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utterlyazriel · 17 days

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whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: WE MADE IT TO CHAPTER FIVE!! EVERYBODY CLAP!! labour of love fr <3 but we're almost to the scene that sparked the whole freakin series and i. oh man im just yearning for that hurt/comfort

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: You test out if your efforts with the tonics are worth anything and Azriel bestows you with a gift. He asks about the Blood Rite and you ponder the strange, golden thread you've been feeling in your chest. Disaster strikes when night falls.

CHAPTER FIVE :: CONFIDANTS

You look younger in your sleep, Azriel thinks.

He doesn't think he's ever seen you like this before. The hard lines of your face are all smoothed out as you rest, so unlike your usual expression. There's something softer about you.

The constant furrow between your brows is whisked away for once. He can still see the familiar line between your brows though, if he looks close enough.

If he can look past the bruises that mottle your face, that is.

The damage you've sustained from training within the camp is severe enough to curdle something sour in his stomach.

Azriel had held his reservations about his trip back to Velaris— a suspicion that proved to be well founded. His own memories of training at Windhaven provide plentiful ways for you to have ended up in this state.

You’re curled up instinctively in your sleep, wings tucked around yourself. It sews of thread of worry through Azriel's chest, a slight concern at the state of your wounds and how the position will agitate them. While you don't move much in your sleep, he knows from experience that it'll be hell when you finally do stretch back out.

But... he can’t bring himself to wake you. You need the sleep desperately.

Azriel is fairly certain that the huddled form you take is some subconscious way to protect yourself, even in your sleep. Your wings drape across yourself, keeping yourself covered, hidden.

And while that makes some part of Azriel's heart ache, he can't deny that you—it looks… sort of cute.

Azriel forces himself to avert his eyes, ducking his chin for extra measure. Those pesky thoughts were becoming more and more frequent — something that he's pointedly ignoring at this point.

Protect, his shadows whirl around his ears like tiny gusts of wind, whispering their suggestions. Protect, they whisper.

Protect. Both a thought and a feeling. A guiding intuition that seems to reverberate from his very bones.

The suggestion from his shadows isn't entirely left field either, as they always take inspiration from what he can see. From his wandering thoughts, from his prolonged gentle gaze that lays upon you whenever he can.

Azriel scowls lightly at himself. He had no claim to protect you and further more, most Illyrian males like yourself would take great amounts of offence to the mere insinuation. He knows that you are more than capable.

He steals another glance at your peaceful, sleeping figure and his shadows seem to quieten in response— at least about you. The whispers don't ever truly quieten.

Azriel's fairy certain where they're getting their ideas. It's what he wonders too as he takes in your battered face once more—whether it’s the truth or just his familiar brand of desperate hope.

Something that would explain the urge to protect beyond reason.

Something like... a bond forged in starlight.

The Mother's Kiss whistles quietly outside and Azriel shifts his gaze again and this time, it lays upon the Heartstriker.

Sitting atop the one table-top in your shelter, the blade stays sheathed away in the very same bejeweled case that Azriel had found it in. Same as on that very first day he laid his hands on it.

It had been a wretched mission. One of his very first. It was not performed with the eloquence he would come to learn in future years.

Heartstriker had not been the objective of the mission. Far from it, in truth. The objective was a simple stealth reconnaissance into the Court of Nightmares.

He was to delve beneath the rock of the mountain in a mission very similar to his current. Swirlings of rumours and whispers of rebellion, against the new Highlord. Azriel was there to learn who had the guts to pick up the knife and try.

Heartstriker was a ploy. A shiny trick that Azriel had not yet learned how to evade.

He was still a novice by his own standards, only a few hundred years old. Spying in this sense was still fresh, still new. The work he had done under Rhysand's father during the war had been far more reliant on his brute strength. He had strict instructions not to hesitate to draw his blade.

It had taken time to relearn the importance in a message sent with words.

To remember the power of mercy.

This mission had been the first and only time Azriel had underestimated the measures in place in the Court of Nightmares, meant to keep out the likes of him.

His hesitance to kill had given another Fae time to trip an alarm, to flood the room with warriors. So when he had been backed into a corner by the snarling miscreants that lived in the belly of the mountain, taken by surprise, he hadn't hesitated to snatch up any weapon he could reach.

And it had branded him, singeing him right to his core.

But when he tried to force his fingers apart, they wouldn't obey, even as they screamed with the pain of the invisible flames. It was as though his hand had become fused with the blade, each atom of his being completely joined with the bronze of the sword through a terrible, unstoppable and invisible force.

Every part of him shrieked in agony. An age-old fear reared up within him, his hands burning like they were set alight and he could feel the flames licking at his skin, at his hands, could smell the scent of burning flesh—

He had fought on and won, all the same, taking on two battles at once. Fighting foes by real and faux, all whilst burning up from within all the while. The sword was immeasurably heavy and yet too light, all at once.

And only once almost all his enemies were slain, their blood staining the marble floors, did the burning cease. The blade seem to hum in response to the battle— drawn to the final foe who was clawing for his breath through his blood-soaked throat.

The tip of the sword had urged Azriel forward, like pulled by an invisible string, and he let it lead him, plunging the blade through the chest and into the heart of the last enemy left.

Only after, had the humming stopped. The sword finally clattered from Azriel's strong grip, the fusion broken.

His hands were same as ever, mottled with their scars, but with no indication of the burning he knew he had felt.

On his return, Rhys had told him the history of the sword and it's duly fitting name: Heartstriker.

It hadn't been claimed in centuries and as such, naturally it had come to live amongst other cursed objects within the Court of Nightmares. Unable to be used, unless someone bested the pain it took to raise it.

But Azriel had, entirely by accident.

It is said that once mastered, it will always strike true. Rhys had said, violet eyes gleaming as he looked over the bronze sword with piqued interest. That it's more than a regular sword but a living thing you must work in tandem with.

If anyone tries to take it from you, they must suffer the same fate. It can be gifted freely but, He had paused, that smirk that held no warmth in it pulling at his lips. I'm sure you can guess how often that happens down there.

It hadn't been used within the Night Court either, condemned to another hundred years or so without sight of battle. Azriel had more than enough blades of his own. The Illyrian broadsword that he had earned all that time ago in the Blood Rite for a proper battle and his Truth-Teller for the finer details.

Heartstriker wasn't right for his stature. Too short, strange weighted.

He'd kept it all the same. Perhaps, he told himself, to keep some other Fae from suffering the same fate if they laid hands on it.

His hazel eyes drift back across to you, bundled within yourself. You make a noise in your sleep, a gentle snuffle, and Azriel finds himself smiling.

Or perhaps, he thinks, he knew to keep it for entirely other reasons.

—

The quick healing of Illyrian's is more often a blessing than it is a curse.

On today's quiet winter morning, it is somehow both.

When you wake, dragged from your slumber in the early hours, it's before the sun has begun to make an appearance on the horizon. The shelter is coated in a soft darkness of dawn. The trees sway outside, a thousand creatures still roaming amongst their branches, reliant on the dark before daylight breaks.

It's the pain that wakes you, ebbing in through your sleep til it shakes off your sleep. You wake with your teeth already gritted.

The only pleasant surprise is that fact you're not shuddering yourself awake out of a nightmare, especially considering yesterday's training session.

You have a feeling that it has something to do with the sleeping Illyrian, propped up beside the fireplace, keeping watch.

His shadows still move about, even in his sleep. His neck is tucked down, his forehead pressed against his knee. It hides away part his face but as your eyes adjust to the shadowy light, you can make out his closed eyes. His hair looks messier than you've ever seen it.

It can't be comfortable, sleeping the way he is— but you have a feeling that Azriel has slept in places far worse before.

Shifting about in the darkness, your hand comes down to press tenderly at your sides, assessing as quietly as you can. There's no immediate sting of sliced skin as your fingers tips poke and prod at the skin, which makes you sigh in relief. You press down again, at bit harder this time, and it forces a wince out your gritted teeth.

Extremely bruised. But at the very least, the skin has knitted itself together in the nighttime.

Your face still aches, too. It's not quite the same ringing that made both eyes throb painfully yesterday and with a slow wrinkle of your nose, you can assess that the worst of your broken nose has healed up too.

Your ears, however, poses a different problem. One of them, the right side, still rings lightly. It would be more concerning, you think, if the left one itself wasn't so muffled altogether.

Huffing out a breath, you drag yourself up to a sitting position, moving at a tentative pace. Pain ricochets around your body. You're doing the best you can to be quiet but it's futile it seems — there's one creak of the bed as your weight shifts and Azriel's wings twitch, giving him away. He’s awake.

He lifts his head slowly, letting it roll from one side to the next, stretching out his neck. It's the only indication he gives you of feeling sore from his cramped sleep all night, his attentive eyes already watching you closely. His shadows, you notice, seem to gain speed at his rousing— circling his shoulders and neck closely.

You clear your throat and focus your gaze forward, resuming the task at hand. Raising one hand, you snap your fingers beside your left ear, then your right.

Frustration bubbles up inside you as you repeat the motion, as if it’ll change the outcome.

It doesn’t.

At least beyond the ringing, your right ear can hear the snap clearly— a keen Fae sense that like any warrior, you rely heavily on. The left one…

All you can think is that they must have hit you pretty damn hard to leave it as dulled as it feels. It can still hear, thankfully, but the noise that filters through is muffled around the edges. Buzzy. It makes you feel off kilter and unbalanced.

You let your hand drop and try to remain stoic, so used to hiding your emotions away from your face. You don't realise your drooping, limp wings give you away anyways.

Azriel gets to his feet swiftly, the movement so smooth you would have never guessed he spent the night tucked up uncomfortably against the bricks of your fireplace. He regards you with those burning amber eyes and your heart seems to lurch forward in response. You avert your gaze.

"It would seem we have an opportunity to test out our efforts." He says. His voice is still coated in sleep, low and rumbley, and it sends a bright zing down your spine. You lift your gaze from your lap and raise your brows in question.

He waves a hand to the table, in gesture.

Your various ingredients for brewing the tonics stay tucked in one corner, some wrapped up and set beneath the table. There are several different bottles too, stoppered with corks and containing yours and Azriel's attempts at the healing tonics.

It takes another moment to understand what he means.

"No," You say sharply, climbing to your feet. A thousand parts of your ache and groan in protest and you channel your focus into not letting a single ounce of it show.

Rolling your tense shoulders back, you wander towards your armor in slow steady steps. "Those aren't for me. I've healed enough in the night."

"I see." Azriel replies. "Is that why your left ear isn't working right?"

Gaze snapping back to him, you curse his ever-so observant nature. Maybe that's on you for trying to keep a secret from a Shadowsinger.

You are keeping a secret from a shadowsinger, something whispers in you.

A cold flush fills your body, numbing out every nerve for a single moment. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your wings hike up, tuck in. It feels wrong.

For the first time in your life, it feels so so utterly wrong to be keeping this secret from someone. To be hiding who you truly are.

But Azriel... he was a stranger not too long ago, wasn't he? You're not sure if you can even call each other friends, even if you had begun to in your mind, without even realising.

