a smirk over the top of your head sends a veritable shiver right up your spine.

Lifting his arms, he slams his fist into the palm of his gauntlet with a resounding ‘thwack.’

Amused, Strife turns to thrust his chin at the gut-wrenching gap between the path you’re standing on and the edge of the central platform.

“What about that? Think you can make that jump?”

“J-jump!?” you blurt out, whipping your head up to stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

Hell, maybe he has.

Briefly, War’s eyes flit down to you before he returns his gaze to his fellow Horseman, scoffing, “Is that a serious question?”

And without another word, he begins taking several steps backwards, away from the ledge.

“Wait,” you sputter, shooting him an incredulous look as he continues to back up along the path, “You’re not really going to-“

You don’t even get to finish your sentence.

Before you can blink, War pushes off on his back foot and lurches forwards, his boots pounding against the stone hard enough to send powerful quakes all along the path as he charges straight for the edge.

You think you let out an alarmed yelp, but there’s not much else you can do except helplessly gawk as the Horseman, laden down by his heavy, clanking armour, plants his boot centimetres from the crumbling edge of the path and unceremoniously launches himself, his sword, and all of his bulk off solid ground, soaring out over the lava-drowned chasm below.

With a comically loud gasp, you slap your palms over your eyes, yet you can’t resist peeking through splayed fingers to watch.

Why the Hell would he do that!? There’s no way he’ll make it, you tell yourself, not with all that weight dragging him down.

You wanted to get away from him, yes but… shit. You didn’t want him to get himself killed doing it!

It’s as if you’re staring at a runaway train, waiting in morbid fascination for it to derail. Something in the nature of a disaster unfolding keeps you rooted to the spot, unable to tear your attention away from it.  

There’s power and grace in the way War sails over the gap, an impossible feat, further than any Olympic gold medallist would ever hope to achieve. And then, to your utmost astonishment, he makes it.

Metal boots hit the stone platform with an almighty ‘clang’ on the other side, and he dips his knees as he lands to absorb the impact.

You’re almost certain you can see the whole structure quiver from the force.

For several moments, you merely stand there with your mouth hanging ajar whilst War rises to his full height again and turns around, tipping his face up to see you staring back at him, your eyes wide with unconcealed awe.

“How. The fuck…?” you say emphatically, blowing out a disbelieving little whistle. You might not trust the man, but even you can appreciate a good stunt when you see one. Giving your head a shake, you briefly forget you’re supposed to be their kidnappee and gush, “That was incredible!”

Your voice carries easily across the sizeable gap and reaches the Horseman’s ears, erasing the hard line between his brows. Taken aback, War blinks, pressing his lips together bashfully in lieu of a response. ‘Perhaps it was rather impressive,’ he privately concedes, ‘from a human’s perspective…’

Back on the escarpment, Strife’s keen gaze makes out the befuddled expression warping his brother’s typically impassive face, and he sends several glances between you and War, pursing his lips at the glimmer lighting up your eyes.

“Oh yeah?” he huffs, “You think that was impressive?”

A loud clap rings out across the cavern, causing you to jump as Strife smacks his palms together. “Okay, little miss,” he announces behind you, “Your turn.”

Just like that, the colour promptly drains from your face. “My what?”

You don’t have time to spin around and face him, for not a second later, a powerful arm scoops your legs out from underneath you whilst the other snakes around the back of your shoulders, hauling you clean off the floor and pressing you to a hard, armoured chest.

“Oh for-! Stop grabbing me!” you complain, planting your hands on his clavicle and shoving yourself away as best you can, “Are you insane!? I am not jumping over that!”

Cocking his helm at you, he spares you an innocent blink. “You’re not?”

You don’t like how much levity is lacing his tone.

“NO!” you squawk, aghast, “Absolutely not! Let me go!”

One of the Horseman’s eyes narrows to squint at you before he angles his helm very pointedly towards the platform. “You sure?”

Something about his question gives you pause.

Hesitating, you snap your head in the same direction and follow his line of sight. It doesn’t take you more than a second to glean the bastard’s intent.

Now you really don’t like the way he’s looking at you, his upturned eyelids the clearest indication that he’s smiling quite broadly underneath his visor.

Your stomach gives an unpleasant lurch.

“Oh, if you dare…” you hiss.

Daringly, he raises his sizeable shoulders in a shrug and chirps, “Lesson one; Don’t ever dare a Horseman, kid. You’re always bound to lose.”

He wouldn’t…

Flashing you a golden wink, Strife turns his body sideways and swings you to the right, like a rugby player readying a forward pass.

It finally occurs to you that, oh, good god, he would.

“Wait-! WA-WAIT! STRIFE!” Issuing a high-pitched, wordless scream, you start to flail, but his ironclad grip on your legs and shoulders keeps you from launching yourself out of his arms.

Somewhere across the chasm, War’s voice drifts up to you, though you hardly hear it above your undignified shrieks. “Brother?”

The muscles around you bunch up, solidifying as hard as the stone underfoot.

“See you on the other side!” is all the cheery warning you get.

“Don’t you DA---AAAAARRRGGHHH!”

He’s moving before you can think to adhere yourself to his arm.

Sidestepping into a purposeful bound, the Horseman flings his arms to the left, with you in tow, and when they get to the zenith of his reach, they disappear out from under you, letting you go hurtling spine first out over the chasm like a screaming, thrashing blimp, dress and all.

You have several phobias that you were aware of before you fell into this godforsaken place. Phobias that, for the most part, have been quite avoidable in your day-to-day life.

Finding yourself suspended in the air over a pit without a safety net underneath you… add some lava to break your fall, and you suddenly realise as you’re flying through empty space that you’ve just discovered an entirely new phobia to add to the list.

Sailing in a none-too graceful arch, you stare in disbelief back at the silver Horseman on the ledge, your dress billows out behind you and the scorching air whips your veil over your face, tugging at your hair where the grips are heroically keeping it situated. Likewise, some subconscious part of you instructs your toes to grip like vices on the insoles of your heels, valiantly trying to stop them from plummeting off your feet.

Inevitably, as is the case with the laws of physics, you reach the height of your curve, and that’s when gravity seizes you by the heart and starts to drag you back down, sending your stomach crashing up into your diaphragm.

Time seems to slow as you descend, reaching back for Strife as if he could somehow stretch across the gap and catch you. You can’t see behind yourself, and it’s all you can do to hope that you pass out on the way down, so you don’t have to feel your body melt into a puddle in the hungry maw of the lava below.

It hurts your chest something fierce to think that the last anyone will see of you is your terror-stricken face and your raised hand closing into a fist, bar one choicely extended finger.

The hot wind screams past your ears and you screw your eyes shut tight, squeezing out the last tears you’re ever going to cry. Your father’s face flashes in your mind’s eye, and you wonder what you did to set off this chain of events.

Strife said he wouldn’t hurt you…

What a joke.

‘WHAM!’

Your mouth jerks open, wheezing out a gasp as something suddenly slams into you from behind, knocking the air violently from your lungs. Or rather, you crash into something with the force of a white, ruffled meteorite and nearly lose your heart through your open mouth.

At first, you assume you must have smacked into the hard side of the platform, but then the Something you’ve collided with grunts, and you hurriedly wrench your eyes open, coming to focus on a monstrous, metal gauntlet that’s secured itself under your knees, crushing your dress between prodigious fingers whilst something equally large presses across your shoulder blades.

With a kick in the guts, you realise you’re being held aloft in much the same way Strife had been holding you mere moments ago.

He caught you… War caught you.

Finally, you remember to gulp in a noisy breath to refill your desperate lungs.

You’re not dead.

But you are, in fact, shaking.

And as the revelation that you’re still alive sets in, your limbs start to wobble in earnest.

“STRIFE!” You visibly flinch when War’s terrible, wonderful, abrasive, beautiful voice booms like a claxon right above your head. “You fool!”

Even through layers of solid metal and leather padding, the Horseman can feel you trembling under his palms. Propping your neck in the crook of his elbow, he lifts his head to level a snarl up at where Strife still stands on the escarpment whilst you unclench your fists from your lap, heaving air in and out of your lungs in hysterical little bursts.

“What were you thinking!?” he bellows.

Leaning over the side to look down at you and your unwitting saviour, Strife throws his arms out wide and argues, “She said to let her go!”

“You knew what she meant!” A deep thrum rolls around in his chest, spreading up his throat and spilling out in another growl so deep it rattles the teeth in your skull. “You could have damaged her!”

“Oh relax, I wouldn’t have tossed her if I didn’t think you’d catch her.”

War slides his lips back to reveal his inhumanly sharp canines, but at that moment, something tugs very lightly at the fabric of his cowl.

Faltering, he angles his chin down and nearly gives a start.

Tiny hands have wandered towards him, found the scarlet material hanging from around his neck and latched onto it with possessive intent, fingers twisting themselves into his cowl and getting lost amongst the folds, as if you fully expect him to toss you over the side as well. The strange, white veneer lays draped across your face, so he can’t see your expression when you unexpectedly twist about in his arms and pull yourself a little closer to his chest.

Caught off guard, War remains stock-still, seriously contemplating whether or not he should drop you right then and there to spare himself from Strife’s potential teasing.

His bulging arms give a twitch, which in turn causes you to cringe, letting out a quiet bleat and further entangling your fingers around his cowl.

This, War decides, was not in the job description when the Charred Council made him a Horseman. Still, whatever he might think of you, he can’t bring himself to drop you in a heap on the ground.

For once, he might be out of his depth.

As soon as the notion occurs to him, he brusquely flicks it away with a toss of his head.

Taking a large step back, he slowly ambles himself about until he’s facing away from Strife and the platform’s edge, then stomps several paces towards the central grate, only stopping once he hears the loud clang of metallic boots hitting the stone behind him as his fellow Horseman leaps to the lower level.

Gingerly, almost as though he expects you to shatter if he moves too quickly, War bends down until he’s almost on a knee and starts to withdraw the arm that’s wrapped around your legs, a stoic frown tugging his brows towards the centre of his forehead when you refuse to let go of his hood.

Grumbling, he lowers you until your shoes click on the stone floor, and then he slips his hand out from under your knees, moving it up and taking both of your wrists between his gauntlet’s fingertips and thumb, mindful of the delicate limbs he’s handling.

He can still recall how you’d nearly crumpled to your knees when he got a little heavy handed trying to apply the poultice to your arm. He truly thought he had been correct in gauging the pressure he needed to apply to your flesh to draw blood. He’d only meant to take a little. Just enough to prove the validity of your claim. What an idea that had turned out to be. If War were being honest with himself, he’d been outright startled when your skin peeled open so readily to admit Chaoseater’s blade.

So, if he’s a little more careful in prying your hands off his cowl than he ought to be, well, that’s his own business.

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you seem to come back into yourself.

With a sudden jolt, you wrench your hands away from his hood and start to struggle valiantly with the veil on your face, flipping it back over your head and choking on a sob as your knees start to buckle.

Planting both of his palms on your shoulders, War hauls you upright again.

“Steady,” he murmurs as if he’s addressing a wounded soldier, not a frightened human, “On your feet.”

The sound of clanking boots drifts closer, approaching from his rear.

War bristles, but he’s not the only one who heard Strife’s footsteps.

“You okay, kid?” the gunslinger’s voice drifts over to you, and War watches your jaw cinch shut, the hands at your sides curling into fists as you attempt to stop them from shaking.

Whirling around, you tear yourself from the Horseman’s gauntlets, your dress twirling gracefully around your ankles to find Strife standing a few paces behind you, paused halfway between one step and the next.

Blurting out a delirious laugh, you shoot him a bloodshot stare, half tempted to rip your bag off and lob it at his head.

“Am I okay?!” you echo, “Have you completely lost your mind!?”

