#WILL EDIT LATER | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

valentine-writes · 8 months

Note

Could you possibly write headcanons for mutual pining or crushing w/ gwen? I love your writing sm :]

emptied closet.

「 tws + notes: no tws, unedited, i love mutual pining, girl help!! i accidently made it a little sad!!!!! situationship fr 」

「 gn!reader, romantic relationship <3 」

↳ ft. gwen stacy

author's note: sorry 4 taking FOREVERRR but,,, anon the way that i RAN to this ask. (/▽＼) LITERALLY LOGGED RIGHT IN THE MINUTE THE NOTIF POPPED UP... I LOVE WRITING FOR GWEN. I LOVE MUTUAL PINING!!!!! more than established relationships but letz not unpack that here /ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ TRUST U CAME TO THE RIGHT PERSON.

▸ ouugh boy... it's a slow burn for sure. gwen is a little too careful with her feelings with you. it's not a secret to anyone that you two like each other,, but the fact that you've both been beating around the bush for so long leaves both of you with doubts

▸ frankly, it's a mess on both ends. a very sweet, cute, and innocent mess of emotions and anxieties that spiral into simply never talking about it any deeper. for a while you're both okay with this arrangement– being gwen's best friend, and her being yours.

so what if your feelings were decidedly not very platonic? not acting on it didn't mean a thing if the two of you were comfortable.

▸ comfort being used very loosely here. she couldn't suppress the fluttering in her chest when you looked into her eyes– too close for any semblance of comfort.

maybe you'd look a little too close, noticing the rosy hue in her cheeks, or the lovelorn gaze she held whenever she saw you. gwen knew she was supposed to be cool about this arrangement.

she was supposed to be okay with the sweetness that was just played off as friendliness, the flirtatious comments that were just the two of you being playful– she was supposed to be okay with it being just a puppy love. that's what you seemed to mutually agree on after all, right? some things can go unspoken. gwen had gotten good at reading between the lines with you. you both liked each other, that was certain– she just liked you a little more than you had bargained for.

▸ or, so she had thought. turns out, love can make even the most observant people very very stupid.

"red's a nice colour on you." she had mentioned once. suddenly, you found yourself reaching for clothing and accessories of the same colour.

"i think you'd like this song." she'd say, casually handing an earbud to you so the two of you could listen. a few days after, you'd catch yourself humming the melody absentmindedly while going about your day.

"damn, this is comfy–" she remarked, wearing a hoodie you had lent to her for your impromptu sleepover. and you just... gave it to her. the minute she put it on, it was no longer yours. chronic clothes stealer gwen,, ur closet? nah. not anymore.

how she didn't recognize your little signals as quiet ways of expressing how much she meant to you was beyond you.

▸ not like you were in the clear either. gwen wasn't sure how many times she had tried keyword being tried to signal she wanted just a little more than being close friends. you two were both particularly talented in quiet "i love you"s.

now why were you so surprised when neither of you could hear them properly?

this was a familiar situation for the both of you. she was over for another sleepover, seated on your couch and buried in blankets and pillows, the third movie of the night playing on the tv. neither of you were watching at this point– but the background noise and light in the dark and quiet room helped, especially considering you were on the brink of unconsciousness.

you and gwen reached a lull in your conversation. you could barely remember what you were talking about in the first place. it didn't matter anymore.

she says your name, causing you to wake up just a bit as you glance over at her– and she pauses, hesitating to say something.

"hm?" you tilt your head at her slightly, trying to prompt her to speak again.

she thinks she's smooth playing it off, glancing back over at the tv screen and making a random comment about the movie. it's nothing particularly insightful– more of a way to fill the silence.

"...the animation's really good in this one."

you know she hadn't been paying attention to it this entire time. you know she's been waiting to say something else. she always seems to have something on her mind. sometimes, you get tired of waiting.

but she smiles at you, nervously– waiting for a response.

the words that come out of your lips are a half-hearted attempt at sounding alive.

"it's late." she tells you, glancing at the clock on the wall. 12 am.

you only shrug. "i've been up longer."

"i know. i'm usually on call with you when that happens anyways." gwen comments, recalling far too many late nights with you over the phone. not like she actually means to complain about them. "you give me all your bad habits."

the words are meant to be lighthearted and playful, but for a moment, they hold much more weight than intended.

'like the habit of never wanting to say it first?' you think of retorting. but even half asleep, you can't seem to confront her. your better judgement tells you it's not the time.

so instead, you play along, trying to joke around. "yeah. like i give you all my clothes. equilibrium and all that."

and the way she buys it, laughing as she gently smacks your arm, telling you to shut up– it's almost enough to make your smile real.

you both decide to call it a night and get ready for bed. it's long overdue. as she pushes the blankets and pillows off of her, standing up and extending an arm to you to help you up– she catches you looking at her a beat too long.

and there's that fluttering in her chest again. your silent observation of her makes her face start heating up, as she begins to fidget with the strings of her hoodie and–

"that's mine, isn't it?" your eyes are fixed on the hoodie she's wearing, all too familiar, even in the dimly lit living room.

"was."

gwen gives you a cheeky grin before grabbing your wrist and gently tugging you onto your feet. "c'mon. let's go."

as you trail her, you can't help but wonder when one of you is finally going to speak up. how much more red you can wear? how many songs can you get stuck in your head? how many hoodies you can give? how much longer until she finally decides to say something? you head is swarmed with these thoughts.

gwen notices your silence– worried by it– and looks over at you.