You think back to last night, to when he could have easily lifted your shirt a few inches higher when trying to save your life and known.

Then you wonder if he did — and he hasn't said anything.

If he's waiting for you to trip up, to fess up, to explain to him why you've been lying to him from the moment you first met him.

Azriel seems to sense your internal battle, the same way he seems senses a thousand things from you as though he's known you his whole life. He clears his throat to get your attention. When you focus your vision back on him, you notice one of the bottles is in his scarred fingers.

"I will train you today," He says. "On the condition that you take it."

Your nose twitches. It's an ultimatum. He knows you want to train, to brush off yesterday and let the pain in your body fuel the determination of today but he won't let you do it so carelessly. Bastard.

Before you can blink, he tosses the bottle across to you. You react instinctively, cradling your hands to catch it quickly before you realise what you're doing. Your nose twitches again, a tiny flare of annoyance at his smugness.

No, not smugness. Surety. His expression, bordering on bored, tells you that he knows you don't have any other options— unless you want to climb back into bed and rot for the day.

You yank the cork off the bottle harshly. Then, just to show him how unpleased you are with this, you lob the cork at him with all your might. Your bruised side screams in response. Azriel snatches from the air easily, without so much as a blink.

He looks like he wants to smile but thinks the better of it, placing the cork gently onto the table. "I'll meet you outside." He eyes the uncorked bottle in your hand then back at you. "Drink it. Please."

—

The tonic, as you find out, is only mildly effective.

It's a gutting discovery. The mixture is nowhere near potent enough to fix the level of nerve damage that gets inflicted during clippings if it barely lightens the bruises on your side.

The mottled blue painted on your skin gives way to a light purple, the edges of them retracting to a tinged yellow. The skin glows hot as the tonic works as best as it can.

The taste of it is nearly as rancid as the failure feels.

You deal with it the only way you know how; chewing it up and spitting it back out as determination to do better. The drive to push yourself harder in training rears up, fiery and stubborn— harder than you logically know is any help to yourself.

What was already tedious and heinous training is made that much worse by your injuries.

You're moving sloppily today, offbeat. The dullness in your left ear helps to keep you off balance. Still, you manage to keep up with Azriel— not quite the one step ahead you're usually aiming for but, at the very least, you're still holding your own.

Your ribs ache and your heads throbs. The ringing in your right ear has disappeared with the help of the tonic, only to have started up in the left. A relief in one sense— it's good to be hearing more of anything. A fucking pain in another.

The only major upside, really, is the sword.

The Heartstriker, Azriel had called it

You had been half convinced it was a hallucination, the gift. Sure that it some desperate illusion born out of the delirium of the blood loss because, really, when was the last time you had ever gotten a gift?

When you'd limped your way out into the snow and saw it in his hands, you had blinked in disbelief.

But it's almost like Azriel had expected it, his scarred hands reaching out to gently curl around your wrist, murmuring its name as he had pressed it into your hand. It's yours, he had said.

He had let go of your wrist go immediately, stepping back but not far, still hovering close by. He let you have a moment to marvel at it before he urged you to follow to the usual neck of the woods you trained in. The sound of clashing steel had soon followed.

It's a perfect addition, you find.

The blade is like a mere extension of your own arm. It's light enough to carve through the air with ease but when you strike, it's buries deep. Compared the Illyrian broadsword used in training at camp, it suits your stature far better. You move more agilely, hit more frequently and harder when you do.

It's probably the best thing you've ever owned— ever held.

You're gazing at it where it rests on your lap, glinting in the light of the day, as you try to catch your breath. Azriel had given you a moment to recover, far earlier than normal, due to your injuries, no doubt. Normally, you'd grumble and snarl and push him to continue but today, you're quite happy to have another moment to stare at the first gift you've gotten.

Azriel breaks the silence with a question.

"Why haven't you competed in the Blood Rite?"

Something icy spikes in your blood and your back straightens instinctively, the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end. Whether he knows it or not, he is treading close to dangerous territory.

"Why do you ask?" You answer his question with another question.

Azriel regards you with a certain look, his dark eyes dragging down your body intensely and back up to your face. It's enough to make you fluster momentarily, to feel a faint stirring in your heart that doesn't entirely feel like your own. No one has ever looked at you like that before.

"You're strong. You hold your own. You're of age." He states carefully. "You remain attached to this camp with no rank until you pass it. Why not?"

You scowl at his frame of thinking, as if you haven't passed over those reasons a thousand times. Beyond the fact you can't ever ensure you wouldn't be burdened with your cycle during the Blood Rite, there's more than enough reason for you to remain a nobody.

You feel oddly disappointed that he would think only in that manner; glory and rank.

"What makes you think I want any rank in my camp?" You spit bitingly, watching as his wings sink down an inch at your tone. His misunderstanding of why you've chosen this way of life bothers you more than you expect.

"Because you did?" You ask. "Because three bastards fought their way through it and won and left their shitty pasts behind? I am not you, Azriel."

Azriel doesn't react, not even the raising of his brows. Only his shadows give himself away, whirling around slower than usual. He speaks in that same careful tone as before.

"I know you are not."

He makes you feel foolish for giving in to any lick of your anger, for so quickly snapping at your only friend. You turn your head away and stare down into the snow, taking a breath. Cauldron, you're tired. Lifting you arm, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, clearing the sweat that beads there.

"I could leave but for what reason? Ever since I—" You suck a sharp inhale, swallowing back words that dance too close to giving you away. You pray he doesn't notice your hesitation. "Ever since I was young, this has been my goal. This change must come from within, you know that."

You inhale again, feeling the breath rattle past every ache and pain in your chest.

"I can only do the things I do... the things I must achieve, by being unnoticeable."

You cast a glance up to him. "To them, I am some bastard who won't give up and die. I am not a proper threat. You, of all people, should understand that it's easiest to work when people are not paying proper attention."

And that's all you have known — how to become unnoticeable when needed and how to be noticed when wanted. Attention, you've learned, only means a target on your back.

Beyond that... you can't imagine someone who would want to notice you for anything more. You've had many, many years to make peace with that bitter fact.

I am.

Without warning, there's a sudden thrum from deep within you, like a echo of a drum, of a call. It's golden and threaded with softness. I am paying attention.

It startles you, one hand flying to your armored chest in surprise. As quick as it had appeared, the hum flees and leaves your bound chest twingeing only in its usual discomfort. One moment of brief serenity. You long for it, despite the unfamiliar nature.

You realise abruptly that you've trailed off and force yourself to move, body aching in the process. Heartstriker sinks into the snow and you use it to clamber to your feet, not nearly as graceful as you would like. Azriel doesn't say anything.

In fact, when you lift your gaze to meet his, he's staring at you more intensely than usual. His shadows seem more agitated. They flit about, circling his hands more than his shoulders, and you can barely see the scarred skin through their inky darkness.

There's a long moment. Around you both, the trees creek as they bend in the wind, a thousand leaves rustling around you in a chorus.

Azriel breaks the silence, casting his eyes to the ground and lifting his blade. "No more questions."

He says it like a promise, his lips pulling at the edges like he might be offering a smile.

"Just fighting."

—

By the time the moon rises, the ache in your body has dimmed to a more bearable pain.

While you'd be miffed at the idea of Azriel pulling his punches, you can't deny the sliver of gratitude you have for it now. As you reach over the cauldron of simmering stew, only a few of your ribs twinge enough to make your motions falter momentarily. The stew bubbles and brews, filling your shelter with a hearty smell.

It's been too long since you last cooked something to share.

You try to shelve the guilt away—you and Azriel have been running a very tight schedule, switching between training, tonics and rest. Taking time to cook, for yourself or others, hasn't even had time to cross your mind.

Your brief brush back with the reality during yesterday's training, however, had provided you with ample reminders. Your home camp and all its violent glory.

So, you cook. The logs crackle on the fire and above them, the stew simmers gently as you stir absentmindedly at it. Giving yourself this quiet moment, you let your thoughts drift as the tiredness of the day trickles into your body. Your thoughts turn to the quiet Shadowsinger.

He had taken his leave as soon as he had declared the end of your days training, needing another trip to Velaris.

I'll be back by morning, he had said, each of his seven cerulean siphons flaring brightly before he stepped between the fabric of the world and disappeared. Another hidden trick up his sleeve.

You'd allowed yourself only one moment of surprise before you closed your mouth— you really needed to stop underestimating him. As the stew before you begins to hiss and spit, you pull yourself from your thoughts and prepare yourself for the discomfort of meal times.

They never are as friendly as you might hope.

Despite your generosity, the different outcasts of Exordor remain cagey. Regard you with pensive and guarded looks, hands hovering on the butts of their swords. You can't blame them in the slightest.

But those that can brave the walk to your cabin, risking both themselves and your own safety against the other Illyrian brutes in the camp, are rewarded with a hot meal. Tonight, you feed 12 hungry mouths before your doorstep grows quiet.

You pack it all away in silence, with a quite yearning for company you've only just become used to having.

It's only as you're tucking in for the night, your wings wrapped around yourself tightly, does the first pain strike. Right to your core, the very insides of your gut feels as though it's being shredded. You gasp, your entire body curling up tighter to fight against the pain.

For only a moment, confusion clouds your mind at the attack that seems to come from nowhere, from an invisible enemy. Only one answer comes forward—the only thing that can threaten to reveal your secret without your permission, through mere scent alone.

A certain agony that only tortures you twice a year.

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar #i have nothing to say but sorry it took more than a month!!!!!!!! ahhhh!!!!!!!!!#mwahmwah please forgive me #we're GETTING there #i just keep being dedicated to the backstory lmao #TOO dedicated

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peachremix · 5 months

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here's leon too

doing these studies have been really helpful and i think ashley is next :3 (if i still have motivation)

#re4 remake #re4 leon #resident evil fanart #leon s kennedy #he is so hard to draw for no reason #i've been struggling for MONTHS #we're getting there

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rqgender · 9 months

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Today's gender is still listening?

#the rusty quill #rusty quill #the magnus archives #themagnusarchives #the magnus archives 2 #themagnusarchives2 #tma #tma2 #tma pod #tma podcast #mag pod #magnus pod #WE'RE GETTING THERE #ALMOST CAUGHT UP WITH THE TWITTER #ONLY LIKE 150 LEFT TO GO

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astarioffsimpmain · 4 months

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"By the gods, you feel incredible." He groaned, snapping his hips up to meet yours. "Wet and tight, isn't she?" Astarion huffed, his breathing labored as he continued to stroke himself. "So much so, oh gods." Gale said, tugging your nipples between his fingers as you started bouncing on him in earnest.

🤪

#we're GETTING THERE #astarion #gale of waterdeep #bloodweave + tav #baldur's gate 3 #wip #smut wip #bg3 smut

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evewasheretoday · 26 days

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Accidents Happen: Chapter 2 - Fate

You didn't know where Lady Cassandra was leading you but you hoped she wasn't taking you to the dungeons.

Anywhere but the dungeons would be far better than being taken there.