Peering down at you appraisingly, War makes a sound that might be affirming, and even his brother lifts a hand to tilt it back and forth in a ‘so-so’ motion.

Breathing hard, you resist the urge to scream and instead lower your head, massaging at your throbbing temples.

Slowly, through gritted teeth, you seethe, “I am trapped… inside a volcano… with two of the scariest people I’ve ever met…”

Strife shares a look with War, the former’s frame wilting as if he’s put out, while the latter, by contrast, almost seems proud of the achievement.

“I,” you continue, a humourless grin straining at your lips, “Just found out that demons exist! I also found out that Lucifer is apparently real…! It is my fucking wedding day!” Vitriol drips from your teeth like venom, and with each passing word, your voice grows louder and louder. “And! I just got chucked! Like a…  like a fucking pigskin over a river! Of LAVA!”

All around you, the cavern echoes with the throes of your furious shout, bouncing off the rock walls and coming back to you ten times over before it fades into an uneasy silence.

Lungs heaving with the effort of raising your voice, you stop to breathe, finding, to your dismay, that tears are spilling onto your cheeks, only to start evaporating on your skin in the smouldering heat.

Clearing your throat, you sweep a few fingertips delicately beneath your eyes and wipe away the lingering evidence of moisture cutting tracks through your blusher. “So, no,” you sniffle, “For your information, I am not o-fucking-kay… I think I’m about as far from okay as it gets.”

It’s almost satisfying that the gung-ho Horseman can in fact be made to shut up.

Fidgeting idly with the gauntlet on his left hand, Strife shoots several glances at War, but finds no source of assistance in his fellow Nephilim’s cold, critical glare.

“Uh,” he starts, clenching his hands into fists and opening them again, “I mean… it was kind of funny, right?” He lets out a chuckle that falls painfully flat. “You should’ve seen your face.”

Your jaw begins to ache from grinding your teeth together like you’re trying to crush coal into diamonds.

“Knock-knock jokes are funny,” you say stiffly, turning away from him to scowl at the ground, “People don’t get hurt.”

Draping a hand over his hip, Strife lowers his voice and asks, “Come on, you really thought I’d let you get hurt?”

“OF COURSE I DID!” you suddenly bellow so loudly your voice cracks, “You threw me over a lava pit!”

“War caught you, didn’t he?”

“What if he hadn’t!?”

Strife doesn’t even hesitate before he offers his palms to the ceiling and says, “Then I wouldn’t’ve done it.”

“Why the hell would you-!? Why even take the risk!?”

“There never was any risk,” he shrugs far too nonchalantly, sending his brother a knowing look, “Besides, this is a good thing, right? Now you know you can trust War to keep you alive.”

Pulling a face, you allow a spiteful scoff to burst out of your mouth, arms folding sternly across your chest. “Oh, so that was all so you could prove some point to me, was it? Jesus, what is wrong with you?!”

“Now there’s a door best left unopened,” War chimes in.

At last recognising that there’s some, invisible line he’s crossed, Strife holds his hands up placatingly. “Look,” he concedes, scratching at the back of his head and disturbing the thick spines of ebony hair growing behind his helm, “After what happened back in the Void, I just thought, if we proved we could keep you safe, you’d… maybe start to trust us a little more, y’know?”

You have to take a moment to stare at him, waiting for his words to sink in for you, and hopefully for him as well. “So… you thought you’d show me you can keep me safe by… launching me over a lava pit, and expecting me to know your brother would catch me?”

The Horseman doesn’t speak for several seconds. When he eventually does, he crosses his arms over his chest and huffs, “I mean, if you’re only gonna focus on the first part, sure the plan had holes.”

“Well,” you say haughtily, “No offence, but I trust you two about as far as I could throw you. Which, you’ll be shocked to hear, isn’t very far at all. And unlike you-“ Here, you jab a finger up at his silver visor. “- I’m not strong enough to go around throwing people off the edge of cliffs!”

Once again, Strife remains silent, rapping his fingertips on a metal bicep. Soon enough however, he lowers his head and peers up at you from beneath the lip of his helm’s sockets, prodding, “It was a pretty good throw though, huh?”

“It was a very good throw!” you agree sharply, blowing out a rough exhale as your heartbeat finally begins to ease off the throttle, “Neither of you even had a run up. You two are like something straight out of a comic book… Except without the charisma… and altruism...”

“Comic…?” War asks, frowning, “Then… you are amused?”

“No, not comic like-…” You inhale. You exhale. “Never mind. Weren’t you guys supposed to be looking for something?”

Just like that, the pair of titans straighten up with a start, and you wonder if their ‘mission’ really had slipped their minds for a while.

Rolling his shoulders back, War just grumbles something inaudible and begins moving purposefully towards the grate.

You stand back to let him pass, chewing thoughtfully on your bottom lip as you mull over what you’re about to say.

“Hey, big guy?”

At once, War stops and swivels his head sideways, silver hair spilling out from underneath his hood.

Shuffling awkwardly on your feet, you avoid the pale, unblinking eye that’s trained on your face and call, “Thanks…. For catching me.”

You won’t thank him for healing your arm when he was the one who cut it in the first place. But this? You can swallow your grudge for this. At least for a little while.

Several seconds tick by without a response, and the only sound you can hear is the heavy clanking of boots on stone as Strife ventures up behind you.

And then at last, War’s head falls and rises in an almost imperceptible nod.

When he turns away, you suddenly feel like you can breathe again.

How can one man be so intimidating just by standing still and saying nothing?

You’ve already deduced that the two Horsemen are like chalk and cheese, with one half of the duo serving as the strong, silent type, and the other, a smart-mouthed chatterbox.

… Speaking of whom.

Just as you start to trail after War towards the centre of the platform, an enormous shape sidles up next to you, easily keeping pace with your diminutive gait.

“Hey…” Strife tries, actually sounding hesitant for a change, “Knock-knock.”

Ah. There it is.

“Strife…” His name still sounds foreign on your tongue. “I’m… look, I’m not in the mood, okay?”

“…”

Scoffing quietly, you give your head a defeated shake and sigh, “Fine… Who’s there?”

“Eyes wear.”

… Okay?

“…Eyes wear who?” you venture, hesitant.

Swivelling his helm towards you, Strife bends his neck down, chasing after your face even as you try to ignore him by staring straight ahead.

“Eyes wear to… never throw you across any more chasms,” he offers, tipping his helm upright again, “Lava filled or otherwise. How’s that sound?”

Your lips quiver. “Wow,” you drawl, “I think that was even worse than the last one.”

“Oh yeah?” he replies coyly, “Then why’re you smiling?”

You jerk to a halt mid stride, taking stock of your expression.

Damnit. You are smiling.

You’re a little too slow to force the corners of your lips back down into a straight line, and of course, Strife sees it, tipping his chin back to peer at you triumphantly. You may not be able to see his mouth beneath the visor but judging by the upturned curve of his golden eyes, you just know the smug son of a bitch is grinning from ear to ear.

“I was not smiling,” you insist.

Quick as a whip, he retorts, “Well now you’re lying.”

Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you kick yourself into gear and speed up, marching up to where War has stopped by the grate. “I am not lying, I’m leaving.”

The Horseman’s chuckle haunts you all the way across the platform.

i'm doing a writing challenge in order to actually get this fic done so. here it is :)

Behind the betrothals and the festivities, something sinister brews, hidden deep in the halls of the Daibizaal castle.

Keith and Lotor intend to find out what it is.

Or, the Galtean AU where the klance is messy, magic secrets brew, and Lotura makes out in the background.

I'm writing a thousand words a day for a month and updating accordingly. Let's see if I can do this :)

When everyone is born, they get a soulmate mark. When Aru is 16, hers fades away.

1 year later she finds a dead boy's diary.

Boop a little fic I started thinking up, even wrote the 1st chapter lol

Healing & Benevolence

god!kim sunoo x reader [afab]

[prev | the pantheon series | next]

genre: light angst & smut

concept: you know well the value of tending for others, the importance of kindness. you carry it with you every day, giving it out to those in need even when it is thankless or they are cruel. you even persist when you are suddenly taken ill, but will your own benevolence be enough to save you?

w/c: 6.2k

warning: god au, religious themes, religious imagery, injury mention, illness, threat of death, dream sequence, light imagery, consumption metaphors; explicit sexual content, god fucking, body worship, vaginal sex, altar sex, *unprotected sex, coming inside.

You aren’t surprised that as you wake up with the sun, you’re forced to step out of the house to try and track down your father. You’ve told him at least a hundred times, the doctor said he has to have his tea in the morning before he leaves the house. You spend all this time trying to take care of him and he continues to ignore you. You suppose that’s the way of your life, without your mother around your father doesn’t listen to hardly anyone. Not even you. 

The town is beginning to wake up and you gather your skirts in your hands as you make your way through, greeting the early risers who are also up to greet the rising sun. You lift a hand over your eyes, looking up towards the small temple of the Sun God, stone and sparkling in the sunrise with glittering golden chimes and decorations. You sigh to yourself when you see your father walking out of it, hobbling with his cane. 

You rush the rest of the way up the hill, skirts balled in your fist, to meet him. He smiles softly at you as you approach, your arm looping through his free one as soon as you catch up to him. 

“What have I told you about going to see the Sun God without me,” you admonish him, falling into a slower, more careful step with him, back towards your home. 

“You always worry so much about me,” he says, moving his cane from one hand to the other so he can pat your hands where they wrap his bicep. “You’re a young lady, surely you have better things to be spending your time on than looking after your father.” You shake your head at him, as you so often do. “I can’t rely on you forever. Well, soon you ought to be getting married, settling into a life of your own. And you know as well I do that before this injury, I was quite the strapping young army man,” he teases, straightening his back. You laugh softly, resting your cheek on your father’s shoulder. 

Your father was a strapping young army man when he was in his prime. Your mother was a nurse for the royal military and your father part of the army, it’s how they met. When your mother became pregnant with you she left the military of course, to focus on being a homemaker and wife, but your father did not. Unfortunately that meant that he went off to battle to defend the country. It was the last time he would enter the war, he promised her, but the fight would prove to be his last anyway as he took a nasty injury to his leg, forcing him to rely on this cane for the rest of his life. 

Your mother passed a couple of years ago due to sickness. The doctor said it was hysteria but you’re not so convinced. Either way, it’s just been you and your father ever since. 

“What are your plans for the day, sweetheart?” Your father asks, finally drinking the tea the doctor has insisted he take to handle his condition. You bustle around the kitchen, checking the rice and plating the greens. You move over to the table, laying out the dishware for him to eat. 

“It’s going to be a long day at the guest house for me,” you tell him. He frowns but you simply smile, going back to the counter to bring the food over. “The seasons are changing, the cold snap isn’t far off. The rooms will need tending, changing of the bedding and covering the windows to keep the place warm.” You bring the rice over, reaching in with a spatula to loosen it from the sides of the basket. “It’s good work, it’ll keep me busy all day,” you assure him, picking up his bowl to fill it with rice. 

“You ought to rest more,” he says, making you laugh softly. “You work too much.” You shake your head to yourself, sitting down at the table with him, filling your own bowl with rice. “It’s not good for you. I’m already ill, I’d hate for something to happen to you. Your mother⁠—” 

“Don’t worry about me,” you tell him, collecting greens from the plate in the middle of the table, placing them in your bowl along with your rice. “I take good care of myself. I can handle it just fine.” You take a small bite, smiling at your father from across the table. He relents, picking his own chopsticks up to begin eating. 

This is far from the first time your father has said this to you. He always worries over you, how much you work, how much time you spend tending over him. You don’t mind, he’s your father and you know he’s only acting this way because of what happened to your mother. They still aren’t entirely sure what happened to her and it scares your father to think that you might one day succumb to this “hysteria” they’re claiming took her from the two of you. You think he’s just a little too concerned over nothing. You’re young, happy, spry, nothing to be worried about. 