"are you okay?" she asks, the concern in her voice the sweetest thing to your ears. and for a minute, you decide that maybe a little more of this back and forth wouldn't hurt.

"...tired."

you'll just unpack it another day. for now, a half-hearted excuse would do. it always does.

one day, one of you would have to be brave enough. but for now, the comfort in stalling was okay. it all just made sense. you, gwen, admiring from afar– and your dwindling closet.

#unedited asf #my bad y'all #WILL EDIT LATER #probably. maybe not.#gwen stacy #atsv x reader #atsv #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #gwen stacy x reader #gwen stacy headcanons #gwen stacy x you

124 notes · View notes

askthedarksidersfam · 2 years

Text

In the Pines

Coronach

Summary: You weren’t lucky. Nightmares come real descended upon the Earth and you like everyone, was caught in the crossfire. You’re trying your best to cope with the fact that the universe just got a whole lot bigger as you reside in the Dead Kingdom. You’re lonely in the city where all the dead roam, without a familiar face in sight. Perhaps that will change as you wait for someone to come. Little do you know things are about to get very interesting.

Cavernous maws stretched into an eternal ghoulish wail frothed with endless rivers of lava past stalagmites for teeth, reflective of their livid wrath. Heat rolled off the three rock beads in oppressive tidal waves, sparks flickering past the empty sockets of what is supposed to be eyes. Entrapped in an immense cavern the hot air could only circulate through, bringing even more choking heat, nearly suffocating the only living being among them.

Presented at the highest peak of the rocky cliff forming a platform before the Council. In a mark of ultimate indignity to an honorable soldier, a man decorated in steel and copper armor and deep red hood was presented on his knees in an involuntary kneel. Heavy chains tie his huge arms painfully taut to two pillars erected from stone, standing at each of his sides. In his wounded pride, he pulls against his restraints humiliated in his predicament. His stern, deeply sculpted face hid under the shadows of his hood, his wispy white hair spilling from his neck to further obscure his features.

The Red Horsemen.

His head kept to the cracked floor, refusing to meet either of the three pairs of unblinking pits for eye sockets. War didn’t need to know that the three heads were sending daggers into him for his supposed crime against the sacred Balance of the universe.

For breaking the Seals and setting forth the Apocalypse upon Earth far before humanity was strong enough to survive.

Yet the claims weren’t true! War thinks ruefully, pulling against the chains in protest, teeth baring with a hiss.

War heard the call, the horn meant to summon the Four Horsemen to Earth to cull all the wicked upon the Third Kingdom’s home world. He rode to the little blue planet to find an already devastated battlefield, filled with the children of Heaven and Hell. Among them was Abbadon, an Archangel General who stood out sorely as he wasn’t supposed to be on Earth.

Not without reason.

But the Angel perished before War could get a coherent word from him, crushed to death by the hands of a demon. Then soon enough in a brief and painful battle with the demon, War fell to Straga in the end. Under the magic of the Council was War’s barely living mangled corpse was discovered and returned before the three imposing heads. His wounds dragging him ever closer to death’s edge were begrudgingly healed, but not completely erased as a reminder of their fury. All they allowed to be mended was the broken arm, twisted foot and deep cut traveling up his chest into his shoulder.

The scrape on his right cheek exposing muscle and even a hint of teeth beneath however, was left to sting and scab on its own, along with so many other nicks. But War didn’t pay any mind to the dull aches, if he had the agony of losing his other arm, he wouldn’t give the arrogant bastards the satisfaction of seeing him even flinch. He wouldn’t let his pride be wounded further.

At least any more than it already has been.

Beads of perspiration trickle down the swell of his impassible brow, dropping to the ashen floor below in a small dark mark. War solely focuses on the spots, the moments before he was called to Earth repeat in his head.

On a distant realm War had been tromping about a downtrodden path in an impressive valley, hidden beneath the cover of the overhead canyons. Under the harsh shadows War stalked the passage, watching an oncoming oasis creep into view behind a naturally occurring archway in the rock. The sweet echoing sounds of water falling fills the silence as footfalls and hoot beats gently reverberate in the stone gorge.

It was a moment of tranquility for the Rider, more rare than hens teeth as he found comfort not in battle, but the stillness. Unlike his sister, War didn’t need to itch the scratch to fight to fuel her impatient soul, at least not to the extent she reached. True, as warfare incarnate the Red Horseman thrived off the adrenaline and carnage of the battlefield, his very blood and reason for existence.

However in the rare lull of quiet time with no missions to be completed nor stay realms of otherworldly creatures to slaughter, War found himself ruminating. His mind in a slow pace of content peace gave him the opportunity to relax, evident by his choice of seating himself under an especially shady spot by the oasis lake, Chaoseater set to the side, the water lapping lazily. Ruin himself picked up on the mellow mood, electing to pace at the water’s edge, huge head craning down to take a slow drink, blinking sluggishly.

War has watched the horse paw at the water, splashing himself with the blissfully cold liquid before turning away to rest under an especially shady tree.

If it had been any other time, War would’ve called him a slothful fool, yet he’d be a hypocrite. Especially as his own eyelids began to slide down over his impossibly blue eyes, white eyelashes slipping into his half-vision.

War, the Red Horseman, serene enough to take a nap.