“Tell me, maiden” Lady Cassandra started to speak again. “What brought you here to this castle?” She asked.

The question was innocent enough and the answer to it was simple.

“My family sent me here,” You told her.

She stopped in her tracks and turned around to stare at you. “Your family?” She questioned.

You looked at her a bit confused before nodding your head slowly. “Yes, my lady” You said. “My family were the ones to send me here”

She looked at you in a strange way before she shook her head and chuckled. “Are you certain of your answer?”

You blinked at her for a moment before answering her. “Of course,” You told her. “Why wouldn't I be?”

She seemed to be thinking about your words for awhile before smiling. “You're a strange one,” She said.

You couldn't help yourself but wonder what she meant by those words.

“How so?” You asked her with a small tilt of your head to the side.

“You seem quite confident in what you believe,” Lady Cassandra remarked. “Yet I can tell by the simplest details about you that there's uncertainty hiding beneath that confidence”

You frowned at her words. “Is that so?”

The other woman nodded, her expression being unreadable. “Indeed,” She told you. “It's as if you're carrying a burden that you're not even fully aware of”

“What very intriguing observation, Lady Cassandra” You replied. “Though I'm afraid you must be mistaken about any burden I may carry” You paused for a moment to think about your words. “I assure you that I am fully aware of my circumstances and the reasons for my presence here”

“Perhaps,” Lady Cassandra hummed. “I could be wrong but there are things yet to be revealed, both to you and to me”

You weren't sure if it was the cold air of the night but a chill ran down your spine.

“There are forces at play we cannot fully understand, maiden” She continued.

“Such as?” You questioned.

“Fate,” She answered. “Such things are beyond our understanding and of our control” She added.

“Fate,” You repeated, leaving the word to hang in the air for a while. “It's a.. odd thing, isn't it?” You mumbled.

“Strange and unnatural” She nodded in response.

“I don't like where this conversation is heading” You admitted.

Lady Cassandra chuckled at your words. “Not a fan of the unknown, I suppose?”

“No,” You shook your head. “I can't say that I am” You muttered.

Lady Cassandra was at it again, staring back to you with an unreadable look in her eyes.

“Come follow me,” She spoke, taking a step forward before holding her hand out to you.

You hesitated only briefly before reaching out a hand to take hers.

“To where, my lady?” You asked her.

“You'll find out,” She replied, dragging you to where ever it was that she wanted to go.

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ambeauty · 4 months

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Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: The Bear (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sydney Adamu/Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto Characters: Sydney Adamu, Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto, Emmanuel Adamu, Marcus (The Bear TV 2022), Richard "Richie" Jerimovich, Tina (The Bear TV 2022) Additional Tags: Feelings Realization, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Carmy the Designer and the Chef, Sydney the Muse, Carmy won't let Sydney go anywhere without custom designed drip, I don't know what kinda friendship they think they got but it is not platonic Summary:

“We gotta get you right Syd! But we got plenty of time. We can not have you representing The Bear in your baggy sweaters and overalls.” Marcus ribs her in a playful way.

“Dude, shut up! Let’s get back to work chefs!” Sydney calls out to the kitchen so they can get the dinner prep done before their booked night.

Carmy taps his spoon against the back of his hand as his mind starts flooding with ideas, but instead of meat, sauce, and herbs, it’s fabrics, patterns, and stitch variations. It’s long limbs tailored to perfection around soft curves. It’s bright colors that compliment deep brown skintones.

“Carm, hey.” Sydney snaps at his face quickly to bring his attention back to the present. “Where’d you go? Can you pass me the strainer please?”

“Yeah, sorry chef. Um, just thinking.”

“You wanna tell me about it?” She raises her eyebrows at him in concern. His anxiety was better than it had been in the beginning, but Sydney was still cautious about him anytime he zoned out for any significant period of time. He couldn’t admit in the middle of service how he was zoned out thinking about how he wanted to dress her. - Carmy wants to design Sydney's look for their awards gala.

#sydcarmy #sydney x carmy #sydcarmy fic #sydney adamu #carmy berzatto #platonic and messy #always #charged and sexy #we're getting there #my fics #sew into you fic

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japhgura · 4 days

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I managed to finish page two! Well, not entirely finish but the big bulk of it

Cool Ass Merlin

.feat Memesters

#afkj #afk journey #afkj merlin #japhysart #my first comic since forever #we're getting there #slowly

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puretopia · 1 year

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#we're getting there #paused to try this dress and hair on heidi #ts4 #sims 4 #the sims 4 #heidi myer

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rainsparks29 · 7 months

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I love cake so much I once saw a yt commenter describe her as an ipad kid and that says everything I think

#slowly crossposting my f&c art on here #we're getting there #fionna and cake #cake the cat #fionna campbell #fionna and cake art #ms paint #rain's silly art

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gumnut-logic · 2 months

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Along the way (Part 5)

I wrote over 4000 words today! It's a miracle! This fic has now officially reached the 10,000 word mark :D

Here is the first half, because, yes, I wrote two parts. Next bit tomorrow otherwise it will get confusing.

Many thanks to the amazing @onereyofstarlight for discussing this fic extensively and even for breaking down the concerns in a possible fourth Sweetapple fic :D

And also to those wonderful supporters who despite having to wait over a year for the bits of this fic have still been so kind and lovely to both me and Alex. Look, you have the boi blushing bright red under that pale blond hair of his.

There are a few warnings on this one. Nothing really dire happens, but it comes close in places. So warnings for darkness and being stuck underwater. This is the worst of it, I promise.

I hope you enjoy it anyway.

-o-o-o-

Alex coughed, the dust in the air thick and clogging his throat. The motion reminded him that yes, he had a head injury and no, he shouldn’t be shaking his brain around like that.

The building had settled for the moment and once again there were people calling out for help.

Water was loud in the distance and to his horror, his brain reminded him that the museum was on the banks of the Taruheru River.

Gisborne sat on the merging forks of the Turanganui, of which the Taruheru was one.

The disconnected facts flooded his hurting head, all leading to the terrifying conclusion that the only hill the building could be sliding down was the bank into the river.

Running water mocked him.

Focus.

Analyse.

Act.

Elizabeth was crying again.

The structure still lacked light, which considering he and his mother had chosen this place for lunch…apparently…meant they were under a considerable pile of messed up building.

There was that faint source of light…

Faint was the keyword, but the shadows were lighter to his right.

“Elizabeth?” She was sobbing into his shoulder. “Elizabeth, we can’t stay here.”

The shadow that was her head lifted. “Okay?” It was a whimper.

“We need to find a way to get out.” His feet were hooked into the splintered floor and he was able to twist himself around into more of a climbing stance. It was definitely wood beneath his hands. “The light seems brighter over that way. There might be an opening somewhere up there.” He climbed over her and secured a new footing. “I want you to come with me.”

Honestly, he would be faster by himself, but the thought of leaving Elizabeth behind and then the building moving again…

He found her hand in the dark and squeezed tight. “We’re getting out of here.”

He heard her swallow and the shadow that was her head shifted as if to nod. “Okay.”

“Okay, good.” He brought her hand to the small of his back and transferred her grip to his belt. “Hang on tight.”

She did, immediately, and for a second there, he thought he was going to lose his pants.

For some random reason, Virgil’s face came to mind and he was smirking.

Maybe that was why International Rescue wore jumpsuits?

The smirk turned into a grin.

Hey, you have all the experience. I’m new to this!

Virgil frowned.

Alex pushed the image away, his heart thumping in his chest.

Focus.

The floor was sloped, but it was an uneven angle. In places, the wood had snapped and was spraying out in a fountain of splinters. He hooked his fingers on more than one and wished for those gloves Virgil often shed in Alex’s lab.

His engineering brain was apparently still alive, throwing up ideas for extra protection on those gloves, what was needed to prevent penetration by a multitude of sharp objects. He mentally jotted notes to revisit once they got out of here.

And there was progress on that project as, yes, the light was getting lighter. As they clambered closer, Alex encountered a tough material…canvas?…an awning or maybe one of those cafe umbrellas? In any case, moving it allowed so much more light in. It was like the heavens had opened up, and shone down upon them.

Neither of them said anything as Alex helped Elizabeth to climb out of the remains of the building.

Relief flooded Alex’s heart as the cloudy day pierced his eyeballs and stabbed at his brain.

Until he saw the state of everything around him.

Oh, hell.

It was so obviously an earthquake, his heart broke into pieces.

Elizabeth was leaning on him, her injured leg off the ground. He gestured her over to the what had likely been the steps into the building.

Only to catch sight of what remained of the museum itself.

Calculations and suppositions flooded his brain as he realised the huge pōhutukawa tree. between the Museum’s buildings had toppled over, destabilising the strength of the two structures, undermining one and falling on the other…which contained the cafe and was so obviously on a trajectory towards the swollen river, Alex’s heart nearly broke his ribcage.

“Elizabeth, stay here. See if you can get the attention of emergency services. I’ll try to get the others out.”

“Alex-“ Her eyes were wide.

“If you see a Thunderbird, let them know we need help.” As did everyone in Gisborne. He had no doubt that the Tracys would be here, somewhere. His eyes skipped across the buildings he could see, but he was too close to the river, too low in the landscape to see anything.

Turning towards the hole in the pile of pickup sticks, he crawled back inside.

-o-o-o-

Virgil’s shoulders were aching. They always ached this far into a rescue that required so much exosuit. Padding could only negate so much and accumulated bruising was a thing.

They had been bouncing about the city under the direction of local and GDF services, landing where their technology could do the most.

Many lives had been saved.

Many not.

Perhaps it was a sign of Virgil’s state of mind that he was lingering on the ‘not’ instead of the many successes.

It took mental techniques to juggle the emotions on a long rescue like this. Methods to enable him to focus, stay positive and effective and not be overwhelmed by reality.

It took a toll. It always did and Virgil wouldn’t have it any other way as it showed him why they did this, why he and his brothers sacrificed so much.

But today?

Each time they lifted off, his eyes tracked across the city to the Gisborne Market building John had pinpointed as Alex’s last known location.

John had sent him the tactical profile of that set of older buildings. At least half of one had collapsed, providing all the anxiety-inducing imagery possible.

But he couldn’t afford to be anxious. Nor could he afford to be distracted, worried or any of the other emotions that threatened to overwhelm him because lives were at stake.

All the time.

Rescuees and his brothers.

Scott had darted in a few minutes early than his estimate. A couple of quick words on the safety of TI Mahia and then it was all business.

Though Virgil did note that his big brother had decided Thunderbirds One and Two would work in tandem on this rescue.

So much could be read into that.

But he didn’t have time to ruminate on that either.

Another glance in the direction of Alex and he returned to lifting several tonnes of concrete off a school gymnasium.

-o-o-o-

Alex managed to drag several other people out of the collapsed building before finally locating his mother.

He had been helping another to the exit when he encountered a fallen door.

A cubicle door.

The toilets.

His mum had excused herself while they waited for lunch.