You leave your father after breakfast to go to the guest house, where the other housemaids are already rushing around frantically. You’re dragged into the fray quickly, helping prepare the guest house for the weather that’s sure to be coming shortly. There’s a chill in the air already this morning, it won’t be long now. 

Much of your day passes you by as you clean and straighten the rooms of the guest house. You chat with the other housekeepers idly, listening to them regale you with tales of their families, their children and husbands. You resist the urge to frown, knowing that it won’t change anything. While the idea of settling down seems lovely in theory, you could never leave your father behind. He just means too much to you, and you’ve yet to find a man who understands that the way you do. 

“Come to the river with us. There’s a lot of bedding that needs washing,” one of the girls tells you and you agree, picking up one of the extra baskets of bedding, going out with them towards the water’s edge. 

At the edge of the river the air is cool and comfortable, your fingers quickly turning cold and then numb as you wash the blankets. It’s difficult, menial labor, washing the blankets over the boards, your wrists and arms aching the longer you’re at it. You step back from the edge of the water, wiping your brow free of sweat when you’re finally done rinsing your last bedding set, huffing at the mess you’ve managed to make of yourself. 

“It might be difficult,” one of the girls says and you look over to see she is also dripping with water as she heaves the wet bedding out of her wash basin to hang it over the line. “But it’s honest work.” You laugh softly, nodding to yourself as you look down at yourself, trying to shake yourself out a bit. 

With the sun high in the sky, the heat of the day at its peak, you and the rest of the housekeepers head back to the guest house to get something to eat while the bedding dries. You lift a hand, covering your eyes with it, looking up towards the sky. It’s a beautiful, cloudless day, with the sun beating down over everything. You smile to yourself, comforted by the heat of Sunoo’s light, the warmth he brings. Soon his rays will dull and Riki will be in the sky more often than not, so you want to bask in it just a little bit longer. 

You’re shocked to suddenly be pulled away from the main road, one of the girls pulling you towards the guest house. You stumble after her, slipping into the guest house and the doors close behind you. You look around to see the others leaning into the windows, looking out and whispering amongst themselves. You look at your friend, who lets go of your wrist. 

“What is it?” You ask. 

“There’s a stranger in town,” she tells you, voice low. You move to the window, peering around the edge of the frame to see what exactly it is that has everyone so worried. 

It’s just one single person, you realize, but you understand why the girls are all hiding. He’s an older man, probably about your father’s age, dressed in rags, unshaven and spattered with mud. Clearly he’s not from around here, probably doesn’t even have a home. His clothing hangs off of him limply, clearly malnourished, and he walks with a limp, dragging one foot behind him. Along the edge of his belt there’s a dagger in its sheath and he carries just one peeling, ripping rucksack with him. You lean against the wall, heart aching for the poor man. 

“He doesn’t look good,” you mutter to yourself. Pushing off from the wall, you disappear into the kitchen, gathering a meal for him quickly. Your friend follows after you, watching as you carefully stack the food in containers, the wicker baskets holding them all inside securely. Dish after dish is placed inside until it’s full and then you tie it closed, turning to head out. 

“What’re you doing?” She asks, standing in front of you, stopping you from leaving. “You’re not going out there, are you?” 

“I’m sure he’s harmless,” you insist but she shakes her head. “Most men like that are just lost and confused and hungry. If we show him a little kindness, he might just be on his way,” you reason. She continues to look doubtful but doesn’t stop you when you walk past her, out into the foyer. You slide the door of the guest house open, walking out onto the porch and then into the street. Your friends and fellow innkeepers crowd around the door as you step down into the street, approaching the man as he shambles down the main road. 

“Excuse me, sir,” you call out to him, and he stops suddenly. He turns slowly towards you, dark eyes squinting through the bright sunlight at you. “You’ve just come to town, right?” You tell him, walking towards him slowly. “I was hoping⁠—” 

“I don’t need some useless wench’s help!” He calls out. You flinch back, surprised by his tone. Still, you steel yourself, continuing forward. 

“I know,” you assure him, causing him to squint even harder at you. “I just thought, you’re new to town. Might do to accept a little bit of hospitality?” You offer, holding the container out to him. He stares at you skeptically. 

“Why would I do that?” He snaps. “I told you, I don’t need your help. You should mind your business!” He takes a threatening step towards you but you don’t move. “Plucky little maiden thinks she knows what someone needs. I can take fine care of myself!” He yells at you and you bow your head politely.

“I understand,” you say. You lean to the side, resting the container on the railing of the guest house’s porch. “I won’t make you take it. I just thought you might like it. I’ll leave you alone.” You bow politely to him and then turn, walking away. He watches you go through narrowed eyes. You walk right up the porch and into the guest house, closing the doors behind you, blocking the wandering eyes of the other keepers. 

You do glance back outside though, waiting to see if something might happen. The man waves a hand at the building and turns, continuing to shamble through town, away from the building. You sigh to yourself, nothing you can do about that. 

“Not very grateful,” your friend grumbles and you look at her softly. 

“Men are prideful and silly,” you tell her. “There’s nothing that can be done if he refuses, but it’s obvious he’s not had a good meal in a while. The least we can do is offer it to him.” You pat her gently on the shoulder and then retreat to the kitchen. She huffs, following after you with one last glance out the window. 

After lunch, you return to the porch, finding the basket of food still sitting on the edge of the railing, nearly teetering off. You sigh to yourself, stepping out to retrieve it. When you pick it up, you notice something strange. 

You lift the lid, finding it empty. You smile softly to yourself, lifting the layers of the container one by one, checking every layered basket. Your smile grows as you go through them. Every single one of them is empty, completely devoid of the food you’re sure you neatly filled it with. What was once filled to capacity is now completely empty and you stack them all together again, carrying them into the guest house. What a silly, proud man.

You don’t think much of it, after all it’s not the first time a homeless man has found himself in town and it won’t be the last. Nomadic people and travelers roam the hills around your town frequently, you don’t give it much thought as you move on with the rest of your day. The rest of your week even, going home to tend to your father only to wake up the next day and go back to the inn.

It isn’t until a few days later, when you are finally afforded a day off from the frantic dressing and cleaning and turning over of the guest house, that you think of him again. You’re cleaning your clothes, your father’s as well, sitting behind your garden wall in the warm sun. There’s a cool breeze, a crisp snap in the air, but the work has you sweating. You wipe at your brow, rinsing your clothing free of soaps, and then stand to hang them on the lines that criss-cross through your garden. 

Well, ‘think’ of him might be considered a bit of an understatement, when you quite literally see him again. You’re pulling the clothes that have dried in the sun down from the lines when you see him shambling down the street towards your home. You look down at the clothes in your hands and then have an idea. 

Rushing back inside, you find your father’s old clothes. Some of them are in poor condition, but still wearable. A torn edge, a popped seam, things you’ve been meaning to fix but just haven’t gotten around to. Your father has more than enough clothes as it is, many of his clothes from when he was young still fit him as he’s grown thin and frail in his old age. You gather the worn clothing in your hands, smoothing your hand over the top of them, and then head back out. 

In what could easily be seen as a careless gesture, you walk back out into the garden and toss the clothes on the other side of the wall, a little puff of dirt rising when they land. You turn away, dusting your hands off as you go back to what you were doing, collecting the clothes that are drying on the line. You pretend to not even notice as he gets closer, the sound of his uneven gait a dead giveaway that he’s approaching. 

You gather your clothes into a spare basket and walk inside, not even glancing behind you. You don’t have to look to know that he’s stopped at the corner of your garden wall. You pay him no mind as you fold your clothes into neat squares, stacking them up in the corner of your room. 

With your back turned, you don’t see him glance at you, glance around and then lean down to rummage through the small stack of clothing. He turns them over, inspecting them for damage. He notices the little tears and missing threads but he doesn’t bother to be concerned about them. He stuffs them all quickly into his bag and then straightens, picking up the pace to get away from your house. 

When you come back out, he’s already hobbled past the other end of your garden wall, towards the end of the street. You hum to yourself, not bothering to check and see if the clothes have gone. You know they have been. 

You don’t see him again, though that is hardly a surprise. As said, travelers and nomads roam the hills and surrounding area all the time, the lush forests and vast meadows offer plenty of comfort for those who are looking for a place to hide and stay. You aren’t bothered by his lack of thanks or brash way he spoke to you, after all you’re sure he’s hardly seen much kindness in his life given his state. You go about your business as you always have, but you do keep him in mind. Just in case he shows up again. 

However, it isn’t long later before you start to develop a cough, a sore throat that you have a hard time ignoring. You drink your father’s tea, telling him that it can’t be more than a little cold. You don’t feel ill, it’s just this sore throat that’s bothering you. He frowns deeply though, watching you try to go about your days as normally as you can despite the way your body is wracked with rough coughs. 

Then you get the chills, body aches, dizziness. You struggle to get through the days, sometimes finding yourself clinging to walls or counters or friends to stave off the way the world spins around you. You’re freezing despite the warm temperatures; the weather hasn’t fully turned yet, you can’t be that cold already. Your joints and muscles ache, making work even more difficult. It doesn’t take long for your illness to become so detrimental that your boss insists on you staying at home. 

“No, but I⁠—” You interrupt yourself in a coughing fit, and she leans forward, running a hand over your forehead. 

“You’re hot to the touch and can barely stand upright. Chaeryoung will take you home, just rest. Come back when you’re well.” 

But you don’t become well. You find yourself lying in bed, wracked with shivers and dizziness. It seems almost as though something has cursed you, with the way you’re declining so rapidly. Your father is helpless to do anything except press cold towels to your head, trying to keep you comfortable. He feeds you broth and pets your hair, wracked with fear of what might become of this. You can hardly sleep, tossing and turning in discomfort, your expressions tight and concerned when you do, like you’re wracked with nightmares. With no other options, your father finally calls upon a doctor. When the doctor comes to see you he pulls your father aside with a grim look. 

“It seems that your daughter is afflicted with the same thing as her mother,” he says, your father’s eyes widening in shock and horror. “I know that was difficult, for the both of you, but I don’t know that there’s anything more I can do for her. She’s in a terrible state.” 

“Please,” your father begs, taking the doctor’s hands in his. The doctor looks at the floor, avoiding your father’s pleading eyes that have begun to fill with tears. “Please, you have to do something. Please, she’s all I have left. You have to save her.” 

“I’m afraid… only Sunoo can help her now,” he says, finally meeting your father’s eyes. Tears spill down his cheeks as he turns his head, looking into the room to see you sleeping fitfully. 

The doctor leaves quietly, allowing your father to move to your side, kneeling on the floor beside where you sleep. You’re still sweating despite the clammy feeling of your hand when he takes it in his, cradling it between his hands. He brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it gently. You moan softly in your sleep, clearly uncomfortable, but there’s nothing he can do for you. He closes his eyes, beginning to pray. 

“Great Sunoo, I ask for your help and guidance. I know I have not always been a religious man, I have strayed from the path of your guidance, and let my pride get in the way. I apologize for that, but I beg. I plead, your help,” he whispers into the back of your hand. “Please, save my daughter. Please, heal her from what ails her, please do not let her leave me so soon. She is all I have left.” 

When night falls, he sleeps on the floor beside your futon, unable to tear himself away from your side. He doesn’t hear the sound of the door opening, or the soft footsteps making their way across the house, the golden glow that peers into rooms and around corners, alerting the shadows of his presence. He doesn’t even stir when the glowing figure drops to his knees beside your still body, taking your hand in his. 