His chin bumps against the bolder he’d chosen to sit against, his frame slackening in his comfort. An especially deep breath was sucked in through his nose, filling his lungs with the misty air, then exhaled with a great sigh. The tiniest hint of a cool breeze kissing his exposed cheeks as his eyes finally drifted closed. Steady, rhythmic breaths rise and fall from his chest.

Serendipity.

…

Until a horn trembles the air, startling War to awake, his heart lurching at the unexpected interruption.

Confusedly, War strains to listen to the horn, as does his own steed who was rudely awoken, ears pinned back as he snorts. He recognized that call…

The call of the End Times.

Upon his sworn duty, War must ride to Earth and punish the wicked. But must it really be before his nap?

Unfortunately, it had to be.

And that was where War was left to be, back to the present with still no discernible answer to his supposed crime. He knew the horn, as it was like no other heard in existence, so there was no mistaken identity gone horribly awry.

Had it…?

No, War pushes down the thought that clings to him like a parasite to a host. No, there had to be a more dire solution, perhaps something he’d missed.

Behind him, a flash of white light shines through the cavern, harshly casting stretching shadows just before disappearing just as quick as it arrived. In that instant War knew that he wasn’t alone, but not under threat for there were only three beings who had the knowledge of passing to this hidden place. His brothers and sister, the other Horsemen. Were they too here after what had happened? He could talk to them, find out what they sensed when the call was heard.

He only heard one set of footfalls, and he recognized the steely clacks of pointed heels. Fury.

Pulling on the chains, War does his best to crane his neck to peek from under his suspended arm. He sees just the slightest hint of his eldest and only sister, completely clean of scrapes or blood. She’s nearing the tops of the stairs as she mutters hopefully “Please, please, please tell me you’re a planet of demons that needs slaying. Or two.”

It’s then she finally meets his kneeling form does her wishful face drop, no doubt aback at the presentation of her youngest brother. Just as quick as Fury’s features drop, she replaces them with a hardened stare, gleaming with contempt. She encircles him once before stopping just to his right, in full frontal view as she looks down her nose.

“War?” She inquires, but the younger doesn’t meet her, burying his head deeper into his cloak after he realized the mocking glint in her eyes, “what pathetic fate have you brought upon yourself, brother?”

War’s fists clench creaking dangerously, insulted he cares his teeth, “Watch your tongue.” He growls lowly, fighting his restraints vehemently. Fury laughs, not shy of showing her bemusement as her gauntleted hand comes to cup War’s jaw before raising his head to look up.

“I may be least favored of all the Horsemen but at least my tongue never found me chained to a rock like some dog.” War bares his teeth, an urge to bite her was strong, but would only prove her point further.

“Fury, approach us.” The middle head of the Council orders, and said Horseman frees her brother's head with a shove, War grits his teeth, keeping his head low.

“I trust there’s a mess that needs tending to?” Fury jokes, stepping closer to the platform before the three heads. The air rumbles with deep vibrations from their echoing voices, “Though you jest you speak true,” the middle begins, just barely containing his disdain.

“War has broken his vows to this Council, and shattered the Seventh Seal!” The accusation sends the male Nephilim into a flurry, releasing a bellow as he thrashes wildly, heavy chains rattling violently. “I HAVE DONE NO SUCH THING! I WAS SUMMONED TO EARTH!”

“SILENCE!” The middle roars, lava spewing from his gurgling maw as Fury sidestepped the magma to avoid a nasty burn. War’s struggles don’t lessen even under the heated glares, he wouldn’t let this… slander be passed on to his sister. He had no hand in this!

“Such insolence!” The middle, by far the most emotional of the three hisses, sparks of fire flying from his cavernous eye sockets, spurts of smoke flare from his nostrils. The very image of rage. War only takes their indignation like a bull to a red rag, challenging his superiors with an especially steely glower, his teeth glinting dangerously.

“The Apocalypse…?” Fury echoes, baffled, she turns to War, “why would he…?”

“We know not… yet.” None of the Nephilim missed the underlying threat in the booming tone. “As we speak Earth falls under the spears of Heaven and the hammers of Hell.”

“So the Horsemen are to ride?” Fury sounds dubious.

“No,” the center began, “while the Council is to make sense of the abominable act of War’s betrayal, there is a matter that needs... delicate attention.”

War never once blinks as he listens in on the task to be handled by Fury, but his mighty heart lurches to his throat. It is revealed that the reason for Death and Strife’s absence before the Council’s company is because they are missing. His brothers don’t go missing. Not without reason.

What are they up to…?

A million possibilities run into War’s mind, occupying his already disheveled brain.

It wasn’t until the clacks of Fury’s heels pass by him does War lift his head, panicked he calls out in a gentler tone.

“Fury, wait! I-“ the Nephilim struggles to find the proper words, completely vulnerable does he drop his head in defeat, but the woman simply stares on, apathetic. It was at this moment did War know this would no doubt be the last time he’d see her if he knew what the penalty was for his crime.

What can you say to your family on death row?

One incident comes from the deepest recesses of his eternal memory, a time that still brings regret to the seasoned warrior. A time where he was undisciplined, young and incredibly stupid. The time far in the past when he’d attempted to kill Fury in his crazed bloodlust and lost his left arm to Harvester.

He’d never apologized. But what was the purpose? His pride as well as himself had been wounded enough to learn a lesson, Fury found a semblance of satisfaction in getting the message sent to his thick skull.

‘But it’s the sentiment,’ something inside his brain utters, making him try to see beyond his own principles. ‘What’s the chance you’ll ever see her again? Would you really die without saying anything at all?’