Alex bit his lip and helped the man who, the light revealed, was sporting a cut to his forehead and bleeding quite profusely. He handed him over to Elizabeth and the others who were providing what first aid they could. She again begged him not to go back in, to sit down, to look after himself.

But his mum was in there, somewhere.

And besides, what would a Tracy do? What would a Thunderbird do?

What would Virgil do?

He once again scanned the landscape. The sound of emergency helicopters and hovercraft were everywhere. Smoke drifted up into the sky.

Small groups of people huddled in the street, some calling out for help, some crying, some doing exactly what he was doing.

Going back in.

Stop thinking, just do.

So he did.

The mess inside the collapse was becoming familiar. He negotiated the major obstacles, letting himself slip down to the bottom as quickly as possible, this time aiming for the back of the café.

Past the kitchen…which was empty - he had already helped two people out of that black hole. Fortunately, there was no smell of burning or anything that could lead to a fire…that he could tell.

He didn’t need the smoke outside to remind him that fire was a major threat after an earthquake. Thank goodness, all the gas mains had been retired in the 2040s otherwise his story might have been vastly different.

As had so many in the past.

His head was still hurting and his thoughts kept drifting. He had to force himself to focus so many times. Holographic Scott was frowning at him.

He wasn’t supposed to be in the building.

Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be mobile.

What would a Tracy do?

What the hell could he do when his mother…

The toilets were at the back of the building and obviously closer to the river. By what he could see, practically in the river.

“Mum?!” His voice bounced off broken brickwork and splintered timber. “Mum?!”

Water churned.

Virgil would have a torch, at least.

The doors to the toilets, or the remains of them, were no longer vertical and gravity had him sliding into them with a thump.

Damnit. “Mum?! Are you in there?” Please, Mum.

Thoughts of his long-lost father scrambled his brain.

“Mum?!” He fell through the doors into total darkness. “Mum?!”

Water sloshed in the darkness.

A sound.

Barely heard.

“Mum?!” His throat hurt.

“Allie?”

His name came from his right, but further into the space. Damnit, he couldn’t see a thing. “Mum?”

“Allie, my foot’s stuck.”

Alex took a step forward.

And fell into the river.

The shock of the cold water stole his breath.

God.

He panicked for a moment, the total darkness so disorienting, he was lost.

Until a flailing foot hit something hard. The pain startled him enough to stop the rising hysteria and…

His head broke the surface, his lungs gasping in a breath as his body righted itself with enough reference to at least orientate up and down.

“Mum?” It was more breath than anything else.

A hand hit his shoulder, grabbed a grip and he was suddenly in his mother’s arms. “Allie, oh, thank god.”

He scooted around in the water, desperate to see his Mum. Of course, it was far too dark for that. Apparently, there was a sink next to them. He found that by bashing his elbow. But Mum was there. His hands found her shoulders, her damp hair, her wet cheek. “Mum, there’s been an earthquake.”

“I know that, love.” Her fingers were brushing away his hair, her palm wrapping around his face. “My foot is stuck.”

“Your foot?”

“Yes, I can’t get it loose.” She moved under his hands obviously pulling to one side.

He blinked water out of his eyes. “Let me look.” As if he could see anything.

He took a breath and feeling his way down his mother’s body he found her ankle caught between what felt like a wall and something equally cold and hard.

He gave the object a shove.

It didn’t move at all.

It didn’t take long for his lungs to demand attention, his head throbbing to the beat of his increasingly frantic heart.

A hand grabbed at his shirt and yanked him upwards.

His gasp as he surfaced abraded his already tight throat.

“Something’s pinning you to the wall.” Another gulped-in-breath. “It’s not budging.”

His mother didn’t answer, her grip on him just tightening for a moment.

Of course, that was the cue for the building to remind them, that, yes, it was sliding into the river and they shouldn’t forget it. Wood groaned and cracked.

Water sloshed against his face.

“I’ll try again.” Before his mother could answer, he sucked in a breath and dove, finding his way down to whatever had his Mum pinned.

And goddamnit, it wouldn’t move!

He shoved and kicked and tried to work out why it wouldn’t budge. It felt jagged and cold and why the hell couldn’t he move it?!

His mother hooked his shirt again and dragged him to the surface.

“Allie, you have to go get help-”

But the building disagreed as it shuddered, creaked and his mother’s voice was cut off in a gurgle of water.

No!

He grabbed at her, using the sink at his elbow to pull her up as much as he could.

The water level was higher. He could feel it splashing against the sink.

Mum…

No…

“Mum, hang on here.” He transferred her hands to the ceramic basin. “I’ll get you out.”

The dark was ever so terrifying when wet. Water he couldn’t see flowed around him. As his hands found the rock and the hard place, Gordon came to mind.

He would know what to do.

Thunderbird Four had all the gear, all the tools. The Tracys would get his mum out.

But the Tracys weren’t here and his mum only had Alex.

And it was so dark and airless.

Panic sat at the edges of his mind and he had to fight it off.

He couldn’t even see the mechanics of the situation. Why was it not moving? What was stopping it? Weight? Angle? Something else applying pressure?

His brain clamoured for information, feeling around in the total darkness. It was a simple equation. He just didn’t have all the variables.

He only needed to move it a little bit!

And to breathe.

He shot to the surface, drawing in enough oxygen to dazzle his already aching head. “Mum!”

“Go get help, Alex.” It was her doctor, no-nonsense voice. Trust her to be calm as a cucumber in a dire situation.

He didn’t answer her, just heaved in more breath and dove again.

-o-o-o-

Thunderbird Two lowered with a roar into the parking lot of the Gisborne Farmer’s Market. Apart from the information John had shot to his comms, the sign Two crunched under her starboard landing strut said as much.

Scott had gone out of his way to free up Virgil and Two and get him over here. Gordon was out of his seat even faster than her pilot as the Thunderbird wound down to creaking cahelium.

“John, do you have any further information?” His fish brother was standing on the hatch waiting as Virgil darted through securing Two.

“Thunderbird Four, I assure you, you have everything I have. If I or Eos find anything further, you will be the first to know.”

Gordon grunted, bouncing on his feet in impatience.

Virgil didn’t say a thing as he joined his brother.

The hatch lowered and Gordon was out, accosting the nearest emergency worker.

Virgil took a step off the hatch and scanned the site with his eyes. Half of the main building was on the ground and being attended to by emergency workers. A makeshift medical tent had been set up at a distance from where he had landed Two.

Over the road to the west lay the remains of the Peel Street Bridge, now mostly flotsam in the swollen river. He mentally noted the level of the river should it need to be accounted for at any point.

Floating debris charted the current.

“No-one matching that description has been located here, sir.”

Virgil’s attention was drawn to Gordon as his brother dragged over a man dressed in fluorescent yellow and holding a tablet. His fingers were poking at it with agitation.

“We could do some help lifting the roof. We have two lifesigns still trapped.”

Virgil strode over and almost snapped the tablet out of the man’s hands. “Where? Thunderbird Five, give us a scan of the building.”

“FAB.”

A moment later the results appeared on Virgil’s wrist. Two lifesigns were flashing, both pinned beneath the remains of the structure’s roof.

A few calculations in his head and he was moving back to Two. Angles, weight, space and proximity. His exosuit was wrapped around him without thought and he was moving at a run across the distance between him and that fallen building.

“Make way! Make way!”

Virgil paid no attention to the emergency worker running behind him. All he saw was rubble and a solution to reaching those two lives.

His HUD flashed up stressors, bearing estimates, and the angles. Always the angles.

His feet landed on the remains of the concrete foundation as his HUD spouted what it could support in its current condition.

Enough. It could support enough.

Virgil placed his feet securely, exactly the right distance apart, set his shoulders and back. Data streamed as he slid his main gripper into the steel of the roofing mainframe. His secondary grip, often used more for stabilisation and balance rather than bearing weight, slid in beyond a structural support and exactly where…there…he locked them both into place.

He flexed his hands and began to lift.

Structural responses flowed, giving him numbers and needed adjustments…all good. The roof rose with the hissing of hydraulics and breath.

“Gordon, you’re in.”

He didn’t need to look. He knew his wingman had followed him. Sure enough, the Fish darted into the wreckage and a moment later reappeared holding a child. He handed her off to the emergency team and dove in again.

This time he returned with a woman limping and crying.

Virgil’s heart did not respond. Or at least it attempted not to.

The state of the roof continued to scroll across his HUD and the moment Gordon and John gave him the all clear, he gently lowered it to the ground.

And let out a breath that took some of his heart with it.

It didn’t take long after that for John to confirm that no, Alex was not on the site.

Gordon dragged Virgil back to Two and attempted to force coffee down his throat.

Of course, the thought of coffee made it all worse.

Standing in Two’s cockpit, a desperate moment away from being called to the next site, Virgil stared out the windows down across the length of the Taruheru River, collapsed buildings spotting the landscape.

Where the hell are you, Alex?

God.

Please be safe.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #alexander sweetapple #nuttyfic #we're getting there #I promise

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danyaselmar · 3 months

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Ehehe, yes, she's having a great time ;)

#we're getting there #work in progress #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 raphael #raphael #raphael x tav #danyas drawings #oc: lavera 'tav' tavja'al #baldurs gate fanart #raphael the cambion #artists on tumblr #digital art

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thelampisaflashlight · 1 year

Conversation

Dew: -crying-

Aether: "Oh, shit, Dew, are you okay?"

Dew, holding a half eaten yogurt cup: "I wanted yogurt, but it's the kind made with coconut milk, so the texture is wrong, which means it's not filling my craving, and it has become a burden on my very being to consume it."

Aether: "...So why are you still eating it?"

Dew, holding the spoon threateningly: "I do not want to waste food."

Aether: "..." -pats his back- "Pick your battles, bud. Pick your battles."

Dew: "I'm not gonna let the yogurt win."

Aether: "I'm proud of you for trying if it's an consolation."

Dew: "It was eat it or throw it, and Copia says I'm not allowed to do that anymore because of the mayo incident."

#Lamp rambles #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #ghost band #the band ghost #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #food mention #it has a different texture okay #I'm trying my best to finish it #we're getting there

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year

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Eden's Heir, chapter 2.

Innocent Blood.

Tags: Darksiders, War x Reader, Strife x Reader, hurt/comfort, War makes a mistake and then immediately tries to make it better, thank god Y/n has waterproof mascara, the dress must remain unharmed.

Warnings: Whump, Blood, injury, descriptions of wound, threat, violence, vague explanations of sanitary products to two, massive Horsemen.

Summary: Trapped over the shoulder of a giant, you're taken on a trip across the Void, all the while having your privacy invaded, your humanity called into question, and your nerves completely and utterly frayed. You meet another stranger, but you aren't too sure that this one isn't even more terrifying than your captors.

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It is with an... admittedly puerile reluctance that War has to admit his brother may have been right about the little creature currently draped across his broad, left shoulder.

While it's possible you could belong to any number of species, it's becoming abundantly clear to him that you might not be a glamoured demon after all. No demon War has ever encountered has been this... helpless. Though a few have admittedly come close.