“Your kindness knows no bounds,” he whispers to you, though you cannot hear him. You remain still, your breath evening while the pained expression on your face melts away. “Your life is too precious to take. You have much goodness to give, though it cannot be here.” Gently, he lifts a hand, tracing his fingers over the side of your face. “It is with great sorrow that I must ask you to come with me. Give me your word, pure hearted and unburdened, and I will take you without question.” 

He touches his fingertips to your sweat beaded forehead, reaching through your mind. He closes his eyes, trying to reach you. 

In the depth of your mind, he finds you. You’re alone and confused at his altar at the top of the hill, big windows cut into the stone, curving roofs and overhangs of yellow and blue above you. You turn around, dressed only in your nightgown, trying to figure out where you are. You know this place, and yet you do not. 

“Hello?” You call out, trying to figure out what brought you here. Everything is so real, the stone beneath your feet, the perfectly sculpted altar in front of you, even a crisp wind running over your body. You shiver, holding yourself, as you try to figure out why you’re here. 

“I thought I would be waiting for you, but it seems you’ve beaten me.” You squint through the bright light that shines down outside of the altar, trying to see the figure that approaches. They come towards you, bathed in a warm glow, slowly revealing themselves. Your heart lodges itself in your throat when you recognize the man before you. 

Draped in blue and gold, Sunoo, God of the Sun and Healing, approaches you. You move to drop to your knees but he takes you gently by the chin, stopping you before you can. He raises your head with his fingers softly tucked beneath your chin. 

“Do not kneel for me. I need not your devotion when I know I already have it,” he tells you. You nod slowly, his hand falling away from your face. “You are more benevolent than even I thought. Why, when I felt your presence I thought for sure… You are rare and beautiful,” he says, walking around you, causing you to turn, trying to keep him in your line of sight as he circles you. “Mortals like yourself are often the same, devout to simply a point. Rare is a prayer that comes from the lips of a mortal that will follow such teachings so closely. You are, my dear, are far more than I have ever imagined.” 

“Why… is that why you come to me?” You ask. He nods, stopping at the top of the altar. He leans back against it, fingers curled over the edge of the stone ledge that is draped with jewels and coin and wine. “What do you need from me, Your Divinity?” Your voice shakes, uncertain as to why a divine being would come to you in such a state. 

“I need you,” he says, words spoken with such reverence it hits you in the chest. Your breath catches. “Your soul is meant to be mine, which means that I must take you away from here,” he says, pushing off from the altar to approach you. Your eyes dart away as you process what he asks of you. He closes the distance between you, watching your mind work through the implications of what he asks.

“But- but my father,” you say, lifting your gaze. He nods. “What about him? He’s injured and old, he can’t live alone. He needs me.” 

“I need you more,” Sunoo says, though the words leave him as though it pains him. Gently, he cups your cheek, your eyes falling to the ground. “But I can guarantee his safety, and a long life. I can heal him.” Your eyes dart to his, widening at his suggestion. “If you desire it, I can give it to you. But in exchange, you become mine,” he warns you, tilting your head up. You look into his eyes, glowing with white light. You gasp, entranced by the sight before you. 

You’ve never seen anything like it, the swirling bright, white light that fills him from the inside. He pulls you closer, until you are pressed against him, staring deep into the light that pours from him. 

“Unburden yourself,” he coos to you, hands grasping your waist, warmth like the sun’s golden rays creeping over your skin. “Find the truth in what you desire. Give me your word,” he asks of you. 

“You’ll heal him?” You ask and the light that fills his eyes dies out, replaced with shining amber. He nods to you, holding you close. “Promise me.” 

“I give you my word,” he assures you. “Now you must give me yours.” 

“I do,” you agree and he smiles at you. “I am yours to take.” 

His mouth presses gently to yours, turning the two of you around. Heat explodes across your skin, like a warm summer’s day, sending goosebumps across your chilled skin. It shutters through you, unforgiving and enticing. With trembling hands you touch his shoulders as he guides you backwards. Your thighs touch the altar, only to be pushed down onto it, Sunoo’s hands falling to your hips. Bottles clatter against the wall while coins and jewels spill around your body to the stone floor. The skirt of your nightgown rides up as you sit down, allowing his hands to touch the bared skin of your legs. 

“Do you know what it means to be taken by a God?” He whispers into your lips. You whimper softly as his fingers push up the edge of your gown, the material sliding away from your skin to give him room. You part your legs, allowing him between them so that his fingers can drift up the insides of your thighs. A swirling simmering feeling takes root inside of you as he touches you. “I will teach you what it means to belong to me. What I meant when I told you I needed you.” His mouth presses to yours again, his long fingers pushing the rest of the way up to touch your bare cunt. 

You gasp as he touches you, an unrelenting heat filling your insides, like you’ve swallowed the sun. It ebbs through you, your eyes rolling back as blinding light fills your vision, white and pure. His mouth diverts from your mouth so he can kiss his way down your neck, his fingers running up and down your rapidly wetting folds. You squirm against him, clutching his skin despite the heat that scorches your fingertips. It burns but you won’t let go, desperate to have him, that he might give you the pleasure your body so desperately craves. 

His touch leaves you to fist the edge of your nightgown, causing him to step back so he can pull it up your body. You lean into him, lifting yourself so he can raise it above your backside and then up your waist. You let go of him, Sunoo raising it the rest of the way to take it from your body, removing it entirely. His fingers are like pinpricks of heat across your body, leaving trails of scorching heat behind them as he kisses you, your fingers clutching the back of his neck as he lowers his mouth to your chest. 

“Sunoo,” you call out his name, a shiver rushing through him. 

“That voice,” he moans into your collarbones. He grabs you by the hips, pulling you to the edge of the altar, making you yelp as you’re pressed up against him. “Oh, how could I resist it?” He groans, biting marks into your neck and chest, making you arch up against him. An ache rolls through you, causing you to squirm against him as he brings a hand up to your chest, fingertips against your sternum. 

Heat seeps through you like a flame on a candle, like you’re melting underneath the heat of him, moans and whimpers spilling unbidden from your lips as your eyes roll back. Along the center of your chest words become a brand, a claim, glowing with white light as they scar your skin. Sunoo kisses down your chest, pressing his plush lips to the words he’s placed on your skin. 

“All mine,” he whispers, running his tongue over the characters that mar your skin. You cry out, pleasure surging through you like hot water, an endless, aching boil that threatens to take you right over the edge despite barely being touched. 

With frantic, clumsy hands, Sunoo takes his own clothes off, revealing himself to you. He’s all gorgeous, clear skin and elegantly carved muscles, your fingers drifting across his broad shoulders, along his arms while he looks at you with glowing, white eyes. He’s consumed by it, he needs you, aches for you, his cock already hard between his thighs. He pushes you back against the wall of the altar. The bottles and coins slip against your bared skin as he tilts your hips up towards his so he can lean down into the cradle of your body, aligning his tip with your entrance. 

He sinks in slow, moaning softly through every single inch he pushes inside of you. Your eyelids flutter softly, fingernails digging into his shoulders. Though you can’t tear your eyes from his face, glowing and gorgeous, you also cannot think through the searing, mind numbing heat that fills you. The need settles so deep inside of you it burns like a forest fire, the sun you swallowed sending out solar flares through every single one of your limbs. Your fingertips are numb through the scorching pain of holding him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sinks in to the hilt, hips flush to yours. 

“God,” you whisper, words lost on you. Your eyes fall shut, your mind filled with nothing but blinding light, white and unending, making you feel as though you’re glowing from the inside out. You shake trying to keep it all inside, heels digging into his back, trying to urge him forward. 

“Your God,” he whispers into your throat, rocking his hips in tight, slow thrusts, letting himself drag slowly against your walls. You choke on your moans, going limp against the altar as he takes you apart, sinking into the light. It pulses through you, the steady build of your desire filling you, like a star pulsing, growing and growing through you. You can’t see it but Sunoo can, leaning back so he can watch the glow surround you. 

“Yes,” he whispers. He takes your face in his hands, tipping your head up. You open your eyes and though you can’t see it, he can. The way you pulse with light, the aura that surrounds you. “You look so beautiful like this,” he whispers, taking your mouth in a kiss. You kiss back as best you can against the way desire flows through you. His hands fall from your face so he can take your thighs in hand, forcing them further apart, spreading you open for him. You gasp through a strangled moan as Sunoo picks up the pace, desperation seeping into his every movement. 

He’s eager to watch you lose it, leaving your lips so he can watch your expressions, mouth open, eyes half lidded, but still light seeps from beneath. It flares through the characters on your chest, his thrusts getting harder, faster, needing you, taking you with a new determination. He bears down on you, leaning over your body, fingers so tight around your thighs it hurts, like burns, like brands into your skin. 

“Give in,” he whispers. “Give it to me. Give in, my love.” You whimper underneath him, clutching him to your body. Sunoo buries his face in your throat, soaking in the desire that flows out of you and into him. “Let yourself go.” 

“Sun- Sunoo,” you whimper, muscles tightening around him. He forces his way inside of you, making you keep taking him, over and over, your body pulling him in deeper. You break apart around him when he shoves in to the hilt yet again, cunt clenched so tightly around his cock that he gasps, his own eyes turning white, blurring your countenance. 

He almost can’t see it, but he knows you are. You’re literally glowing with white light, the characters on your chest burning with it. 

When you awake later it is with a body wrapped around yours, plush lips trailing across your shoulders and collarbones, soothing the marks that he bit into them. You lift a hand, sinking your fingers into golden locks, cradling him against your chest. Sunoo’s hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You’re pressed all up and down his front, your leg thrown over his hip, your head tipping back to allow him to kiss up your throat. 

“My love,” he whispers into your skin and you smile. “My beautiful goddess.” You pull him on top of you, Sunoo easily turning the two of you over so he can straddle your hips. “Mine.” He trails his kisses lower, lips brushing over the words embedded in your skin, now and forever more. 

“Do you think it was a sign?” Sunoo asks. Jungwon hesitates to answer.

A sign, unlikely. There are very few things in this world that are simply sign or coincidence. If that were the case, surely they all could’ve just moved past whatever happened between Jongseong and his goddess. Their lives would be far less complicated than they are now, suddenly swept up in the lives of mortals, intricately twisted in the threads of their paths, the futures they will now live. No, Jungwon knows better.

The worst part is that Sunoo also knows it. 

“Your silence is deafening,” Sunoo says, walking towards him. Jungwon curls his fingers over the edge of his window ledge, looking down from his room atop their sky bound palace. The world is small, mortals smaller, from these great heights. Whenever he feels as though he should intervene in the lives below him, he brings himself to this window and remembers. It brings him comfort and though mortals may think it wrong or cold hearted, he knows his place. He is a guiding hand, but that does not mean that he is meant to change things always for the betterment of all. Mortals must know what it means to have free will, whether that is good or bad. 

“Surely you know as well as I do the truth of the matter,” Jungwon replies, voice soft. “You know very well the consequences that might befall you.” 

“There is something happening,” Sunoo insists, turning towards his brother, his hand resting on the edge of the window ledge. Jungwon doesn’t look at him, still staring down at the world that continues on as though their very existence isn’t threatened by what goes on above them. “The others are distracted by their mortal whims, but you see it. You see it, don’t you?” 

“It matters not.”

“I did not take you as a fool, brother,” Sunoo tells him, and finally Jungwon looks at him, eyes crackling with lightning. “I took your advice. I was smart about this, far more than our brothers. Now take mine,” Sunoo urges, moving his hand to rest it on Jungwon’s arm. Jungwon’s eyes clear, turning brown and apprehensive. “See not with your eyes, but with your heart. Then I think you will understand.” 

“You think I do not?” Jungwon replies, turning towards his brother. Sunoo’s hand falls away as they face each other. “There are things at work that even I cannot see the end of. If we are not careful our lives, our world, the very cosmos could be at stake. The balance⁠—” 

“Speak not about balance. It is not your place,” Sunoo reminds him, firm but not angry. Jungwon averts his eyes again, shame building behind his ribs. “Our eldest brother will assure the balance. You made sure of it.” 