Sucking in a breath, War takes what is most likely the last bit of contact with his family he’ll probably make as a living man. He stares right into her eyes, then his face falls into something not fit for a creature like him. Vulnerability. She recognizes the weight of his expression in just the slightest widening of her eyes.

“I-“, tell her, just tell her, “what happened in the past,” that’s it, keep going, “on that day, I deeply regret what I’ve done.” I’m sorry.

“Search your heart,” please, “you cannot believe me guilty of these crimes.” War pulls against his chains, craning his neck to simply spectate Fury stroll by, unaffected.

His heart felt as if it had been close to shriveling away, the callous brush off left a piercing sting to his chest. “Something is wrong with the Universe!” She needs to know that this is a setup, and not his own doing. Even if his death is guaranteed, at least he’d see Fury spared in his demise and hopefully the rest of his family would be saved as well.

“Be vigilant! Forces conspire against us! Heed my words!!!”

Silence.

It was as if he’d been speaking to a ghost.

“War…” The booming voice growls, grave as death, “you have broken your vows, shattered the sacred Seals and rode to Earth, dooming mankind,” not once does the rider blink, staring at the ground, “and the Charred Council has decided that for your blasphemous acts against the Balance, you are to be sentenced to death.”

Despite his beating heart, War has never felt steadier. His fists unclench and his shoulders slacken, accepting his fate. He would die, but he would die without fear as a warrior should. So he breaks away from his cowering to face his opponents head on.

Poised like cobras, the three heads charged their attack in unison, fire building up within their mouths like stone dragons. Great tidal waves of heat rolled off of them, becoming far too suffocating as the smoke choked cavern illuminated with light. The very foundation of the cave began to shudder, magma splashes wildly under the intense quakes. Stalactites crack and break, free falling hap-hazardously into the lakes below and splinter dangerously close to War. But not once does the Nephilim flinch.

Staring ahead at three balls of fire like blazing suns, the rider takes in one last breath, memorizing the feeling of a beating heart and roaring blood. He blinks once, and feels a wetness fall down his cheek as he awaits his fate.

The fireballs pulse with energy and glow near white, blinding War into averting his gaze. But like a predator taking advantage of their prey’s mistake of looking away, it strikes. The combined power of their blasts collide harshly into War’s awaiting frame with the force of a siege engine. The rock below him turns to liquid as War takes the brunt of the attack.

Instantly War releases the most excruciating howl in all his years, this was a pain beyond comprehension. Beyond the agonizing sensation of his very armor turning to molten metal, what once was meant as a protector in battle now his worst enemy as his skin bubbles and peels off with the contact. His flesh, what little remained untouched, ripped and tore apart down to the very cells. War’s body was desperately fighting off the fire, trying to knit what could be restored, but with each passing second only more of him would be marred.

It was a losing battle.

Skin singed away to muscle, flames eating away at the rider like a starved beast, determined to take every last available morsel. But what didn’t kill War wasn’t the flames consuming him but the air he lacked. With no breaths to draw, War grew ever weaker, evident by his wails beginning to falter.

It was all too much.

Then, as the fire turned a brilliant white, it ended at the sound of chains rattling and a body collapsing to the ground. Dead.

As the smoke clears, before the Charred Council are the shriveled, blackened remains of the Red Rider in a twisted, ugly heap of ashen bone and twisted steel.

The Red Rider is dead.

———

A small breeze brushes past your face, stirring up the more than stale air, bits of dust fluttering by your feet. Usually you’d sigh and smile gently at the sensation of the wind billowing the bits of hair peeking out of your beanie hat. But shriveled lungs don’t need air.

However, the sentiment remained as you fulfilled that little comfort you held.

Seated on a half demolished stone wall, you watch the people below you small as grains of sand mingle amongst each other. The crowd reaches well into uncountable numbers, a sea of faces mixed and unable to be discerned into an individual. Not that you’d bother to even try. They’d be gone just as quick as they appeared, frantically searching.

If anyone had run into the scene before them, they’d believe themselves to have entered a derelict, but bustling city. A city made of stone. The sights would be scenic, breathtaking even with the towering buildings akin to ancient castles and supposedly clean streets, if you ignore the piles of dust. But if you took a closer glance, you’d recognize something off about the city.

Windows with no glass, not a single light fixture hanging from street lamps, in fact there was not even one pole that was present that came from the modern century. Oil lamps hung from posts, glowing a gentle green light in the darkness of an overcast sky under an afternoon sun. The sky, like the flames, was out of place, for instead of a bright and familiar blue, the laws of nature were askew with the sky, what could be seen through the clouds, was an impossible pale green.

If the unobservant hadn’t been clued in to the strangeness of this place, the wails of the people would be the final giveaway. Within the city, although people of different origins had come to mingle here, they all had one thing in common. The sickly pale green hue clinging to them like a second skin.

It isn’t the work of some communal disease carried by each city member dyeing the epidermis an impossible hue, but rather the mark of a ghost. Everyone here was dead.

You included.

It hadn’t been a pretty picture when you first set foot here.

——

Heaving panicked gulps of air, you can only watch on in terror as you wildly eye your left arm, what’s supposed to be connected to your shoulder, lie uselessly on the ground before you. Your right leg is hanging by a literal thread, the muscles strained to the limit as you can see your own femur peek through the space.