That isn't to say you haven't been putting up an admirable fight – thrashing wildly beneath his heavy gauntlet and striking at his back with your tiny fists. It's just that the strength behind your fight is pitifully ineffective.

When it becomes clear that pounding your fists against his shoulder won't convince him to put you down, you resort to using your little, rounded fingernails to scrabble uselessly and frantically at the thin layer of black leather he wears beneath his armour, accomplishing little else but to satisfy an itch that's been steadily working its way up his shoulder blade.

It would seem, to War, that it's in your nature to choose flight over fight.

Even now, you're far more preoccupied with the desperation to be free than you are with finding a solution to earn your freedom. You haven't caused a lick of damage to the Horseman. It's as if you aren't even trying to.

Nothing about your makes sense to War. He doesn't believe you're a human, not for a second, though he'll begrudgingly admit that you bear many similar features to one.

But if not a human... then what in the nine realms are you?

The only explanation he can fathom is that you must be hiding behind the magic of a glamour. If that's the case however, then you should have revealed your true form by now. He and his brother might have dealt any number of blows against you by now.

Why continue to hide?

It's a conundrum the hulking Nephilim continues to silently ponder over as he trundles along the path ahead of Strife.

Ever vigilant, War keeps his senses honed on the void around him, a tricky feat given that his ears can't quite tune out the very one-sided conversation taking place at his back.

His brother, it seems, has taken it upon himself to antagonise their unwilling tagalong by absconding with the strange, white satchel you'd been carrying over your shoulder.

The younger Horseman's lips curl into a frown, disgruntled by his brother's tendency to pilfer.

With unashamed nosiness, Strife plunges his curious fingers inside, rifling through your belongings whilst you slump defeatedly over War's shoulder, one of your elbows dug firmly into his back with your chin propped up on a palm.

At least you seem distracted into silence by Strife's thievery, sparing the younger Nephilim's ears from your piercing cries and pleas to be released. With every step War takes, he instead catches the gentle rustle of your dress next to his ear.

“So, you got a name, kid?” the gunslinger asks, pulling an unfamiliar coin from your satchel and holding it up in front of his helm for inspection, “You can call me Strife.”

The tangible blanket of quiet he's met with is enough of an answer in itself. Perhaps sensibly, it seems you don't trust either of them with your name.

War almost snorts aloud at your stubborn uncommunicativeness.

If there's one thing he's learned from travelling alongside his brother, it's that trying to ignore Strife is like trying to ignore a grenade exploding near your feet.

Inadvisable, and simply impossible.

“No name, huh?” Strife shrugs his armoured shoulders, entirely nonchalant as he drops the coin into the depths of your satchel once more and begins rooting around for other treasures, “All right. Suit yourself. I'm pretty good at namin' stuff. How'd you feel about... uhh... Princess?”

War registers a minuscule fist bunching itself into the fabric of his cloak.

“No?” his brother pries when it becomes clear the only response he'll receive is your tearful, exasperated glare, “Tiny, then? Half-pint? Little Lady-”

The younger Horseman can hardly blame you when, after only a few seconds of being subjected to Strife's incessant suggestions, you finally cut him off with a nervous bark. “- God, fine! It's Y/n. Happy?”

“Y/n Happy?” Strife snorts, lazily pulling a piece of lint from your bag and flicking it off his fingers, “That's a weird name.”

Bristling, you grit your teeth and shoot back, “It's just Y/n...”

War can already hear his brother's terrible joke before it even leaves his mouth.

“... Oh, well then. Pleased to meet you, Just Y/n.”

You really should have seen that one coming. Closing your eyes, you unclench your fists and press each palm smoothly against War's back, forcing out through tight lips, “Y/n...”

All at once, Strife's eyes light up and he thunks a gauntlet to his helm, disturbing the peace of the Void with a volatile 'clang' of metal on metal. “Oh! Y/n!” he exclaims, “... Why didn't you say so?”

Rolling his eyes, War steps easily over a yawning gap between two, floating boulders, at which point you make the mistake of glancing down, spotting the continuous drop into the mists far below you - a sight that pulls a murmur of alarm from your lips.

“So, Y/n,” Strife adds as he hops over the gap after War, apparently unwilling to let the very unbalanced conversation peter out, “You got a lot of weird stuff in here. No weapons though. Sorry, War!”

Up ahead, his brother merely grunts in reply, though he's privately assuaged by Strife's forethought to at least check.

“Say, what's this doohickey?”

Heaving a weary sigh, you tear your eyes off the ground below you and raise your head to see what the Horseman has plucked from your bag, giving the little, cotton tube a brief glance before you deadpan, “That's a tampon.”

Unable to resist the lure of curiosity, War turns his head to spare a look over his shoulder at the unassuming object, slanting one, silver brow as Strife holds it up and dangles it in front of his mask, pinching a tiny, blue string between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh... What's it do?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

A part of you is half convinced that you've somehow died and this is Hell. And Hell is apparently a place where you have to explain sanitary products to a couple of armoured giants.

Your mouth drops open and you blink dumbly at the silver-clad Horseman. “Are you serious?”

You've met some clueless men in your life, of course, but with these two, you suppose you shouldn't be surprised as to their ignorance.

You're still not entirely sure if they're human.

Lifting his shoulders, Strife gives you a noncommittal shrug. “I'm never serious,” he tells you seriously, then adds, “But yeah, I have no idea what this thing is.”

Eying him dubiously, you turn your face to the side and narrow your gaze, cautiously venturing, “They, um... absorb blood.”

Over your shoulder, War lets out a grunt. “Hemostatic dressing,” he says, nodding in apparent comprehension, “You carry one around with you everywhere you go?”

“You must get yourself hurt a lot, huh,” Strife adds as he drops the tampon back into your pilfered bag and instantly starts digging around inside for your other personal effects.

Pursing your lips, you raise your brows and mutter, “Oh yeah, at least once a month.”

The Horseman carrying you shifts his grip and clamps his hand more firmly against the back of your thighs, taking a far larger stride from one floating platform onto the next, unsurprised to feel you twist your fingers securely into his cowl when the ground drops away below you once more.

Perhaps you really are as weak as you look.

It's to your utmost dismay that the next object to be pulled free from your bag is a golden tube of lipstick. “Woah,” Strife remarks, fiddling around with it until he works out how to pop the lid off, tilting the tube towards his mask to squint down at the colourful stick of wax, “What's this do?”

“What, have you been living under a rock?" you respond, voice taut, "That's lipstick.”

“Lip stick? The hell's that?”

Vexed at his brother's ignorance, War gives his tongue a sharp, impatient click and spouts, “Clearly it is intended to fasten the lips of her enemies together, to prevent them from running their mouths.” After a brief pause, he turn his head to address you over his shoulder. “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate its use on Strife.”

“Haa,” his brother chuckles wryly, “You'd like that, wouldn't you, tough guy? But which one of us is wearing a visor?”

As if in threat, spends a couple of seconds playing with the tube until he gives the bottom of it an experimental twist, successfully swivelling the lipstick up and halfway out of its casing before he aims the tube at the back of War's head, all of which you watch with rapidly dawning horror.

In spite of your sense of self-preservation, you fail to keep yourself from acting on an impulse.

“No!”

At once, to both of their surprise, your body jolts and you try to lunge forwards towards Strife, swiping an arm out as if to grab the stolen lipstick, but with a colossal gauntlet laying heavily across your thighs, you miss by a mile and end up collapsing back over War's shoulder, crying out, “Don't! Don't you dare waste that! That's Chanel! Delilah let me borrow it for today, she'll tear me to pieces if it gets ruined!”

“Relax, kid, I'm not gonna use it on you,” Strife says assuringly as he advances on his brother, “Just on War.”

“If you put your hands anywhere near my mouth, you'll lose your trigger finger,” War retorts flatly.

“Oh yeah?” Strife's golden eyes flare brightly with impish glee. “How're you gonna bite me if your lips are stuck together?”

“Th-that's not what it does!” you try to explain, struggling to get the words out fast enough, “It doesn't... I use it to turn my lips a different colour! That's it!”

To your relief, the lipstick's slow crawl towards the back of War's hood abruptly halts.

“Oooh...” Strife perks up, withdrawing his arm and snapping the fingers of his free hand. “Oh! Sounds like that stuff Fury uses to stain her lips. What's it called again?”

“Carmine,” War returns without hesitation.

Mouth agape, you stare apprehensively as the silver giant drops Delilah's precious lipstick back into your bag. Only once it's no longer in danger of being used as a weapon do you exhale the breath you'd unwittingly trapped inside your chest.

At least if you do manage to escape this, you won't have to worry about Cain's sister finishing what these two have started.

With a disgruntled shake of your head, you ask, “What are you two talking about? Who's Fury? A-and what the hell is carmine?”

Strife's eyes flash towards you just a little too eagerly, pleasantly surprised that you've asked.

“Fury's our sister!” he starts to tell you, only for War to cut him off with the answer to your latter question.

“-Carmine is extracted from the shells of bomb bugs and scarabs,” he mutters stonily, “She crushes them to extract the acid and and smears her lips with the remains.”

A palpable beat of silence stretches between the three of you. Slowly, you let your jaw creak open, brows twisting together. Then, when your expression adequately matches your revulsion, you let out a long, squeamish, “.. Eeeewww!!!”

The noise startles a laugh out of Strife, whilst War merely grunts his agreement. “Mm, I never did see the appeal in it myself.”

“How'd you know so much about Fury's lip staining habits anyway?” Strife asks.

The look he receives from the other Nephilim is cold enough to turn his blood to ice. “I do not wish to revisit the bleaker days of my youth...” War says slowly.

“... Oh yeah. I think I remember.” Throwing his head back, the older Horseman barks out another short laugh, resting his hands over his hips. “Death thought you two were tryin' to kill each other.”

“She was attempting to put insect viscera on my face. We were trying to kill each other.”

You're beginning to think you should have jumped off that rocky plateau while you had the chance.

“Hey,” Strife adds, his tone mockingly sympathetic, “At least you looked good in red, right?”

“One more word out of you, brother, and I shall stain my lips with your blood.”

Maybe if you could convince him to put you down for a second, you could still take that leap, on the off chance that this really is all a dream, and the sensation of falling will be enough to finally wake you up.

Apparently satisfied that he's managed to make the man carrying you nice and riled, Strife settles back into a lazy gait and hums pleasantly, raising his eyes to meet yours and tipping his head to the side like a curious bird. At least he stops pulling out your belongings, seemingly content for the time being to observe you instead, your bag dangling over one of his elbows. It'd be a comical sight if the straits weren't so dire.

Swallowing thickly, you lock your jaw tight and angle a watery stare at the uneven ground passing swiftly beneath the larger brother's boots. All the while, you can feel Strife's eyes sear the top of your head like a pair of burning suns.

He's studying you, and if you weren't so exhausted from your failed escape attempts, you'd probably have the sense to study him right back, perhaps search for any kind of weakness or a chink in his armour.

If it wasn't clear by size alone, the fact that War hasn't even vaguely struggled to keep you situated across his shoulder with a single hand is enough to convince you that you won't be forcing your way out of this mess. Apparently, you'll have to resort to using your brain... Which frankly doesn't infuse you with a lot of hope.