“At what cost?” Jungwon asks, hesitantly meeting Sunoo’s eyes once more. 

“Whatever the cost may be. Only he knows.”

a/n: *the unprotected sex depicted is both purposeful and symbolic, engage in safe sex practices like condoms and contraceptives in real life. safe sex saves lives; writing for sunoo was, for good or for bad, an exercise in patience and also trusting my own characters. there were times when i truly thought i was going to ruin the entire series with this part but i really think sunoo had my back about it. i hope you all agree. the pantheon continues...

perma. taglist: @ducksstolemybread @dr0wnme0ut @pockettwinzz @emi-en @lilyuwon @deobitifull @oddracha @skzenhalove @nyfwyeonjun @bunhoons @ministrawberrywithchocolate @heeshlove @nshmrarki @avaleyshin @zeeloveshee @nyxtwixx @enha-bie @manifestobackshot @onlyuyu @in-somnias-world @hoonmine

series taglist: @baekxo07 @pinksweetlittlepiano @hooniebaekgu @starfallia @heelovesmeknot @lovgfrd @xiaoderrrr @jakayval @jaeyunluvr @jungwonloveer @j5yy @seunghancore @binniesbabe @strxwbloody @vveebee @cherlv @aileeeeeeeeeeeee @yongbokified @immelissaaa @fertilizedtoesw @sumzysworld @emberuby @sunshine-skz @nicleyrou @rikibun @lilactangerine @iveivory @yoonzns @addictedtohobi @wonnie99 @enha-stars

Concept: You're a hot girl on Twitch and Namjoon is an absolute simp.

✧ pairing: namjoon x (f) streamer!reader

✧ genre: twitch/streamer au

✧ rating: mature / 18+

✧ wc: 533

✧ warnings: parasocial relationships, simping, mentions of (m) masturbation, namjoon heavily lusting after mc

a/n: um so it's been like two months cus of a combo of me getting a little bit busier and also having some serious writer's block. though, i seem to be back and with a new little piece. this looks like it could be a prelude to a new au, who knows!! spoiler alert: it definitely is

as usual, please let me know if you like this. a nice ask or an rb with nice tags would make a huge difference esp since ya girl has not written in a while!!

for those of you who have read my previous work:

yes, this is in the same vein as beauty and the stream, but in the future, you may also see similarities to buwygf since i really did vibe with that oc and that characterization of namjoon! i apologize in advance if this doesn't feel like anything new, but i've been struggling to write for a while and i'd like to start off easy for now. hopefully, you will enjoy this!

Namjoon knows he’s not the only one.

In the grand scheme of things, you’re a regular person. You probably never thought that so many people would flock to your stream at the ding of a mere push notification. That a bot with an English accent would read you so many donation messages each day telling you how pretty, kind, and funny you are. That you’d enchant so many people just by playing your favorite games and reading messages in chat.

There’s nothing inherently sexual about an (extremely) attractive woman playing video games on a livestream. Even if it is statistically impossible for Namjoon to be the only red-blooded male watching you with his eyes glued to his screen. It’s just that Namjoon feels so damn guilty for drooling over you. No matter how sweet the eye candy is.

He’s practically the same as every other user in the chat vying for your affections even though he doesn’t dare type a word. He wants the same thing as every guy on Twitter and Instagram venturing into your DMs. He might even buy some of your merch since matching a hoodie with you is as close to you as he’ll ever get.

He knows this is completely one-sided.

But, what he wouldn’t give to be in the glow of your LED lights. Your lo-fi playlist playing in the background. His deep, hushed voice in your ears. He knows he could make you melt like the wax on those lavender vanilla candles you always have lit up.

His jacket is ready to slip off the foot of your bed. He’ll probably have to come back for it. One of the oldest tricks in the book. Well, for good reason. He knows his jacket would be one of many “forgotten” on your bedroom floor. But, who could blame the others before him?

Who could blame them when the ambiance of your room is so dreamy? When it’s so hard to go back to looking and not touching?

Namjoon would kill to feel those pretty tits of yours. You’re not one to show a lot of skin on stream, but you’re definitely not above the occasional thirst trap on Instagram. At times, Namjoon pictures you showing more cleavage on stream, but that might make it a little hard not to drool even more. It would be especially hard to keep his hand out of his pants.

It’s hard enough not to see you in his dreams. Dreams where you sit in a hot tub in a ridiculously small two-piece. Where your wet breasts glisten and your nipples visibly harden. You get up every time you get a certain amount of bits donated and spin a wheel, turning to show off your ass as you do so. You change into a new bikini each time you reach a certain donation milestone.

It’s not wrong to dream of you, is it? Namjoon can’t control what he sees in his dreams. It’s not as if he’s like the weirdos that come into your chat, asking if you have a boyfriend or an OnlyFans. In your stream chat, he can definitely control himself. Namjoon is not some weird, creepy pervert.

Right?

Lovely Demons (M)

Author: @kpopfanfictrash as part of the Nightmare on Tumblr.com collab with @underthejoon , @bratkook​ , @hobidreams​ , @junghelioseok​ , @jungkxook​ and @suga-kookiemonster​ 

Creative Contributor: @baebae-goodnight FOR THIS MOODBOARD LIKE. look at it. 

Pairing: Jimin / Reader (female)

Genre:  Fantasy / Enemies to Lovers / Princes of Hell!AU / Witch!AU

Word Count: 41,774

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for sexual content. Fingering, dirty talk, oral (female), condom-less sex (with mention of other protection), breast play. 

Somewhat graphic injuries occur to main characters throughout the story. Death of a side character.

Summary:   As penance for a crime committed long, long ago, the Witch Council banished you to the feared Tholoss forest. Your sentence was one hundred thousand days of solitude – or death, whichever came first. Your only hope of salvation comes from the demon names routinely sent your way; creatures who escape the inner circles of Hell and pose a threat to the mortal realms. For each demon you kill, days are removed from your sentence. For years you’ve existed, biding your time, until one morning you receive a name which throws your entire world into chaos: the name of Park Jimin, High Prince of Hell himself.

[[ Lovely Demons Glossary ]] 

Keep reading

Ask Mr Loverboy - hhj

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ genre: enemies to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, academic rivals, fluff, angst, suggestive themes, slow burn, soulmate au, college au, uhh double life? (hyun is essentially two people at once).

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ summary: Ask Mr Loverboy is a column in the university's newspaper that gives the students love advice. However, there’s a twist: Mr Loverboy himself has never been in love. He keeps going on dates with a new person every weekend in hopes of finding that spark he always talks about to his readers but so far, his strategy hasn’t been working.

In the search for his soulmate, he stumbles upon you – the person he absolutely cannot stand and is sure he never will. Yet, despite your history, you end up teaching Hyunjin the most valuable lesson of them all. Will he push through and finally find his one and only, or will Hyunjin give up on love forever?

What a complicated question. Too bad he can’t ask Mr Loverboy about it, he could really use his wisdom.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚warnings: cursing, suggestive themes, jealousy, sexual tension, DRAMA!!

♡. taglist: OPEN (send an ask if you want to be added)

♡. a/n: this idea has been driving me crazy since this summer when i was crazy busy with school and had absolutely no time to write!! i spent soo many nights just brainstorming for this fic yet at some point, i almost didn't even write it fghfdgh. so yes, i really hope you'll enjoy this little thing i came up with, especially since it's my first time writing some of these tropes. for now, i have no idea how long this story is going to be but i have a feeling it's going to be my longest one yet.

wait i have a question , does cal yoongi have a daddy kink??? 😮‍💨😮‍💨

i’m glad u asked 😴

and remember: if you’re not getting tagged despite signing up to the taglist, it’s because in your settings the ‘allow search engines to find me’ option is disabled which makes me unable to tag you.

can’t afford love | myg (m) #7

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is this even a good idea?

well..

either way

you want this

and you’re ovulating!

it’s not your fault you’re this horny!!

even just his presence is making you want to pounce him

and now with you bent over the table

surrounded by dirty dishes

his groin pressed straight into your ass

you can’t think straight

he’s right

you can still have fun and enjoy as you’re trying for a baby

you’re snapped out of your thoughts when your robe is hiked up to your waist and your entire lower body is naked and exposed

you feel

extremely insecure

doing this in a not-so-dark room

but at least you’re bent over and he can’t see much anyways

his hands knead your hips and asscheeks under his palms, your breath becoming ragged

he runs a finger up your slit, a sudden grunt leaving his lips at the touch makes you glance over your shoulder

“now this,” he starts, “is what i’m talking about.” he brings his finger up to his mouth and sucks your slick off. “maybe i should be a bit rougher on you since you’ve always liked that a lot more.”

you angrily grunt. you turn your head again, pressing your cheek against the surface of the table. “shut up.”

the loud crack of your ass getting slapped rings in your ears and the heat spreads through your skin

“always got something to say, huh?”

hmmm

you do

you literally do

but…

“you like it, though,” you remark, trying to stifle a smirk

“hm,” he hums as he massages your asscheeks. “i do, don’t i?”

there’s a certain tone in his voice that you can’t quite put your finger on

you glance at him again and he’s staring straight at you. “i suppose i never liked the easy way,” he says and you’re not even really sure what he means by that

is he talking about you?

how you’ve just

never been an easy person?

…

well in all seriousness

you weren’t

and you will never be

you’re of the opinion that things should be earned

you say as you’re preparing ready to get rawdogged by your exhusband

he runs a hand up your spine which causes you to shiver

pathetic.

“i still love looking at you from this position, you know,” he starts and the ruffling of him pulling his sweats down doesn’t go unnoticed by you

“yeah? why’s that?”

“feel like i can do whatever i want to you and you’ll let me cause you enjoy it too.”

what the hell….

he’s SICK

“what does that even mea–”

SMACK.

“ow!” you screech but somewhere it sounds like a moan. a screechy moan if you will.

“see?” he chuckles and reaches for your wrists to pin them into your lower back with one hand whilst he tugs his boxers down with his free hand. “you like it. i also know it’s your favorite position and don’t tell me it’s not because we both know it is.”

you merely huff in response. “so? it’s yours too.”

he hums quietly.

“no, it’s not.” his free hand wraps around his shaft and he uses it to tease your wet slit

you close your eyes to concentrate and prepare but you can’t help but wonder what he’s on about..

“i fucked you from behind often because i knew you liked it. i like it too but it’s not my favorite.”

huh???

you were so sure it was

just because it was usually your go-to position whenever you had sex with each other

and you know he absolutely loves your ass and hips so you’re not sure where this is coming from now

you quietly ask, “then what is?”

he stays quiet for a few moments

“missionary.” he starts pushing into you which makes your mind go blank

you can’t even bring yourself to ask why but he lets you know nonetheless

“watching your face when you’re getting fucked is my favorite thing in the world.” he bottoms out, pelvis pushed straight into your asscheeks

your face?

he loves watching your face?

“the way your brows furrow and the way your mouth falls open. the way you struggle to keep your eyes open but do it to hold onto eye contact. it makes you look dizzy.” he simply chuckles and then slowly starts thrusting into you. “drives me fucking insane.”