Your jacket is covered in vomit and blood, but that isn’t your concern. You’re rather more focused on the pack of unearthly hounds closing in on you, scrabbling away at the slabs of concrete that serve as your makeshift hidey hole.

There’s no way out other than the spot you’d managed to crawl into before you’d been mauled and played tug of war with your limbs with those… things. Huge, black coated beasts you’d dare to call hellish dogs from your worst nightmares had found you and decided to trail you after you barely managed to escape a scuffle with a winged man in gold.

You try to search for another exit, desperate to escape, but it’s all futile when you feel your ever eyelids betrayal as they slowly drift down, heavier than lead. Despite your thrumming heart, you’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, nor have you ever felt so cold, a shiver running up your spine.

Gradually, the strength you have wanes away with each labored breath, your vision falling between bouts of blurriness and focus. Limbs, those that remain, soon stop scrabbling at the concrete as a wave of fatigue washed through your veins.

Wouldn’t it be nice just to close your eyes?

Sunlight breaks through as the slab serving as your barricade is finally lifted. Snarling heads of hellish dogs force their way into the growing space, snapping vehemently. As debris falls down to your jacket, you don’t look at the beasts, but instead, in an act of indulgence, bring your head to bathe in the sun’s gentle rays.

You take in one deep breath, then release it.

It’s the last you take as two fangs long as your forearm dig into your throat, piercing your esophagus. Blood floods your airway, drowning your lungs as you begin to gag and choke. With a quick wrench of your head, your neck snaps.

It’s all over.

——

“No… not another one… you unfortunate little beastie.”

You don’t recognize this voice. It’s not the tone of your mother, and not your father, given its feminine lilt. It’s fruity, pleasant to hear, but has the slightest twinge of a croak of an older age, and it’s heavy with an accent. In your half asleep mind, you’d guess Scottish.

Blearily, you wonder if it’s because you rolled over the remote in your sleep and turned the tv on to some random channel. Still delirious, your brain is riding the final waves of the very frightening nightmare, angels, demon dogs and the world falling apart. Now you’ve had some intense dreams in your time, but you’ve never had one so realistic, you swear you can feel a phantom pain in your arm you’re no doubt sleeping on.

Stretching out the ache in your muscles, you gently groan as the stiffness lifts just the tiniest bit. But as your arm lazily drapes over what should be your bed, instead you feel a hardness akin to concrete. Not only does this send alarm bells ringing in your head, it’s the lack of a jolt in your chest that accompanies these bouts of small panic.

There’s not a single beat beneath your breastbone.

Your eyes then fly open, your retinas sting under an unexpected light, forcing a hand to shoot up to your face, shielding your eyes. A soft cry escapes a scratchy throat as your eyes slowly adjust to the sunlight, there is however a sight that isn’t familiar.

Past the visage of your sleeved arm, you spot a woman. A very large woman. She’s kneeling yet she absolutely towers over you even as you scramble to a crouching position, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. You don’t know if she is a threat.

“Easy there wee beastie,” that voice again, but now you know it’s from the giantess. Her arms, both covered in some foreign arm guards, are raised placatingly like she’s trying to soothe a flighty animal. Although her hands are bare of any weapons, you do spy an imposing axe strapped to her back, and two golden half-shields, bigger than you are tall, attached to each hip. You take a step back, still untrusting of the giantess.

“It’s alright, I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” She tries again, sensing your panic the mysterious woman with slow, deliberate motions, unstraps her impossibly huge axe, then, unlike anything you’d imagine, gently tosses it away, disarming herself. “See? I mean ya no harm.”

Despite the gesture, you’re still not sure what to make of this woman. What if there was some ulterior motive? Among other questions you had. But most importantly-

“Where am I?”

The giantess looks down to herself, then up to you and finally you can get a good view of her. Her angular face is void of all real fleshy color, as if she’d never seen a day of sunlight in her life, in fact her skin seemed almost corpse-like, tinged the slightest of a green. Her hair, unlike her sickly colored skin, is a brighter hue of burgundy, but it has been overrun by gray hairs showing her older age. Her hair is pulled into a multitude of braids, two run behind her pointed ears and over her shoulders while the rest is tied into four ponytails that spill into untamed curls, falling past her shoulders and across her back.

She stares at you with faded green eyes, deep as a forest, but your own eyes can’t stop darting all over her, taking in the strange armor and scars that mark her face.

This seems straight out of your nightmares. Are you still dreaming?

You shake your head, not believing a single thing that’s racing through your cranium. This is some next level Inception shit.

“You’re in the Kingdom of the Dead, wee beastie. The place where the souls of the dead reside.” You hear the answer, but it doesn’t register as you’re sent into another tizzy. Kingdom? Dead? Souls?

‘This is one fucked up dream…’ you think, arms shaky under you as you try not to heave, but even as the sensation is strong, you vaguely think that this is the most vivid, physically involved dream you’d ever experienced.

Yet why does your stomach ache so much?

“I’m afraid this isn’t a dream, what you and the rest of your people are experiencing is real.” Did you really say that out loud? The woman affirms, tone gentle as a whispered psalm, but you can’t think over the ringing of your ears.

“No,” you hiss, fingers digging into the stone, yet you don’t feel the pain of the stone in the finger pads. “This is just some elaborate trick my mind is playing! I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that much cake before bed!”

“Cake…?”

“I just need to wake up!” You titter to yourself, sheepish in the aspect of forgetting such a simple principle in escaping the realm of sleep. You’ve read it in articles before, but never practiced it. However, you seemed to be in total control of your dream self at this very second. It was worth the shot.