You couldn't even wrangle your way out of an unwanted wedding, how the Hell are you supposed to come up with a way to escape two, armoured titans?

Hopelessness is a heavy feeling. You bitterly hope it makes you heavier to carry, though War hasn't shown any signs that he's struggling to bear your weight as of yet.

It isn't long before your oddball kidnappers bring you to a curving stone staircase that sweeps and stretches in a spiral up towards yet another platform of rock floating high over your heads.

Sickly, green light spills over the lip of the steps, cast by some unseen source that originates from somewhere on the rock above you.

Ascending takes time, but even then, your stoic mode of transport doesn't even shift to adjust you in his grip.

Cain had once made a remark about putting his back out if he had to carry you over the threshold of your new home, but the man holding you now is as unimpeded as you would be carrying a feather. The strength in those muscles that ripple below your torso is terrifying.

You're jostled suddenly from your thoughts as War makes a wide step over a missing section of the stairs.

Your first clue that something isn't quite right is when hard, metallic fingertips gradually start to dig into your thighs through the dress until you wince, shifting around as if you could escape the pressure. Worried for the silk and tulle, you're just about to tell him to ease up when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a subtle change in Strife.

You don't like the way one of his hands has moved to rest languidly over the barrel of his pistol's holster, and for a gut-wrenching second, you wonder if you've done something to set them off, but the silver giant is no longer looking at you at all. His eyes are instead fixed on the platform you're steadily climbing towards.

Their sudden edginess only serves to whittle away at your flimsy backbone.

What could these titans possibly be worried about?

“Um... Where exactly are you taking me?” you gulp, subconsciously curling yourself a little more tightly around War's shoulder.

Strife's gaze doesn't shift from its unseen mark, even as he responds to you. “We're as much strangers in this place as you are, kid.”

At his admission, the darkness of the void seems to press in around you and you shrink even further into yourself, limbs too stiff with unease to reach up and tug your veil down over your face.

All too soon, War's stride leads you all over the top of the steps. He doesn't make it a metre from them before you're suddenly jerked in place as he stops dead in his tracks, body turning rigid as stone underneath your belly.

Strife however, stalks right past his brother and continues further out onto the rock until you lose sight of him altogether, unwilling to twist around to see past your captor's immeasurable bulk.

Facing back down the staircase, you're blind to whatever they have locked in their sights.

“Well, I was expecting Samael, but Horsemen..?”

Oh...

A new voice slithers into your ears, slow and shuddersomely cold, and you're instantly struck by the image of a snake flicking its forked tongue to taste the air around it.

“Things are getting interesting.”

It's the kind of voice that deters you from crying out to it for help.

You expect hostility from the two brothers. You even expect a fight to break out - They seem the type to be inclined.

You certainly don't expect Strife to promptly greet the stranger in a manner that could be construed as borderline friendly.

“Hey! Vulgrim, right?” he asks, “The Soul-Eater? Dig the nickname.”

You beg to differ with his last statement. “The what?” you hiss, whipping your head left and right, as though you might catch a glimpse of the being who could earn such a horrifying nickname.

“Strife,” the voice greets in a slimy, rasping lilt that slides up your spine like chilly fingers, grating on your ear drums, “Like me, your reputation precedes you.”

You're suddenly overwhelmed by the urgent need to see the owner of the voice, if only because you don't think you can stand to have your back to it a moment longer.

Planting your palms against War's sturdy shoulder blade, you push your torso upright, straining your neck over a shoulder to try and catch even a glimpse of the newcomer.

The Horseman's unreasonably large pauldron obscures most of your vision, but what little you do manage to catch in the corner of your eye is enough to still the rattling breath in your lungs.

The crown of a head looms high above the Horsemen, adorned by a pair of black, crooked horns that jut forwards like prongs from its hooded headdress, though that's all you're able to see before War promptly gives his shoulder a rough shrug, dislodging your hands and sending you crashing chin-first into his back once again.

“Ow! What the Hell was that for!?” you complain, only to receive a gruff, “Quiet,” in response.

You realise too late that he may have been trying to keep you quiet for a reason.

“Oh? What's this?” the voice crawls over the airwaves towards you again, “Have you brought me a delicious morsel on which to feast?”

The muscles below you somehow grow even more rigid as War bristles, and the sensation of cold, unpleasant air whooshes against the exposed skin of your ankles. Whatever it is has just swooped closer.

“Mmm, how enticing,” it gushes, “And... Oh! How daring! I assumed they weren't to be touched.”

All of a sudden, War's body quakes below you under the force of his own, booming shout. “Keep your distance, wretch!”

You doubt his hostility is out of concern for your wellbeing.

The resounding chuckle is by far your least favourite noise to have left this newcomer's mouth.

“Pardon my curiosity,” it drawls as a shadow slowly creeps around War's shoulder, “It isn't every day I'm offered meat as rare as this...”

Stiffly, you twist your head sideways, your pulse hammering fit to bust when the familiar sight of those jagged, charcoal horns poke into view.

Stale air fills your lungs, drawn in by a quiet gasp as an awful, impossible countenance finally reveals itself.

What had Strife called it?

Vulgrim?

Well.... It's grim, all right.

Half cloaked in the shadows of its purple headdress, a ghastly, hellish face peers down at you from around War's bulging arm, gaunt and skeletal with sunken eye sockets, inside of which sit a pair of shrewd, devilish eyes that gleam the colour of envy.

Your throat is too tight to scream, but you manage to eke out a croak of abject terror as you sweep a glance over its face, taking in the dark cavity where a nose should be, and – far more alarmingly – the wide jaw that's stuffed so full of large and jagged fangs that they seem to spill out of its mouth, unhidden by any semblance of lips.

Its eyes lock with yours and that same mouth stretches into a lecherous grin, pulling at sallow, grey cheeks until the skin creaks in protest.

The... creature – for what else are you to call it? - parts its jaws to speak.

But you beat it swiftly to the punch.

“FUCK!” you promptly shriek, scrabbling sideways along War's back as best you can and keeping yourself at bay by digging the heels of your palms behind his spine, “What in the mother of FUCK!?”

That's not possible... It can't be possible.. That's... beyond the scope of your imagination, of your comprehension. You can only stare in dread at the monster leering down at you, your eyes burning with the absence of a blink.

'Vulgrim's' smile only grows wider.

“Vocal little thing,” he remarks, drifting backwards on a pair of leathery, vestigial wings when War shifts his weight around to face him again. Evidently, the Horseman is reluctant to let him get too close to his blind spot.

You however, find yourself facing the opposite direction once more, a fact that you vehemently loathe now that the creature is behind you again. What in God's name was that?

“How in the Nine Hells did you get your hands on a human?” Vulgrim continues as if you aren't currently flailing your legs to ward him away, “I thought the Council burned every path to the Third Kingdom. Not that I'm complaining, of course... I hear they're a delicacy.”

Your valiant efforts to yank yourself out from under War's colossal gauntlet is as fruitless as ever, yet still you try, your grunts and whimpers through gritted teeth the only sound that permeates the silent void.

You don't even notice how the air around you has grown charged with electric animosity.

Eventually, it's Strife who speaks up, and the dangerous growl in his tone is enough to stop your escape attempts.

“What'd you just say, demon?”

You fall deathly still as metal boots stomp across the stone, growing more ferocious with every step, like he's trying to cause the ground itself to crack through his weight alone. “Vulgrim, what the Hell did you just say!?”

To his credit, Vulgrim actually seems perplexed when he responds. “The... Council? They... destroyed-”

“- every path,” Strife brusquely interrupts, “Yeah, we know. Before that – you asked how we got our hands on a human.”

Tentatively, you boost yourself up on War's shoulder again to try and see what's happening past the ruffles of your dress.

“Yes, I did...?” Vulgrim draws out the answer, green eyes devoid of pupils darting between you and Strife, as if he's trying to connect a pair of crucial clues. “I fear I'm missing a point of some kind.”

You flinch again when War booms out, “Why claim she's a human?”

To this, the stranger almost sounds offended. “Well, I may not have the nose of a hound or a goreclaw, but I can assure you, I'd recognise the stench of a human anywhere...” He scowls at you disdainfully for a moment, sending you ducking your head to hide a bit further behind War's pauldron, “Even if it is disguised beneath that rancid, floral odour.”

Belatedly, you realise he must be talking about your perfume.

The metal fingers sitting heavily on the back of your thighs suddenly clamp down like a bear trap, hard enough to pull a squeak of pain from your lips as sharpened tips poke at you through the layers of your dress.

To his credit, War's hand goes slack almost as soon as you cry out, though you hardly take that into consideration when Strife pipes up again. “Okay, but how do you know she's human? How'd you know she isn't a glamoured demon?”

You almost want to interject with a scream. Not this again. How can they know what a human is yet not recognise one when they see it?

Vulgrim seems only too pleased to elaborate. With a wave of his grey, spindly hand, he replies, “While your little morsel here only bears a vague resemblance to a human being-”

You can't help but scowl, realising that you should probably be offended.

“- and though it certainly smells a great deal cleaner, there's no hiding that underlying stench. Every species has a unique aroma. It's... not unlike a fingerprint, I suppose. And besides, glamour cannot fool a demon,” he finishes smugly, “Or did you forget that we're the ones who came up with that magic?”

Neither Horseman speaks for some time, long enough that your arms start to ache and you reluctantly ease yourself down, losing sight of Vulgrim again, much to your chagrin.

“Yeaaah... I call bullshit,” Strife scoffs suddenly, sounding far more casual now than he had been moments ago.

You hear the distinct sound of a tongue being clicked before Vulgrim spreads a pair of long arms out wide, drawing your gaze to the three-inch talons that sit at the end of each finger. Only four fingers, you note absently, including the thumb... Hardly information you'll retain, but in the moment, it strikes you as something utterly and horribly inhuman.

“Tch! If you don't believe me, Horseman,” he gripes, “You can always just kill it to be certain. Glamour magic wasn't made to withstand damage.”

Oh. You're really starting to hate this Vulgrim character.

Raising your palm to smother a choked sob, you try to think of something – anything you could say that might turn the Horsemen away from such an unfavourable idea, but before the words spring to mind, War speaks, grasping your attention.

“Perhaps we needn't kill her,” he rumbles slowly, shifting his hooded head, presumably to address Strife, “Do you recall Death's story? Of how he dispelled the disguise of the demon, Asmodeus?”

There's a beat of silence before Strife replies with a baffled huff, “You actually listen to his stories?”

“All it took was one slice of Harvester's blade,” War forges ahead, heedless of his brother's inane query, “Even the most powerful glamour will fail if blood is spilled. The demon speaks the truth.”

Without warning, thick, metallic fingers curl into the back of your dress and you're hoisted rudely off the Horseman's shoulder, and before you can even utter a word of protest, you're dropped in a rumpled heap on the ground.

“Oof!” Your chin smacks painfully against hard, unforgiving stone, yet you aren't given a second to recover. Once again, War's gauntlet snatches your forearm and with a single and effortless tug, he hauls you onto your feet.