…

why would he say this now

he used to say he just loved fucking you

no matter how he could have you he’d have you like that

why is he going into detail now??

he knows all the things you like

is it genuinely bc he just wanted to do all of your favorite things?

you do remember how much he loved kissing you in missionary

and you loved it just as much

especially when he did as he came inside. it genuinely made you think that giving birth to a whole sports team was worth it in that moment

(until the post nut clarity hit of course)

he keeps thrusting, dick rubbing your walls so fucking good that it makes your knees buckle

but he’s so close to your body and he’s still pinning your wrists against your lower back which causes you to stay pinned to the table whether your legs give out or not

“wha… what else do you like?” you manage to get out without sounding overly sexual

“hm,” he hums as he rubs your asscheek with his other hand. “i was never big on the daddy thing but hearing you on the phone earlier–”

“i am not calling you daddy.”

he laughs in response at how quickly you declined

“i don’t know, babe. you’re making a mess on the floor. i think you like that idea, if anything.”

fuck

you don’t know whether he’s lying or not

and with your hands restrained

hips caged in between his own and the edge of the table

you grunt in response

not much else you can do

and in the corner of your eyes you can see him licking at his thumb before bringing it to your asshole

rubbing the rim

you mewl quietly. he rubs all over your puckered hole, something he knows you used to enjoy

“fuck,” you mumble as his thrust pick up in pace, hips slamming into your asscheeks and recoiling against his skin

“i need to look at your face when you cum,” he whispers as he begins to slow down until he fully pulls out

he pulls you off the table by your biceps and turns you around in one swift motion, pushing you back onto the table and instantly spreading your thighs for him

you barely have the time to register what’s happening when he grabs ahold of his shaft and guides it back into your pussy

he slides in so effortlessly, proving your arousal

and if that wasn’t enough proof, the loud squelching sounds should be

he starts thrusting into you again, eyes staring down at you with such intensity that it makes you feel like you’re being stared down by a starved lion

he holds your thighs apart with his hands, hooked under the back of your knees as he snaps his hips into you

you can’t help but moan as you stare back, mouth falling open and brows furrowing together

exactly the way he likes it

he knows you do that once he speeds up and slams his hips into yours like he’s got something to prove to you

“rub that clit for me, y/n.”

FUCKKKKK

you could cum simply from hearing him say that

you mewl as you reach between your bodies and allow your hand to make it’s way down to your clit, the stickiness instantly coating your fingers as you start rubbing yourself

“how does it feel?” he asks, hairs sticking to his forehead because of the sweat that started forming there

you let out a sob that you hope is enough of an answer about how fucking good you’re feeling right now

unfortunately he shakes his head

“use your words, sugar.”

fuck fuckfuckfurkcudkcud

sugar

sugar.

it used to be his go-to nickname for you

:))

..

:(

and him saying it right now is both orgasm-inducing

yet bittersweet

it almost makes you stumble over your words

said you looked cold on the outside yet tasted and smelled so damn sweet

and he liked the irony

because your personality was the opposite of sweet

you suppose he was right.

“feels… feels so good,” you sniff, bringing your fingers up to your mouth, licking your own arousal off it whilst keeping eye contact with him

his eyes momentarily drop to your lips as he watched you wet your fingers with your saliva before you dive back to rub at your clit

he nods as he makes eye contact with you again

but his eyes are starting to occasionally drop down to your lips

and it’s getting harder and harder not to kiss him

maybe just once–

“cum on my dick, dizzy.”

oh

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

you don’t need much more

a few more circular motions on your clit and the consistent pounding of his hips, tip of his dick kissing your cervix repeatedly has you coming undone

your body shakes as your hands come up to squeeze at his biceps and chest, incoherent words and sentences falling from your lips in cries and ragged breaths

he simply nods as he watches you. “i know, i know.”

your entire body shakes, pussy repeatedly clenching around his shaft which you know is pushing him to the edge as well

“fuck,” he whispers, one hand coming up to gently tug your robe off your shoulder, exposing your breast to him

kneads it

rolls your nipple in between his fingers

does it again after wetting the tips of his thumb and index finger

you sniff again, tears rolling down your cheeks from the amount of pleasure he’s giving you

you haven’t had an orgasm whilst getting fucked in so long

you’d almost forgotten how fucking insane it is

mindboggling

insanity-inducing

“fuck, don’t look at me like that,” he whispers as his hips start snapping into yours at a quicker pace, indicating he’s getting close too

you simply continue to watch him with the biggest doe eyes you can muster, bottom lip trapped between your teeth

fuck. FUCK

it’s not even healthy how badly you want him to cum inside

pump you full

mark his territory

remind you who you still belong to

what are you saying? snap out of it!

“i’m gonna,” he pauses, “cum.”

your hands dip down the back of his shoulders, one up the back of his neck and you do it to pull him closer

your eyes drop down to his lips before you say, “put that baby in me.”

you say it with such a tone in your voice and a look in your eyes that makes yoongi almost feral

his thrusting only gets rougher yet sloppier, inconsistent

until he completely unloads inside of you

with a few more thrusts, he comes to a halt, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath

and now

when everything is more clear

you almost want to scream at the top of your lungs

you know you should’ve never broken those rules

you know you wouldn’t be able to resists for much longer

why are you bummed that it’s already over for this weekend and probably until you’re ovulating again?

…

???

or maybe not even until then? it couldve already happened.

exactly what you wanted

a baby.

pregnancy.

it could have happened already.

🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴

and it’s precisely why

you almost

asked him

to pull out.

to be continued.

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PART I: BARE YOUR SOUL

PART II: BARE YOUR HEART

ROOMMATE AU/SOULMATE AU

I finally figured out my titles! Thank you to all who helped me brainstorm and a big shout out to @sumzysworld for the winning suggestion. You guys are the best. This fic has fully taken on a mind of its own. I really can’t wait to share it with you all! I even made a banner! It’s a lot more understated than my usual style, but it really fits the tone of the fic and I’m very happy with it!

coming soon…

READ A TINY TEASER HERE

AND HERE

AND HERE

TILL THE END OF TIME Fate brings them together on the 24th of December, in all previous lifetimes and all those yet to come.

For Jonerys Winter Wonderland 2023 hosted by @snowxstormworld Day 1 | Holiday Magic | Jon x Dany | 10k

NIIIIIKKKKIIIII I JUST CANT WAIT FOR THIS SERIES!! you already know how much i loved those little messages & how i find them super funny 😂 i honestly can’t wait to read more about the whole lowkey gang!!

plot twist (pjm) | teaser.

a lowkey series spin-off ft. park jimin

summary: jimin isn’t interested in fake dating, but he’s definitely interested in getting to know someone the right way. after all, he feels like he’s ready to put himself out there and give it all he’s got. so, he takes a risk in trying something completely out of his comfort zone and hops on the new, popular dating app - only to come across and get to know someone he didn’t expect to meet.

pairing: athlete!reader x nerd!jimin

genre: college au, (partially) smau, friends to lovers au, dating app au | fluff, angst, smut

general warnings: cussing, mature language/implied sexual content, lots of incredibly shy and awkward jimin )): , alcohol consumption, club/party scenes, protected/unprotected sex, trust issues, insecurities - additional warnings will be posted for each chapter.

*important note: majority of the series will not be in smau format! texts / social media posts will only be included in some chapters.

permanent taglist: @spideyjimin @miinoongi​ @thebeebi​ @ggukkieland​ @bluesharksandfish​ @unicornbabylover​ @preciouschimine​ @codeinebelle​ @shesoldbutcute​ @jikookiekosmos​ @awhnamjoon​ @namjooningelsewhere​ @bunnybearrj​ @babycoffeefire​ @bri-mal​ @sintaethick​ @taejkjoons​ @love2luvya-blog​ @pb-n-juju​ @dianaxnyc​ @fan-ati–c​ @jungjoonie​ @jcsmae​ @favouritesblog​ @ppeachyttae​ @awseokjin​ @jjk1iscoming​ @moonchild1​

Jimin can’t believe it. This was the last thing he expected coming out of a dating app.

He has your number.

You gave him your fucking number.

I CANT WAIT NIKKI!! this teaser is so good & i just can’t wait to read the full fic 💗💗

okc thunder (jhs) | teaser.

power forward | jung hoseok

♛ from the pick & roll: nba one shot series 

summary: you and hoseok had been friends for quite some time, keeping each other close with just the right amount of distance. however, hoseok realizes his feelings for you ran deeper than expected when he sees you for the first time in awhile at his game. he was ready to be honest, let you know how he felt. the only problem? min yoongi, the golden state warriors shooting guard.

genre: love triangle (ft. min yoongi)

words: 1.2k

general teaser warnings: cussing/mature language, some jealousy, insecurities, angst, unspoken feelings, appearances from actual nba players on appropriate teams - in this, tre mann and isaiah roby are hoseok’s closest friends on the team.

note: last teaser release for me! thanks for sticking with me through my random drops. 🥺 i’m hoping to release this or the other works really soon! next week, i should be on track to post daydream ch. 11 and possibly broken bottles ch. 3. thanks again, everyone! really appreciate your support, always 😭♥️ luv u with all of me!!

“Oh.. shit.” Hoseok says distractedly as he looks at the crowd over his shoulder. Isaiah and Tre look at each other, confused at the sudden pause in the conversation.

“What’s wrong with you, fool? I know you aren’t letting the Dubs get to you right before game time.”

“Shut up. Y/N is here.”

“Is that the same Y/N you’ve been talking about? I thought you guys were like, close. Am I missing something?” Isaiah chuckles, confused as to why Hoseok is acting all surprised after seeing you in the crowd.

Keep reading

Chapter Summary:

Bonnie and Astarion strangely reunite after five years of separation.

»»——⍟——««

Chapter 1: Eye on the Sparrow

Ao3

Next Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5k

Pairing: Astarion x female western bard OC

CW: Language, Violence, References to Trauma

»»——⍟——««

Loud roars roll out of the Elfsong Saloon like thunderstorms tumbling down from the eastern mountains. The old fir building is abnormally packed for the beginning of the week, damn near every civilian poking around in Baldur’s Gate spilling out of its batwing doors. Oil lamps hang outside, blazing like devils around the raucous place. 

Astarion approaches the saloon, garnet eyes nearly aglow with want in the pitch dark night, lured by the faint scent of blood. Not just any bouquet, mind, but one that belonged to a woman named Bonnie Sparrows: enemy; friend; brief lover. It’s been nearly five years since he last saw the elf, having hightailed it out of her vicinity shortly after they finished what they set out to do, yet her aroma stuck around in his mind like a habit he couldn’t quit. The sweetest swill he’s ever had: honeyed milk and sugar violets. 

He runs his tongue along his upper gums, trying to alleviate the ache in his fangs without any success. Dangerous move, Bon, the vampire smirks to himself, knowing she’s brought him there on purpose as an open invitation he couldn’t refuse. See, that’s the thing about Bonnie, she did everything with intention. Foolhardy or not, she deliberately put all her thoughts and actions into whatever goal she was meaning to achieve. 

As his boots drag him past a few horses tied to a wooden hitch post, he hears them softly snort, sensing his existence as the predator that could feast upon them at any moment. He eyes the closest one, pupil shifting to the side to view it better. “Vile creatures. More prone to biting than I am…well, almost,” he mutters under his breath. 

“My, my, is that the renowned gunslinger Astarion ‘Crimson Eye’ Ancunín or do my eyes deceive me?” a high-pitched voice twangs, interrupting him from chastising the unsettled equines. 

Astarion lifts his head to see an amethyst-skinned tiefling leaning seductively against the outdoor railing, breasts giving him a generous greeting as they pour over the top of her silken bodice. She’s clearly one of the lost, a prostitute that’s seen too much, judging by the dark bags under her eyes. His stomach drops, wondering if he had looked as raddled as she does before his former master died. He reckons he was fortunate he couldn’t see his reflection anymore during that era, the last of his repressed humanity at risk for disappearing if he had ever gotten a glimpse of himself. Two centuries of brutality and starvation does something to a person that never does seem to leave their outer appearance, always embedded just beneath the pores. 

A silver curl peeks out from under a weathered black cattleman hat as he tips the edge at the lady. “Good evening, darlin’,” he replies politely.