Smack!

You miss the way the giantess, a formidable monster, flinch upon the impact. Your hand had met the awaiting flesh of your cheek, but what startled you most was the absolute lack of pain. In fact, you felt nothing at all. Not the sting from your palm nor the ache of your teeth beneath.

There wasn’t even a change in your nonexistent heartbeat.

What…?

Shaking, your mind refuses to accept the slightest hint of what’s occurring. You stare at your hand that just moments ago struck your face, but there’s a sight that makes you unleash a scream.

Your hand, what’s supposed to be the color of flesh, pumping with blood, was tinged the same green as the giant’s. Every single pore was the exact dull color of a corpse, not a single hair the shade of life.

No! No, no, no!

Your eyes wildly dart about for some sort of reflective surface, needing proof that this isn’t real. It’s just a trick of the light! Maybe your eyes are faulty-?!

Your focus lands on the abandoned axe, and although it was an object of anxiety just minutes ago, it now will be the answer you seek. Madly, you scramble like a mad creature towards the weapon, not even worrying about the imposing woman who seems more keen on calling out to you. You don’t listen, not even as you practically throw yourself on the ground to peer at the reflective metal.

Although the appearance is dull, you can just make out your features and find contrasting colors of your hoodie, the beanie and-

Your face.

No, no, no.

Your hands wipe at your eyes, not ready to accept what you see. It has to be a trick of the light, or maybe your brain is associating itself with the giant, and thinks itself the same shade-

No! Your hands come down to pound at your face in fists, smacking yourself with reckless abandon.

You refuse to accept the image your brain has sent you. There’s no way in Hell that your face is the same as the rest of your body, that sickly green. Despite the hits you deliver, the only stinging you feel from behind your eyeballs, the pressure building painfully.

“Wake up, wake up, wake UP!!” You screech, fists now turning to open handed clawing. Wetness falls down your cheeks as you choke on a sob.

“Stop that!” The woman behind you commands, and you’d rather not listen to the dream character, more focused on trying to leave this never ending nightmare. You do however stop, but not by your own will, for your hands are pinned in place by two hands so large they outsize your own arms. It’s when the pressure tightens ever so slightly in warning against your thrashing do your eyes finally open. It’s the woman again, her eyes glimmering sympathetically.

“Yer not gon’ git anywhere doin’ that,” she says softly, tone gentle as if you’d break under the strain. Grimly you believe she might be into something, slackening under her hold, her firm grip loosened ever so slightly.

This just can’t be real. It can’t

No pain, not even in a dream. Not waking up.

Oh god, oh god- then, then everything from before-?

“Easy there,” she soothes like a mother to an upset child, “none o’ that harmin’ business.”

Your eyes unfocus, breaking into a thousand yard stare, tears you didn’t know you were holding back flooding over your cheeks. Barely choked back sobs escape your throat, but you didn’t have the capacity to care right now. Everything that just happened, what you’d write off as just some lucid thoughts made from a sadistic forebrain is in actuality, real life.

The hands release themselves from your arms, one of them actually comes up to stroke your back gently.

Like the final crack in the foundation, the emotional dam in you is demolished. And you scream.

A ghostly wail to join in with the millions of other unfortunate souls.

———

You vowed then to never lose composure again. You’d put the giantess, who’d you learn to actually be Maker, a species of giant folk gifted with impossible crafting abilities to create worlds, through enough as it was.

After you’d come to pull yourself into a presentable and less of a sobbing mess, she’d introduce herself as Engri. A warrior mage. It was with some shaky introductions on your part did you finally get a sense of where you were and what exactly that entails.

This place, still with denial at your heels, was known as the Dead Kingdom, the resting home of souls that have departed from their world and mortal cages. A sort of limbo, or heaven as you’d first initially assumed it to be. Until Engri boomed a short burst of laughter, assuring that Heaven was in now way, this downtrodden realm.

You’d then come to question how Engri knew, which was swiftly answered by the elder Maler that she’d traveled to the accursed “White City” a few times in her youth before she could swing her first sword. Her dam, or mother, had been a well skilled crafter who sold her wares to the best buyers. The reason for her unmatched craft was the rare gift of potent enchanting to make weapons that could do whatever she willed it to. A spear that never missed, a shield that never shattered or even swords that could sap away the strength of their foes.

It sent your head spinning, but all you could ask between the overwhelming feeling of talk of religious creatures, things of myth, was how did Engri find you.

It was then in the very brief time you’ve been with the giantess you’d seen her look so hopeless and sad. Her ears drooped and her face, which was deceptively youthful broke into something more akin to an older, world weary soul.

“I’ve heard o’ the tragedy on Earth through the fallen birds, er, Angels,” she coughed into her palm, trying to formulate a sentence without her face further betraying her, “an’ I knew you wee beasties would be a’scared. I wanted to help bring peace to ya people. I know what it’s like ta be frightened.”

You really didn’t know what to say then.

Or ever for that.

Engri then took the liberty of escorting you to the heart of the city, where other souls resided along with angels and even a couple of civil demons. At least those who decided to remain within the city limits. You never experienced the shock of seeing an Angel in peace as they were mostly shooting at you. Perhaps still not exactly over what happened to your death, had flinched when an especially friendly otherworldly demon waved at you.