The moment your shoes touch the ground, you try to make a run for it, though your escape attempt is cut woefully short with War's grip fastened around your wrist.

Snarling, he yanks you back towards him, looming over you as you twist in his grip and start to beat frenetically against the metal fingers of his gauntlet, crying out, “Please don't hurt me!” You're entirely nonplussed by the way your voice catches pitiably in your throat. “I'm a human! I – I swear! Why are you doing this!?”

A hot breath hits you in the face, followed by War's deep, resonant growl. “To expose a liar.”

Behind you, Strife chimes in, “To find out if you really are who you say you are.”

Then, in an soft tone that doesn't sit in keeping with his stature at all, he adds, “Nothin' personal, kid.”

“Wait, w-wait! Wait! Please!” you cry.

“Face your fate with some dignity,” War rebukes, glowering down at you until you seal your lips together and sniffle wetly, terrified that if you make too much noise, he'll do far worse to you than whatever it is he already has planned.

Only after you fall silent does he emit a dismissive grunt, flicking his gaze over to Strife. “Would you care to do the honours?”

Tears glisten persistently on your eyelashes and no matter how much you try to blink them away, they're only replaced by a fresh coat moments later, their predecessors rolling like rivulets down your cheeks and dripping off your chin.

Following War's gaze, you fix your bleary eyes on his brother, unable to see whether or not he's peering back at you.

He is, of course, though you can't tell through the tears warping your vision. That sharp, unreadable glare studies your face for a long moment until at last, Strife twists his helm sideways with a huff and folds his arms over a wide chest.

“Nah,” he sniffs, “I don't wanna get blood on my boots.”

Charming.

You nearly miss the moment War pulls his immense sword off his back and yanks on your wrist, drawing you roughly towards him with a single tug.

But you don't miss the cold, deadly-sharp blade pressing against your open palm.

“Wh-!” Your heart's frantic beats reach their deafening crescendo. “What are you doing!?”

War doesn't bother to respond, he only tightens his already crushing hold on your wrist until your knees start to buckle and you let your mouth fly open soundlessly, fingers curved into rigid claws as the pain of bone grinding on bone momentarily overrides your panic.

All the while, Strife's eyes remain hard as stone, but beneath his mask, hidden by the metal, his teeth close firmly over his lower lip.

His brother's gauntlet flexes around Chaoseater's grip, blue eyes narrowing on the palm of your hand.

One cut to find out the truth.

Sure it'll hurt, but the ends justify the means...

… Don't they?

Strife's hand twitches once, and he has to bite down on an exasperated groan. “Oh for the love of... Hey, War?”

Just like that, everything stops.

His brother's eyes burn under his hood whilst yours spill liquid like a broken fountain, whipping your head around to stare blearily up at Strife. He can see the desperate pinch of hope on your face at his interference... All at once, he finds it surprisingly difficult to meet your gaze.

Tearing his eyes away from yours, he glances down to where Chaoseater's blade is still pressed to your palm.

“Cut her forearm instead, yeah?”

From the corner of his eye, he watches your face crumple as the last of your dwindling hope falls out through the bottom of your shoes.

War's expression, however, has turned notably sardonic, brows raised and eyelids lowered to half obscure the flat stare he aims at his brother.

There's only one way to perceive Strife's sudden request.

Regardless of species, a common rule of biology is that there are far more nerve endings in the palm of a hand than there are in the back of an arm.

It doesn't really matter where the Horseman draws blood – he'll get it from you one way or another, but it'll hurt you a hell of a lot less if he takes it from your forearm.

Strife is offering you mercy.

War might have taken the moment to accuse his brother of going soft if he didn't think it'd earn him a black eye, and besides, he doesn't necessarily have to follow Strife's suggestion...

The younger Horseman spares your face a fleeting glance.

Glistening cheeks, intricate eyes that dance with tears, a quivering bottom lip... He hasn't even hurt you yet, and this is the state you're in?

Grumbling something in a language you don't understand, War heaves a begrudging sigh, but after a brief hesitation, he finally pulls Chaoseater from your palm and moves the blade to rest against your outer forearm instead, in the space between his gauntlet and the juncture of your elbow. Pausing, he quirks a sleek, white brow over at his brother as if to say, 'Happy?'

Strife's only response is to offer a nonchalant shrug.

Ignoring your blubbered pleas for him to wait and 'think about what he's doing,' War returns his attention to the task at hand, testing the weight of his sword and eyeballing the width of your arm.

Time to expose you for what you really are.

At last, in one, fluid motion, he draws Chaoseater's cragged blade easily across your skin.

You think you scream.

The agony that wraps itself around your limb is quite unlike anything you've ever had the displeasure of experiencing before in your life. In an instant, you realise that up until this moment, you've lived a relatively pain-free existence.

Right in front of your eyes, your forearm opens up for the hungry blade. Paper-thin skin falls apart in the wake of the sword's path, exposing the muscle below and unleashing a torrent of crimson, glistening blood that begins to gush abundantly from the wound, streaming down the curve of your arm like water.

You suddenly become aware of a hideous ringing in your ears, loud and unbearable as an ambulance siren, and it's only when you run out of breath that you realise your mouth is hanging ajar and the bloodcurdling scream is pouring out of you.

Without warning, the metallic hand releases your wrist and you go tumbling backwards, landing painfully on your coccyx, though your eyes remain transfixed on the inch-deep cut that's been gouged out of your flesh. It burns like someone has lit a fire under your skin, a fire you can't get away from.

Pulled down by gravity, the blood begins to gather beneath your arm. Your eyes flash to the widening droplet that threatens to fall at any moment, and in a burst of sheer thoughtlessness, you hurl yourself forwards onto your knees and stretch your bleeding limb out in front of you, keeping it well clear of your wedding dress.

Your head feels woozy, a pounding pulse beating against your eardrums, muffling Strife's voice as he hisses through his teeth. “Dammit, War! Did you have to go so deep?”

Slowly, shakily, sounds begins to filter through the haze of your agony and panic. Everything turns sharp again in a flash – a little too sharp, likely an effect of the adrenaline currently sweeping through your veins.

Staring down at you, War resists taking a step back, his brows slowly drawing together until they form a solid, ivory line across his forehead.

“She hasn't changed,” he hedges.

Up until now, he'd been convinced that you were lying. He just.. hadn't figured out to what extent. He never dreamed you'd actually been telling the truth, when the truth was just so unbelievably farfetched.

But as he eyes you bleeding on the ground, he doesn't catch even the tiniest ripple of failing magic, nor a whisper of another form hiding underneath your skin.

You... weren't lying... And if you weren't lying, then that means... he's just put his blade to someone who never had a fair chance to fight back.

Perhaps if he were a different Horseman like his older siblings, he'd brush that fact aside with ease, but War's principles have always been abnormally high, especially for a Nephilim.

You hadn't attacked him. Hell, you hadn't posed a threat at all to either of them. It had never been a fair fight. You aren't even armed, for Creator's sake.

A sense of wrongfulness settles like a rock in the Horseman's expansive chest.

Drifting up beside him, Vulgrim reminds everyone of his presence by smacking his lips and announcing in a smug drawl, “I tried to tell you.”

Slowly, War's hardened stare drops down to Chaoseater. The blade is thrumming hungrily, unsatisfied with such a meagre taste of blood and wholly unconcerned by the realisation that's swiftly dawning on its wielder.

“She's an innocent....” War stresses, predominantly to himself.

The heavy thunk of metal boots signals Strife's arrival at his side.

“She's a human,” his brother breathes incredulously, his eyes growing round with wonder.

Together, they stare down at you with equal degrees of astonishment, neither Horseman quite sure what to make of this development but both certain that they've just stumbled upon the impossible.

Sudden movement to War's right snaps the two brothers from their state of shock as effectively as a slap to the face.

Vulgrim has made the ill-fated decision to drift a few feet closer to you.

A 'shing' of metal accompanies the click of a gun's fallen hammer, and the demon stops short, suddenly finding the tip of Chaoseater pointing directly at his exposed throat.

In a jarring shift of priorities, the Horsemen round on him as one, War's shoulders squared and his expression set in that infamously thunderous scowl that would send a lesser demon running. Strife too has shaken off any lingering vestiges of shock to glower up at the merchant, growling, “That's close enough, pal.”

Vulgrim may be many things, not all of which are particularly pleasant, but he's no fool.

Flitting backwards at once, he holds up a pair of long, bejewelled hands in a placating gesture, yet he can't resist casting a hopeful glance over Strife's head, his green eyes drinking in the sight of freshly-spilled blood.

“Oh, come now, Horsemen,” he gripes, “You'll spill a human's blood all over my floor, but you won't even let me have a taste?”

In the corner of one eye, Strife notices his brother's finger twitch around Chaoseater's grip, the closest thing to a flinch War will ever permit himself.

The silver-clad Horseman's brows furrow beneath his helm as he absently tries to recall whether War had flinched even once during the battle against his own kind.

“Not another step, demon,” War growls.

Gradually, so as not to spook you, Strife turns himself about, trusting that his brother will keep Vulgrim at bay if necessary.

Amber eyes fall upon you and instantly sweep down to the arm that you're cradling out in front of you, your features pinched by a glazed, faraway expression.

Shock... he imagines.

“Ah... shit.” Exhaling softly, Strife risks a step closer and lowers himself down onto one knee within arms reach of you, lifting a hand to rub awkwardly at the base of his neck.

You don't react to his sudden proximity, never once tearing your eyes from the cut in your arm.

A Nephilim – Hell, even a demon or an angel wouldn't even balk at such a shallow wound... But then... you're not a Nephilim, are you? Nor are you a demon, or an angel...

'... Human...'

The name of your species still sounds so foreign to his ears.

A thousand questions fly at him from every direction his mind tries to spin him in, but it's the most pressing that rises above the others and falls off his lips in a quiet murmur.

“You okay, kid?”

Even before he says it, he knows it's the daftest question he could have asked. You're clearly not okay. But what the Hell does one say to a creature who isn't even supposed to speak the same language? Who's barely supposed to have even developed a language at all?

They may have solved the mystery of what you are, but all they've really accomplished is to open up yet another puzzle for them to solve.

If nothing else, at least his voice seems to be the catalyst that eases you from your shock.

Everything inside you is screaming for you to run – flee. Danger is still very much present. You can't stay here, you're going to bleed out.

It's a challenge to string a complex thought together, yet at the sound of a low, husky voice calling out to you, you grow entirely still, suddenly becoming aware of the presence that looms in the space just ahead.

Wrenching your head upright is the only way to drag your stare off the blood cascading from your arm, but finding the Horseman's silver helm so close to you startles a shriek right out of your lungs.

In a burst of desperation, you scrabble up onto your feet, still clutching the underside of your injured limb. “Don't!” you exclaim.

To your dismay, Strife follows you up, towering high over your head as he stretches out a cautious gauntlet.

Bridling at its approach, you snap, “I said don't!”