The woman smiles wide, lifting layers of purple petticoats to curtsy. “Now how come I never see you at Sharess’s Caress with a mare or stallion in your lap, hmm? Handsome feller like you would be treated like royalty there!” 

Astarion can’t fault the whore for being attracted to him, he is a beautiful man, anyone with at least one good eye could see that. Head full of snowy waves, opalescent skin rivaling the moon’s luminance, and a sharp jawline, he’s as every bit of a refined-looking gentleman that immortality would allow. Not to mention, he possesses an educated mind with a debonair that easily beguiles others that is typically uncommon in western Faerûn.

Only hiccup he has to worry about is the populace discovering he’s a vampire spawn. Creatures like him aren’t well-received—perhaps understandably—especially in recent years. Taking up a vocation as a bounty hunter has allowed him space from people suspecting, tending to be more interested in his attractiveness and marksmanship than that fact that his accent seems to lack the same present day drawl or that he never exhibits an appetite for mortal food. 

Still, a frown falls upon his face. He understands the woman is just trying to make a living, enticing him for coin in exchange for her adept services, but the glint in her eye tells him she meant what she implied. It didn’t matter the amount of time that had passed since he was last forced to use his body for another’s pleasure—much like the soiled doves at the brothel house—folks still continue to view him as only a sexual object. 

He takes a moment to check the threading in his cowhide gloves while he rearranges his thoughts. “As much as I appreciate your tempting proposal, I am far too busy draining this city dry of all its bad blood,” he says, showing off his pearly white teeth.

The tiefling swiftly descends the stairs in front of the saloon, meeting him at the bottom. Her hand wraps around his bicep and she pulls herself flush against his chest. “Well, how about you take me inside and buy me a drink then? And if you’re feeling up to it later,” she purrs into his ear, dragging a manicured nail down his jawline. “you’re more than welcome to wet your wick inside me.”

His breathing stops.

No.

She’s pushing and pushing.

No.

Frisking the point of his ear.

No.

He doesn’t want this.

No. 

This isn’t okay.

No. 

NO!

Anger glazes over his eyes as he feels his body freeze from her touch. He focuses on an object, any object. There. Decorative beads hanging from her horns. That’ll do. The colors are dim at first, but then burst with vibrancy. He takes a breath, feels his chest rise and sink. Two men exit the building, singing a drunken ditty. They both come into clear focus as another puff of air enters his lungs. And then sound begins to break through the fuzz in his ears. Laughter. Words. The clinking of cups. Finally, a familiar heartbeat. Bonnie.

He is safe and he is here. 

He is safe and he is here.

He is safe and he is here.

Astarion doesn’t seek out the woman’s face, but instead snatches her wrist, yanking it back. “This is the only warning you’ll get to keep your hands off me,” he warns with a hiss. 

Her bronze irises dilate, shocked at his reaction. “Didn’t mean to upset you none,” she laughs nervously, flinching as though she were used to a man handling her in a rougher way than he did. “I—” her tone lowers, violet cheeks darkening with blush. “I can give you a fellatio, if you’d prefer. But please don’t tell no one. They wouldn't take kindly to knowing I did something like that.”

Nasty fluid burbles in his upper throat as he releases her. The woman scuttles a couple steps backwards and rubs her wrist. “Just…stop talking,” he manages, panic subsiding as his surroundings sharpen into view again. “I would suggest flying back to your coop for the rest of tonight.” He dips into his vest pocket to pull out a few gold coins, tossing them her way. 

With cupped palms, she catches the shiny discs. “Truly am sorry about what I’d done,” she apologizes, bending down to shove the gold into her boot. “If you ever change your mind, I’ll be waitin’.” She’s additional apologies and hair ringlets swaying as she delivers a courteous bow, gradually departing down the street back into the night that beckons her.

The pale elf pauses, allowing an ounce of pride to wash over him for setting a boundary. He’s getting better at buffering those intrusive episodes as they occur, inner wounds covering themselves in scar tissue, lessening the pain with every midnight chime. It’s a lonesome road he sometimes travels, struggling to counterbalance his trauma and daily life built up by thousands of former strangers’ hands gliding down his statuesque form like a cactus prickling at his flesh for a single night of passion he didn’t have a choice in. Touching him had been a death sentence. For his conquests. For his abuser. For his broken soul. 

Gruff men’s brays explode from the saloon when Astarion belatedly enters. Feathered fans open, intentionally tickling patrons' noses as their feminine owners entertain with songs and sparkling tasseled shoes. Liquor pours on end into glasses of all sizes. A slurred heated discussion concludes when a businessman lays unconscious on the floor next to his punched out teeth.

But, amongst the boisterous crowd, the vampire finds her. 

Bonnie is leaning against the bar with that coppery red hair resembling a fox’s fur, loosely cascading over her shoulders, with booze pressed to her lips like she’s been a regular since the place was built. Her worn pecan colored hat is pulled down enough to solely hide the top portion of her face, revealing only a pair of heart-shaped pouters as pink as sunbeams passing through a cloud. 

He’s admittedly apprehensive to approach the lady; they didn’t part on the best of terms. And life changes people, for better or worse. The Bonnie he knew may be lost to a past he would have to mourn in the dust. Was he prepared for that? To slough her from his memory like a rattlesnake sheds its skin. He furrows his thick brows, contemplating if he should leave before she notices him. No, he needs to properly face her. Put things to bed so they could both move on without any lingering questions.

Besides, unbeknownst to her, he’s there for far more than a trip down nostalgia lane or his lust after her crimson draft. Woman has warrants out on her name and a man has a bounty to collect. 

Spurs clank as he trudges along towards the bar, spiked rowels tapping the hardwood beneath him. Astarion offers a nod to the dancing ladies and buzzed buckaroos on his way, avoiding their conversations until he reaches his destination standing next to Bonnie. He billows out his jacket, positioning his elbows onto the countertop. 

“What can I get you, honey?” an older barmaid riddled with white sunspots inquiries as she cleans out a glass for him.

“You’ll break my cold heart if you tell me you don’t serve red wine in this fine establishment,” he replies, turning on his charm with a wink.

“We do try to keep folks happy ‘round here,” she chuckles, obviously falling for his flirtatious demeanor as his head carelessly props up on his fist. She searches a shelf behind her, procuring a green bottle, then pours the maroon drink into his cup. “Here you are. That’ll be two silvers.”

“Thank you.” He slides the change across the counter. “Extra for a tip.” The barmaid smiles at his charity, collecting the money, ready to serve another customer that’s walked up.

Bonnie’s heart starts pulsing wildly, a bison stampede alive in Astarion’s ears, knowing that she immediately recognizes his voice. She’s anxious. Bonnie “The Duet” Sparrows is anxious. Around…him. This is a woman he saw take down ten bandits while she hummed a piano sonata to herself without breaking a sweat! 

He can’t help but grin to himself, smug with satisfaction that he caught her off guard. Second time he accomplished the feat with her. First being when he unexpectedly fucked her on his mortal grave after Cazador perished. He never had something so godsdamned ethereal beneath him, with his bite marks adorning her peachy skin, claiming her as his own. 

Then, he ran. Leaving her a shivering babe on his unhallowed tombstone. Terrified to want. Doubtful his yearning for an intimate connection without sex would ever be sated. 

“Here for the show, cowboy?” Bonnie asks, smiling into her glass of whiskey. Her tone is peculiar: sultry; richer; an octave lower. Not what he remembers. 

Astarion chances a quick glance at Bonnie’s side profile, breath stuttering when he makes out the details of a turkey vulture feather tied into a short braid tucked behind her ear. After all the misery he brought on her, she kept that ugly thing like some memento she couldn’t let go. Maybe she’s forgotten about its significance and just likes it dangling from her strands, but that wouldn’t match who she is. She’s wearing it on purpose.

He doesn’t remark on the accessory, opting to leave their reunion unsoured. Instead, he recollects how she got that feather in the first place. Her gang was starving, food scarce on the frontier, and he assisted her in hunting down some vultures as a last resort. At first, he agreed for his own selfish reasons, needing to further manipulate her into trusting and caring for him so she’d help him smoke his master. Then, Bonnie had plucked out one of the bird’s feathers, telling him that the critters reminded her of him: lives circling, harbinging death, but hiding light in their wings. He told her his wings shattered ages ago and she squeezed his hand something sweet and thoughtful, murmuring that “stars shine brightest in the dark.” Astarion hadn’t ever been touched in a way without someone expecting relations in return. From that moment on, his feelings towards her were complicated. 

“I guess that depends on what kind of show this is and if it’s worth my while,” Astarion answers, nonchalantly sipping his wine. 

Bonnie wets her lips. “Mm. I think you’ll be fond of the main event, but it’s the grand finale that’s guaranteed to really shoot off.” 

He smirks, pleased that their coded exchanges haven’t altered. Though, he does briefly wonder if she brought him here to get rev—

“Not here for revenge if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” she clarifies as if reading his mind. Thoughtlessly, her fingertip traces along her glass’s rim. “Got other business that brought me here.”

A sigh of relief quietly sneaks through his lips. He turns, wine in hand, back now pressed into the counter as he scans the locals. “Then, I’m all pointy ears.”

Bonnie nods in the direction of an unkempt man and woman—drows—trying to avoid her gaze. “Two fleas with black bandanas and a red sigil stitched in.”

Scarlet eyes narrow at the couple, studying their behavior. They’re jittery, anticipating things to probably end badly. Astarion hears them chattering fast, but can’t make out what they’re saying amidst all the excitement. Helping Bonnie out of this would be the perfect way for him to capture her. He knows she intends to pay him, hence her blood she deliberately spilt to persuade him there. Feeding on her will get him close enough to tie her up, a flawless plan.

“What did you do for those roughnecks to trail you?”

“I lived,” she breathes out somberly. 

He lifts a brow, curiosity begging to be indulged. Can he trust her? Her bounties say otherwise. But, emotions are a hell of a blindside when it comes to someone he once cared for. Cheekily, he taps twice at his fang. “And what’s my reward if I decide to engage?”

World is in slow motion when her head pivots, craning her neck to regard him directly. Wintery blue eyes and sun-kissed freckles dabbled across her delicate rosy upper cheeks, welcome him from underneath her hat. She’s aged a bit, couple more smile lines added. Her weight gain has filled out her curves in a way that dampens his mouth. 

Hells, how is she still so lovely?

“I think you know what your reward is,” she simpers, tugging her scarf down to show him the surface level cut she made on the side of her neck. 

Nostrils flare, transfixed by the coagulated droplets along the cut’s seam. “After this, we need to talk,” Astarion fans out shakily, somewhat keeping his composure.

Bonnie blows him a kiss. “Don’t worry, I won’t slip away—not yet anyways.” 

Least she’s being honest.

“How are we doing this?” he asks, setting his barely drunk glass down. 

She rustles in her back trouser pocket, presenting a minted coin between her index and thumb fingers. “Remember how to do the ‘Whistlin’ Bullseye’?”

He scoffs at her, crossing his arms defiantly. “Really? That’s your grand strategy?! Why don’t I just convince them to join me outside and dispose of them the old-fashioned way: my teeth.”

A finger flies up to her mouth. “Shh, keep your voice down, will ya? Listen, I’m not looking to kill them, just…run them off. It’ll make things worse otherwise.”

His gaze softens. “Bon, I—“

“‘Starion, please,” she pleads, flicking her lengthy lashes up at him.

Astarion’s head is spinning, lost in her cool eyes. He never could say no to her. “Fine. We do this quick.”

She smiles big. Hopeful. Spirited, lovely, Bonnie. “You know the signal.” She rolls up her sleeves and squats down to pick up a fiddle case he hadn’t noticed, unlatching it to remove the instrument inside. The rest of her whiskey is shot down her gullet in a singular gulp. “Now wait here, I have a show to do.” 