It’s been almost what, a week or two, and you still can’t comprehend this new reality. Every time you wake up you don’t see the familiar ceiling or feel the comforter sheet tangled around your legs. Just, the same green sunlight that manages to push through the seemingly permanent overcast weather.

In the time that has gone by, you’d put in an effort into adjusting to this new, slow and undoubtedly eternal life. The stories of an eternal afterlife in paradise sounded… peaceful. At least the ones that consider Heaven the final resting spot.

Now you’ve heard of a few different afterlifes from different cultures, halls of eternal feasting, purification of the souls before being able to rest or even reuniting with your ancestors and spending eternity forever celebrating with loved ones.

So far, the only one close enough was the last one, minus the eternal celebration.

You’d seen families be reunited in the streets, exchanging ghostly kisses and hugs tight enough to squeeze what little air remained in dead lungs. However, between the few fleeting moments of elated relief to see familiar faces, there are still so many more who don’t know a single soul here.

Alone.

People separated and scared huddled in the shadows or called on the streets in different languages, looking for whomever they could recognize. You still can hear those lonely, beckoning wails for lost lovers and missing children late in the night.

Your own chest clenched with sympathy upon each and every wayward soul that wandered the seemingly endless city without a friend at their side. Sure, some four legged companion would trot along to fill the empty space, but it wasn’t the same. However, just enough to bar the lonesome sorrow that hung over their heads like an inescapable thundercloud.

Deep down, you longed to join them in the crusade of endless searching amongst the ghostly crowds, but in your brain denial nipped at the back of your head. Somewhere deep in the caverns of your mind a voice vehemently disregarded all possibilities of your family being here with you, insisting that they’d somehow survived the mayhem. Somehow they’d escaped legions of beastly demons and fanatic angels in addition to collapsing buildings and fellow humans who’d be more than willing to sacrifice another if it meant prolonging their deaths.

You never set foot on the city plaza, where all the lost would gather, fearing that your guesses would be right and that your own family had to endure a horrid end. The unshakable phantom pains followed closely when you’d take a nanosecond to recall your last moments. Despite the fact you as a ghost luckily kept all your limbs intact, never staved the fact you’d still recall the unspeakable terror in every pump of adrenaline.

But it would definitely stave the heartache of loneliness.

Maybe it would be a better start if you hadn’t decided to seat yourself at the city’s limits, teetering betwixt the Lord of Bone’s Court and the empty stretch of decayed forest heading back to the metropolis. A singular cobblestone road connecting the two together edged with a derelict stone wall you’d come to seat yourself on, watching the buildings in the horizon.

It’s where you’d first arrived.

Through Engri you’d come to learn that most souls passed through this general road, which was why she’d positioned herself here to guide frightened souls to the city since “none of the pompous men in the Court would do any work themselves.” Quite the tension with politics in this place.

Perhaps when you dredge yourself into a better mood, you’d ask about the exact know hows about the governing body of this realm in further detail. Though she’d provided a few bits here and there, all you’d come to know was of an arena Engri would find to pass her time with, and an expert swordsman within who’d been a great sparring partner. She’d greatly emphasized her love of the arena with all the talk of the Court being about that place.

Speaking of the Maker, she wasn’t here now, away with escorting a new batch of mismatched souls of five humans and two angelic soldiers, though Engri was less than forgiving to the winged men. You’d decided to keep put on your spot, fiddling with a bare tree branch in case anyone would turn up then take them down the road.

And within the deep recesses of your brain that you’d openly deny if asked, mayhaps run into a familiar face. At least, you’d been torn between wanting to see a cousin, a friend or even your mother or father and willing them to be alive and well, unlike you.

But, in the one in two billion, if not trillion chances that such a coincidence should arrive at your metaphorical doorstep, what then would be the next step? In this undead life there’s nothing but time to be wasted without worry of what remained when you once lived. Jobs certainly held no place here, all left behind in the modern world and to this ancient place, and given the obvious no need to eat when the body doesn’t require it. Nothing but time to kill.

Would you continue to grieve now that there’s no limit to life? Or within the span of a few months or even years could these hidden wounds be sealed as if you’d still walked the Earth? You’d never be able to tell.

‘Could I find my family again?’ You ponder, contemplating the chances, eternal undead life, no jobs or responsibilities to tend to, and nothing but time?

You severely doubted that. But maybe, just maybe in that almost impossible case, it could happen.

Waiting however, doesn’t keep you company.

Swinging the leg that’s not tucked under the other, you take the arms length branch in your hand and whip it aimlessly. A faint whistle flying through the quiet when you’d lash it hard enough. You didn’t worry about the impending sting in case you’d accidentally whack yourself, but the sentiment remained as you’d cautiously kept from striking yourself.

You slap the branch in the stone, smiling as the wood knocked against rock with a satisfactory thunk. Then drag the dead limb across the imperfections across the wall face, intently listening to the sounds that brought a bout of nostalgia from your younger years. What you wouldn’t give to run the stick across a chain-link fence and receive that beautiful rattle.

Boredom was a close friend here, so it was best to carry the time with the best remedies, even if they were simple lest you’d go insane in the emptiness.

Laying back on the stone, you faced the overcast sky with you arms lazily dangling off the sides. Half lidded eyes stare at the endless stretch above, clouds almost stationary in the windless air, just as dead as everything else in the godforsaken place. There’s an ache that you can feel in your bones, down from the legs up to the crown of your cranium.

It hurts. It positively hurts with an indescribable fierceness.