Quick as a flash, he retrieves his arms, holding them up as if he's trying to soothe a spooked horse. “All right, I gotcha,” he assuages, “No touching. Read you loud and clear.”

Quivering with adrenaline, you retreat a step, horrified that he maintains the distance by taking a single stride forwards.

You recoil again when the silver titan splays his arms out wide, offering you his palms with a little shrug. “Hey, at least now we know you were tellin' the truth, right?” he chuckles breathlessly, like he's as thrown by this entire situation as you are.

The sharp retort that builds on your tongue is swallowed back an instant later when the red-cloaked giant turns to face you at last, his square jaw set like a thick, steel trap.

The demon behind him remains floating in place, apparently knowing better than to push his luck.

Suddenly, War begins to approach, sending your nerves flaring in palpable alarm.

On clumsy feet, you stumble backwards, eyes bursting open wide, though you soon find that War's lengthier gait vastly outpaces your shuffling retreat, and in terrifying seconds, he's upon you, his immense gauntlet reaching out for your arm once again.

The open wound gives a searing throb, as if it remembers the man who carved it in the first place.

With startling swiftness for such a large brute, he shoots out his hand and clamps it around your fist before you can pick a direction to flee in, swallowing the entirety of your appendage in his palm.

“No, no, no! Not again! Please!” you babble, wrenching on your trapped limb, only to let out an aborted cry as his grip turns crushing.

This time however, at your choked exclamation of pain, War hesitates.

For a second, he cocks his head, studying your twisted expression. And then, like a light has finally switched on in his skull, he blinks, and to your immense relief, his hold loosens considerably, as if he's only just realising his own strength.

Regardless, the iron grip on your hand still doesn't allow you to wrench yourself free. Tugging at all only earns you a rumbling growl that seems to emanate from somewhere deep within War's almighty chest.

With his other hand, he begins to reach for a small, brown pouch hanging from the scarlet cumberbund that's wrapped around his waist. In your fear-addled mind, the only thing you can imagine he's reaching for is that sword strapped to his back.

Knowing full well that fighting back is futile, you let out a quiet sob and screw your face up tight, ducking your head down low between your shoulders and feeling that telltale creep of anticipation along your spine.

With your eyes clamped shut, you don't see the strange vial filled with swirling, green liquid as he pulls it from his pouch, held delicately between two of his massive fingers. You don't even register the sound of a cork being unplugged from the bottle by a set of teeth.

But oh, you sure as Hell feel it when a hot, viscous substance is poured unceremoniously into the gash across your arm.

In an instant, your eyes flash open again and you have to stuff your teeth into your lip to hold back a scream when that caustic burn spreads out inside your limb.

Your first, perfectly rational assumption, is that he's just poured acid over the wound, but as you watch, squinting through streaming eyes, you quickly come to learn that isn't the case at all. Wisps of shimmering, emerald smoke rise out of your wound with an ear-scraping hiss.

Perhaps more distressingly though, you can see the blood inside the wound drying up, crusting over and turning brown at the edges, like you're watching a scab heal over in fast-forward. But the pain? The pain has already begun to subside.

“What... have you done to me!?” you croak, only to gag when the smoke disperses and you're left with an uninterrupted view of a shallow, pink cut, its margins significantly contracted, pulling towards the wound's centre. It almost resembles a particularly nasty scar, but you don't give any thought to whether it'll be a permanent feature on your arm, not when you have far more pressing concerns to address.

Against all odds, the excessive bleeding has stopped, and if it weren't for the trails of sticky blood coating you from wrist to elbow, you'd almost think it could have been an injury you sustained weeks ago.

Exhaling a raw, uneven breath, you blink dumbly at your own arm as War releases you and drops the half empty vial back into the pouch at his side, letting out a surly grunt. "There. Now, cease your incessant whining."

His brother sidles up beside him, staring up underneath his hood with such scrutiny that War begins to wonder if he's grown an extra head.

Amber eyes bulge comically behind a silver helm as Strife points an accusing finger up at his fellow Horseman and exclaims, “Was that a poultice?! Since when did you start carrying poultices!?”

War understands his brother's bafflement. It's a reputation he's rather proud of – to be known as the Horseman so sturdy and unassailable that he rarely, if ever, needs to rely on magic to heal his wounds.

Outwardly, one of his immense shoulders lifts into a shrug. “When Death caught wind of this mission, he came to find me and insisted I stock up,” he offers.

Underneath his helm, Strife's mouth tilts into a sly grin. “Aw, the miserable bastard cares about you after all, huh?”

“He did not give them to me for my own use,” War replies evenly, his own lips quivering against the temptation of a smirk, “He thought you'd be offended if he tried to hand them straight to you. He asked me to hold onto them in the inevitable event you'd need to see their use.”

Predictably, Strife's indignation becomes all too clear with the swell of his chest and the bristling of his black, spiked hair. Blowing a hot exhale through his nose, he snaps, “The Hell's he tryin' to imply? I don't need that asshole watchin' out for me!”

War only lifts his lips into a flat, placid line. “That remains to be seen, doesn't it.”

Their ensuing argument is abruptly cut off by a thin and rasping voice croaking out, “What... what was that stuff?”

As one, the Horsemen return their gazes to you, finding your wide, watery eyes blinking back up at them, still with your bad arm cradled out in front of you.

Strife has to admit, he's impressed you've managed to keep that strange, white garment blood-free. He's seen enough ivory feathers stained red to know that anything white is nearly impossible to keep clean.

Cocking a hidden grin at you, he replies, “That's a healing poultice – My brother's recipe.”

“Your...” Bloodshot eyes dart over to War and a little, pink tongue shoots out to nervously moisten dry lips. “Your brother?”

“Oh. No, not this one,” he amends, jabbing a thumb at War, “Our eldest. Death.”

What little colour had remained in your face drains away, leaving you with a complexion that's ashen and haunted. “Death?” you quake, “What the Hell kind of-... Why can't any of you have normal, innocuous names like... like Tim, or Greg!?”

At the back of the group, the demon pipes up, “What's wrong with Vulgrim?”

Barking out a derisive laugh, Strife shoots back, “Man, what isn't wrong with you?”

“She's trying to run,” War pipes up conversationally.

It takes a second, but soon enough, Strife's helm spins forwards again so quickly, he almost gives himself whiplash.

True to his brother's word, you've turned towards the staircase and made a rather pitiful escape attempt, your white dress bobbing up and down with a noisy rustle of fabric as you half stagger, half jog away from the Horsemen.

“Woah! Woah, hey! Hold up-”

You let out a strangled gasp when a pair of thick, armoured limbs curl around your waist and hoist you effortlessly into the air, legs kicking out to try and unbalance the behemoth at your spine.

Without warning, you're spun about with a shriek and plopped back onto the ground in front of War, who rises like a living mountain over your head, scowling at you down the length of his nose, though you're beginning to wonder if that's just the one expression he's actually capable of making. Strife, meanwhile, remains at your back, and it's with a terrible, sinking dread that you realise they've boxed you between them. A Horseman ahead of you and a Horseman behind you.

… Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place....

“Okay, human,” Strife announces, his hands alighting on his hips, “Think there may be a few trust issues here.”

A resentful scoff escapes your lips before you can seal them together. “A few?! You nearly cut my goddamn arm off!”

“Ah, c'mon,” he brushes your concern aside with a flippant wave of his hand, “It wasn't nearly that bad. Right, War?”

The larger Horseman flexes his oversized gauntlet that obscures his left hand, grunting in apparent concurrence.

“Besides!” Strife continues, “It was necessary.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you retort, “It was barbaric!”

“Hey, he healed you up afterwards,” he argues with a petulant huff, “You ought'a be grateful.”

“Gratefu-!” You have to cut yourself off, squeezing your eyes shut and inhaling loudly though your flared nostrils. Only when you trust your voice not to squeak do you peel your eyes open again and aim them at the ground near your shoes, shakily uttering, “I would be grateful if you'd just... let me go home...”

At that, Strife falls deathly silent, prompting you to force your gaze up the length of his armoured body until you can bear to meet his eye.

You can't even begin to fathom what's going on behind that helm, and even his voice is devoid of emotion when he finally responds, only to say, “We can't.”

Those two, damning words scare you almost as much as his brother does.

Your stomach rolls anxiously. “But... why not?” you beg, voice thick with desperation, “I don't want any trouble! I-I just want to go home!”

To your surprise, the Horseman abruptly shifts his weight back onto one leg and offers you an apologetic shrug. “Hey, look – If I could take you to Earth right now, I would-”

“-This is no place for a human,” War adds, nodding sagely.

“-Right,” his brother continues, “But when I say we can't, I mean we literally can't. Earth has been cut off.”

“...What?” you press, stomach sinking down to your shoes, “Cut off?”

You really don't care much for that phrase at all.

Strife's shoulder lifts in yet another shrug. “Council's orders. Access to Earth has been pretty much revoked.”

You can't believe what you're hearing. Literally. How can he expect you to believe what he's telling you? Shaking your head, you close your eyes and raise your hands, pressing manicured fingertips delicately to the inner corners of your lids. “And who the Hell is this... this Council!?”

Hesitating, the Horsemen exchange a furtive glance before Strife returns his gaze down to you and answers, “Well, they're... kind of in charge.”

When he doesn't elaborate further, you fling your eyes open and urge, “Of what?”

“Uh, everything? I guess?” Raising a hand, Strife scratches at the hair that juts from the back of his helm like ebony spines. “I'unno, I dont' really pay attention in the meetings.”

Furrowing your brow, you drop your eyes to the ground once more and stare pensively at the stone underfoot, your brain chugging along as it attempts to unscramble the vast influx of information you're being fed. It isn't long before a dull throb starts up in your temples.

Fine. You'll have to deal with your apparent descent into madness later. Right now, you have to solve this problem and try not to dwell on it too closely.

“You keep saying 'Earth,' like it's a third party...” you hedge carefully, lifting your head to Strife, “Why?”

You're startled – and somewhat agitated - by the Horseman's brusque snort of laughter. “Ha, for such an advanced human, you sure are-”

“-Ignorant?” War offers.

If you weren't so terrified of getting that sword drawn on you again, you'd shoot him a rancid glare.

Appeasingly, Strife replies, “I was gonna say uninformed."

You don't know how much longer you can stand this. It's as if neither of them can grasp the gravity of your situation. Or perhaps they don't want to. Pressure builds inside you like steam in a valve, piling on your wrecked nerves until at last, you let it out in a cry of frustration, stomping your pearly-white heel on the ground. Immediately, the pair of titans fall silent, turning to stare at you.

“Just.. tell me-!” you plead, “- if I'm on Earth right now, please? I-I just want a straight answer. Something that makes sense!”

Strife doesn't even hesitate.

“No, you're not on Earth,” he says.

And nothing more.

#darksiders #darksiders genesis #reader #war x reader #strife x reader #Vulgrim #We're getting there #had to split this into 2 chapters #Whump #hurt/comfort #fluff #Clueless Horsemen #Confused Reader #Horsemen of the Apocalypse #blood #injury #swords #demons

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