He watches her hips sway—ones he had dug his fingers into for dear life as she moaned his name—leading herself to a neighboring table already occupied. One of the men seated respectfully allows her to hold onto his shoulder as she hoists herself up onto the furniture. The vampire stays put, patiently skimming his digits along his revolver’s grip stuffed into his waistband.

“Could I have everyone’s attention?” Bonnie hollers, waving that fiddle bow in the air. Head after head rotates in her direction, voices dying on imbibed tongues. A few wolf whistles rise and fall. Astarion rolls his eyes at that. Bastards are nowhere in her league. 

“Much obliged,” she says, tipping her hat. “I know too many women aren’t known for playing the fiddle out in these parts, but if you’d allow me, I’d love to play a song for y’all.”

“Sweetheart, you can do anything you want to us!” a random person yells aloud, causing the building to erupt with mirthful hysterics. 

In the racket, Astarion tracks the couple from earlier. They’re whispering harshly now, absorbed in a private argument. What is he up against? One…no…two measly pistols by his observation. Idiots. 

Bonnie is grinning ear to ear, pretending their pathetic attempts to flirt are funny. “Alright, settle down.” A wave of silence rushes through the crowd again. It’s been a long while since Astarion last heard her sing, longer yet since he listened to that chordophone in her hands. 

He waits, dislodging his ear canals of any interference. He waits, a twist of elation behind his ribs. He waits, desiring to be captivated with her nightingale song that once soothed his hurt. He waits and waits and waits, but she does not sing. 

What Bonnie does do, is furiously run that bow along the fiddle’s strings like an exorcism she’s committed to jigging out. It’s odd, unprecedented even, that she’s not purifying the room with a seraphic hymn. Usually, she belts out a chorus in between her fiddle solos, expanding her diaphragm that naturally soaks the spotlight. 

Astarion’s sight clings on the slightest twitch at her lips, quivering as it does when she’s mulling. Why isn’t she singing? He nips his inner cheek. There’s a begotten memory of her, a spell that breaks inside him in a way that history’s been rewritten. Could something awful have happened? Bonnie’s whole life is attached to music, to song. He could ask her, set aside their wavering qualms tangling them together, but he wasn’t sure it was wise to crack open that coffin containing their heartstrings when he didn’t know what else would spew out.

Boots are tip-tapping on top the table as she continues to play, maintaining her hastening tempo. The audience is clapping, encouraging her with praise. Sweat bolts down her temples and disappears beneath her shirt’s collar. Lit lantern twines are quaking as notes sporadically bounce from the ceiling rafters. Bonnie’s eyes raise from the fingerboard on her instrument, sweeping out to find Astarion. She winks at him, a cue that it’s time to let his silver fly. 

It’s the coin she tosses above her that kicks off the havoc. She whistles, shrill and crisp, then crouches low with her hands basketing over her ears. Astarion clutches his gun, ripping it from the front of its snuggled up place in the front of his pants, and shuts one eye as he aims at the coin.

Rhapsody. That’s what he calls the revolver. One of two he owns. Pewter and gold, rubies inlet into the frame. Cazador Szarr’s old weapon that Astarion nabbed, vowing to cleanse its evil sins by practicing being a do-gooder where it counts—somewhat. No one cares about murder when it comes to killing the right folks and he did enjoy the added tidbit of instilling a little fear that comes with being a gunsman.

Smoke plumes appear after the gun’s recoil, happening faster than the eye can see. Identifying the culprit seems less important than chancing death and the saloon soon ignites into screams. People scamper about like pill bugs until the place is cleared out, leaving behind half-filled spittoons and toppled liquor cups rolling gently in place. 

Bonnie hops down from the table, rushing to the doors to peer out into the evening. “Don’t see anyone lingering. Can you sense them?”

Astarion walks to the table, bending to retrieve the fallen coin. It’s warm in his palm, his gun’s bullet fragment lodged into the circular object’s engravings. He inhales a practiced breath through his nose. “The only scent I detect is yours, darlin’. Seems like your rats got scared away by your reckless scheme.”

She laughs. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I still believe my method would have been less sloppy, but seeing as we haven’t seen each other in years, think of it as a ‘welcome back’ gift.”

“Then, I guess I should count my lucky stars you showed up.” She saunters to the bar. He can hear her shuffling around, glass tinks echoing, whiskey pouring into a glass. She whirls, facing him with drinks in her hands, one being the wine he purchased earlier. “Have a drink with me while we chat? Before you get your payment. For old time’s sake.”

There’s something in the vacillating fog that separates them, warning him to decline. He should harden himself to her, seize her for his bounty, and leave. Praying to himself for the courage to ignore that kind smile and valor she retains. His mind doesn’t catch up until after he already agrees, shaking his head more eagerly than he expects. 

They sit across from each other at a fairly spotless table, Bonnie sliding his glass to him. “So, a bounty hunter, eh? Can’t say I saw that comin’.”

He places the glass rim between his lips, allowing the burgundy liquid to splash against his teeth. “Let’s not avoid talking about that little stunt you just pulled. Why is the Baenre Gang on your hide?” Astarion asks, intently staring at her. 

The gleam on her expression dissipates. 

“Did you think I didn’t know?” he persists, thinking about the cherry-red spiderweb sigil embroidered on the drow’s bandanas. “Baenre has been expanding their territory this past year, causing quite the panic throughout Faerûn.”

She purses her mouth. “I don’t particularly want to talk about them.”

Astarion glugs the rest of his wine. “No? Then, let’s talk about these warrants that are out for your immediate arrest. Since when did Bonnie Sparrows reduce herself to nothing more than an imprudent criminal?” he chides.

Bonnie blinks at him, tilting her head. “Why don't you remind me what crimes I’m being accused of?” she goads.

He holds his hand and starts to count. “Robbing a stagecoach, stealing a horse, arson.” His skin pinches together in the middle of his brows, distraught by the last offense he means to speak. “And the murder of the Harper Clan’s leader, Jaheira. I don’t understand, Bon, wasn’t she like a mother to you?”

Tears well up as she bites her lip. “How do you know I was the one who committed them?”

Astarion’s fist knocks on the table twice. “Eyewitnesses. Bullets similar, if not, identical to that peacemaker you’ve always been packing.”

“You believe the evidence?”

“It’s overwhelmingly pointing to you, unless you can come up with reliable alibis.”

Bonnie swivels her head, evading his scrutinizing glare. He thickly swallows, partially dreading what he has to do next. Rhapsody raises from under the table, aimed at her elegant neck. She slowly sails those almost translucent baby blues to the firearm and fucking smirks.

“I don’t care about most of your transgressions—hells, some of it even sounds fun—but killing the savior of the Shadowlands has turned the whole continent inside out and they want blood…your blood,” he says, clicking back the gun’s hammer. “Be grateful it’s me that found you and not someone else that would crucify you on the spot. Given our history, the very least I can do is be fair to you.”

The room begins congesting with her disruptive sardonic laughter, thrashing her head back, something tittering on denial and sorrow. She holds up her hands in the air. “Suppose I need to fess up! Sure, I did it and I enjoyed every moment of it,” she growls, suddenly throwing her peacekeeper and a knife onto the table. “Here. Confiscate them. Let’s get this over with before dawn melts your ass to a crisp and I’m blamed for your death as well.”

Astarion eases himself from his seat, revolver steady on his bounty. Gradually, he inches closer to her, watching—always watching—her movements. Have to expect the unexpected with a woman like Bonnie, no matter how tenderhearted she might be. He gestures the gun tip upwards, motioning her to stand, proceeding to unhook ropes from his wide belt. 

“Hands and legs together,” he instructs. “I think we both understand that if you try anything, it’ll end very badly for you.” Of course she knows; she’s been privy to his gunwork on several occasions. He’s a swifter, deadlier draw and if she tries to tempt fate by running, either his lead or fangs would get her.

She stands, kicking back her chair, putting her arms in front of her body as requested. The spawn decocked the weapon’s hammer, cramming it back into his pants. He shakes out one of the ropes, folding it in half, and sets forth on wrapping it around her wrists. 

He’s glad he has gloves on, skin to skin contact guaranteeing he’ll burst into flames as his fingers coast against her flesh. A cinch is formed in the middle when he brings the rope underneath, looping it back up until he knots it entirely into a perfect double column tie. He gives it a precursory tug, peeping at her through his unfurled black lashes. “Does it hurt?” he questions, deeper than intended.

“N-no.” That flush on Bonnie couldn’t be missed, descending from her face to her neck. She’s wholly dazed when she finally looks at him with half-lidded eyes. Astarion wonders if the abrupt fresh odor of mellifluous musk, delightfully invading his nostrils, is her arousal. His stomach flutters. “You know, I always did want to be tied up by you.”

Her admission inconveniently goes straight to his cock, making the poor neglected thing jolt behind his leathers. “Flirting isn’t going to get you out of this.” Astarion tugs the knot again, rechecking his handiwork. “But, I can assure you, it wasn’t for a lack of not wanting to. You just always managed to escape from my grasp,” he pokes in return, unable to resist a bout of coquetry. 

Sussing out the knots he should use on her ankles, he slinks southward onto his knees. The next rope binds her comparably to her wrists, squarely knotting it and making sure the bight is in a perfect position. Again, he pulls on the rope, testing for its security and her comfort. 

“Not gonna let me go this time?” Bonnie says softly.

“This time? What do you mean—” Pupils enlarge as he raises, organs contorting when he finds her gaze a wistful longing. Fragile. She’s all fragile. He grabs the knot at her wrists, grazing his thumb alongside it as if to console her. “Bonnie…I never meant to betray you.”

Ichor fiercely rushes to her parted lips. “Save it. I’m not interested in rehashin’ the past with you,” she spits.

“Then, why’d you come back? You’re not a dumb woman; you had to have known the law would be on you as soon as you entered the city. So, why?”

“Some things are more important than my wounded pride,” she whispers, boring her eyes into his. “I also had to see.”

“See what?” he inquires, feeling her heat rising from her skin.

“See if you would listen,” she responds flatly.

“Listen about what?” Something is amiss. Intentional. Remember, Bonnie is intentional. But, Astarion is ensnared by her warmth and her perfumed oils darting into his nose. Gardenia. Smoked tea. Desert moss. Oils that are drowning him in sleepy memories of her. 

Bonnie’s smile is crooked. Here it comes. “When I tell you that you’re a man that’s about to fall asleep in thirty seconds.”

Fuck.

Astarion plummets to the ground, limbs giving out. “Bonnie, godsdamned you!” 

She scoots back a few feet, balancing her bound body while avoiding his thrashing arms. “Angelic Slumber Potion. Perhaps you should’ve thought twice before drinking with someone you don’t know anymore.” The wine glass, she laced the glass!

He scratches the top of the table for leverage, sweating profusely as he tries to defy the potion’s effects. Oh, but sleep sounds nice and his eyes are heavy, drooping just so. Heavier than they’ve ever been. Dreams will come and maybe he’ll meet her there. The woman he can’t admit he ever…

Somehow he’s on his back, staring into his fate that’s coffee-stained beauty spots and suffocating in red-orange marigold tresses surrounding, surrounding, surrounding his vision.

Bonnie chucks his ropes onto his chest, attending to her sore wrists. “When you wake up, I want you to remember something: I’m the one you let get away.”

No wonder his love life is a mess.

@satans-codpiece I had to upload this to ao3 because tumblr was getting very glitchy about me writing a fic directly into the text box Context: Dios is an "Angel AI," a processor core so advanced that even he isn't entirely sure how he works. Gearhead is autistic and his special interest is Killer Robot. Here's some stuff about them or here's a story I wrote in the same universe that's about robot fucking.