The unfairness of it all. Everything going to shit. You don’t notice how your nails are digging painfully into your palms, clenching into vice like fists.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad that Engri left, so she wouldn’t see what you did next.

Anger roils deep in the undead gut, the only sensation you’d felt since arriving here. And by all things above, you’d felt a spark of warmth within that no oil lamp fires or blankets could provide. Retinas sting fiercely with an oncoming onslaught of despair and rage made physical, jaws tighter than a vice to cage the scream that scrabbles against your throat, vying for freedom to fly.

Desperate to keep from falling apart, an arm throws itself over your eyes, blotting out the light and the crook of your limb squeezes your head. Whether to alleviate the pressure or to dab tears away that do escape on your sleeve you’d never guess. It doesn’t change a thing, evident by the wetness that does flow freely down plush cheeks, evidence of the freshly dead.

It’s all so overwhelming, the hurricane that rages inside you while you try to keep from bursting. You so wretchedly want to run as far and hard as you can away, yet another wants to stay and kick, scream and hit something as hard as you can muster between howls.

So why don’t you? There’s no one around to see, but mayhaps hear since the Court is close, but what’s stopping you? Dignity’s sake? You’d already been made into fucking demon chow back home.

Home. That’s all isn’t it? To return to familiarity?

With what family? There’s nobody.

Lips peel back at that taunting thought. It’s the final thing that teeters over into unlatching your jaw.

And releasing a primal scream, raw and rough. It echoes hauntingly, carrying past the dead trees like a passing mist. Leaving behind a physical reminder of what came, evident by the nearest tree branches gently shuddering.

Just as yours rings through the air, a different voice joins in as if to harmonize. It’s deep as thunder and just as unrestrained as your own.

Frightened, you shoot up from your spot and rip your arm from its spot upon your face, searching for the source. Hurriedly wiping away the wetness, you frantically survey the land around you for a possible suspect. It hadn’t been too far away.

Definitely wasn’t from the Court, as you’d heard the sounds of clashing swords and orders barked in the distance. It has to be somewhere between.

It could be a new soul, scared and lost. Your mind supplies as you stare into the winding road behind you leading to the Court. ‘Doesn’t sound too scared from here.’ Something snarks from the back of your brain, just as on edge as you.

It’s not like whatever or whoever made the scream could kill you if they’d tried. But it’s not as if that thought doesn’t scare the shit out of you.

‘Engri would want me to help.’ Something softer and kinder offers with a gentleness, you recognize it as empathy in your still befuddled head. ‘It doesn’t matter who it is, whether human or demon, we should go and help them where we can. You were just as scared and confused when you came as they must be.’

Something about repaying a kindness that was so blessedly given to you. How many others woke up without an answer or sense of reason in this unreal plane of existence? You’d owe this kindness at least.

Counteract that boredom that you claim is killing you.

It takes you a moment to gather all the motivation to rise from your spot, landing with a gentle sound, you smooth out the creases of your jacket. Then, when the dirt that sticks to your clothing is dusted off, you start your trek on the cobblestone road to the mystery soul.

Briefly, you wonder if it’s possibly a human. It wouldn’t be too bad as far as helping your first ever soul.

‘Y/N the soul farrier.’ Not quite a harrowing title, but instead rather friendly. Almost anticlimactic with the casualness of a revered status in human beliefs of the afterlife and its supposed escorts.

But a giggle or two would ease the conscience of many. Isn’t laughter after all a great remedy?

‘Whenever I come back to the city, I’ll try to see if cloaks are sold here, and a lantern to complete the look if I want to dedicate.’ Okay, maybe you get a small chuckle from that, imagining yourself an eerie silhouette only to see a most plain and unthreatening face. A good reflection of the realm if you’d say so yourself.

Bleak and most definitely macabre, but not without its friendly faces.

As you round down a curve in the road, you can feel the shadow of the looming castle eclipse over you. It isn’t unlike being under the shade of a great elderly tree, but rather beneath the great wings of a hawk, hiding away outstretched talons ready to snatch. The air about this place was not pleasant, as if within the heart of this place there lay a terrible beast. An untold story so frightful that if the very foundation could speak, it would wail warnings to turn and run.

Although Engri spoke of the Arena, there was no other talk of what lie within the mysterious castle and its grounds. Personally, you’d rather not find out, unless you’d absolutely have to. Preferably with Engri present.

You stop in your tracks, any and all thoughts cut abruptly as your eyes land on the lost soul.

It’s a man. The largest you’d ever seen and decorated in heavy armor.

Even though there’s a wide berth of space between you and the newcomer, you can feel a visceral fear trickle down your spine. The air is heavy, nearly suffocating, had you any breath to intake it.

He’s on his hands and knees, curled in on himself, obscuring his features further. The only thing you’re able to pick out from the mass of armor is a red hood, bold as blood.

As weird as this man could be with his unusual stature and impossible armor, you dare yourself to take a courageous step forward despite the shaking. When did you start doing that?

The man, because what else can he be? He has no feathered wings and lacks a tail or overgrown horns, and is far too small to be a Maker. Are there any other Makers? The man doesn’t stir as your gentle footsteps get closer and closer. In fact, it’s as if he doesn’t hear you at all.

You don’t stop until you’re practically on top of him. Do you open your mouth, asking him one very simple question.

“Hello there sir. Are you alright?”

#In the Pines #ItP #darksiders #war #about 7K #reader #human reader #will edit later

74 notes · View notes