His mind is reeling and his body screaming, underneath him the earth quakes with the force of his fear (or is it just him)? The gunshots around him are deafening and the fire of the burning buildings blinding. Each life bleeds from one into the next and he cannot any longer tell the difference between life and death as he dies and lives again, all of it running together as his mind tries to comprehend the chaos, as his light tries to push forward. All he knows is that his staff is not enough, the electric energy that runs across it and throughout his hardy frame is now more harm than help, shorting out his circuits from overuse; but he cannot bear to take a break, not when the legion of fallen are endless, not when there are still so many innocent lives at stake.

There is no harm in retreat, he’s told. No harm in leaving to fight another day. But he cannot make himself no matter how his mind strains underneath the weight of all that happens around him. If he does not continue fighting there will be so many lost - so many who will not have another day and he cannot bear the thought like he can force himself to bear the stress of the battlefield.

It is too much.

-

The screams around Tobias are loud, almost deafening, but he cannot hear them over his own maniac laugh as he revels in the utter destruction. Cannot hear it over the sound of his own light forming beneath his fingers as he soars up into the sky, looking down upon the fallen like a vengeful god, feeling it dissolve into him again to heal his wounds before he casts it out once again, in the form of a falling star almost - though created from the emptiness of space, rather than the sun’s burning energy.

As he lands again there is a grin on his face, hidden beneath his helm and dimly illuminated by the fires that surround him. And he leaps into the sky - and does it again.

He clears them out hordes at a time, consuming his own light and throwing it out again, watching as his own creation of the void destroys anything caught within its - his grasp, like a madman, hungry for the destruction.

He’s almost too enthralled with his own enjoyment of such pure, unhindered chaos, that he almost doesn’t hear the call of his ghost.

“Guardian down!”

It grounds him quickly, his smile fading as he lets himself fall mid-flight, turning to see who had fallen with a seed of concern taking root into his heart. Another one lost? Light snuffed out from the endless enemies that begin to over crowd?

When he looks to the other side of the courtyard, he watches as the Hunter falls, and with them, his stomach, sinking like a rock into the ocean.

There is no question of what comes next, as he reaches out and he takes the first leaping step to the fallen Guardian, a hand outstretched with light forming beneath his fingers, pulling it in to his chest as it dissolves again and heals his wounds. In time for him to dive forward and pick up the Hunter - a small exo who’d caught him in a corridor not long ago - to bring him behind a rock, to bring him to relative safety.

For a moment he waits, watching for any signs of life as he cradles him, as long as he can, before he turns away with a frantic expression. The shadows on the walls are reaching to the sky and he knows the Fallen are closing in, so he takes a deep breath and soars up into the stars, reaching into them and taking the space inbetween, throwing it down to the ground so that it may pull the enemy in and tear them apart. It leaves behind only him and the hunter, as he lands gracefully to his feet again.

When he’s met with dull blue lights - which can only be his eyes shining through his helm - the same playful grin finds its way onto his face.

“I sure do hope that dying is not on your agenda.”

“The only thing on my agenda is to keep as many civilians alive as possible.”

“Then my friend, you are doing a poor job - in order to do that you have to stay alive yourself.”

The Hunter is frowning - he’s sure of it. Though it may be from reasons he does not expect, with the defeated posture that he has as he stands. Not many hunters carry themselves in such a way.

“That is difficult when you are on your own.”

the striker story mission was emotional for terrance

“I guess I need to be more forward when it comes to you.” from the random sentence starter prompts for a character of your choice. - @thornhands

I decided to go with Terrance-12 and his canon husband, Onyx-34. Both characters are mine.

find it here on google docs!

“I guess I need to be more forward when it comes to you.” The owner of the voice says it with a huff, crossing his arms and pouting to the giant man.

Said man perks at the statement, the constant rumble he emits dulling to a soft purr. The sensors underneath the faceplate flicker back to life to stare at the other, his antennae upright in his confusion.

Onyx had been laying with his head on his chest, curled comfortably in his lap while listening to the near-deafening rattle of his companion in the otherwise quiet room, one hand wrapped around his waist while the other idly played with his antennae. They were enjoying the boring afternoon tangled together like so while the other two members of their fireteam were out, but it seemed that Onyx was never much for holding still.

“What do you mean?” Terrance asks, uncrossing his arms and letting them sit low on the hunter’s hips to hold him in place as he sat up.

As Terrance was leaning forward Onyx took his face and pulled him in, pressing their lips together while the titan was caught off guard so that he would be unable to protest. As they came crashing into one another almost, his antennae perked again in surprise, before he allowed himself to relax into it.

They hold together like that for a long while, with Terrance’s hands releasing his hips so that he can wrap his arms around the other and hold his body flush with his own.

Eventually Onyx pulls back, much to Terrance’s disappointment, which is made apparent when he leans forward slightly in hopes that the hunter will reconnect their lips.

“I love you, damn it. I swear you’re about as observant as a rock wall sometimes,” he chides, though in good nature.

"Tell me something lame and poetic." Rhyas / Logan - @bulletproof--boyscout 2nd half of the request coming soon bc I wanted to do both prompts

Logan-9 belongs to them, and Rhyas-1 is mine c:

find it here on google docs!

If anyone were to describe him by his voice alone, they would say that he knows everything. It is deep and rumbles within the bottom of your chest, and speaks carefully, as if he plans each word like it will alter the course of all time should he be careless. Each one carries a weight that settles within you and brings time to a crawl, and by the time you realize the effect it has on you, you can’t find yourself to care.

He knows everything that has been, everything that will be. And he promises that wherever your journey takes you, you will be safe. That you will find home, and that you will belong.

It is grounding, to hear the way he speaks. It roots you to the earth beneath your feet and cradles you, protecting you from the darkness and its’ evils.

And Logan needed that, in this moment. Since the Cabal Invasion nothing has been set in stone, and there was nowhere she felt safe. Not without Saren. She needed the promise of safety his voice provided.

“Tell me something lame and poetic,” she says in a bored tone, stretching up in the spot she sits before laying back with her head in his lap. When she stares up to him, his antennae tilt back slightly in thought as they always do before he speaks.

“When you look at the stars, all you see is one thousand other versions of you, shining through a hole in the universe.” his voice is soft, knowing. It’s something she’s needed to hear, she realizes. But it doesn’t stop her from making her comment.

“Well what does that make the sun?”

“Your soul. The best and brightest you, so full of life that your body cannot contain it.” There is no hesitation when he speaks, and not a shred of doubt in his expression nor his words. She didn’t expect how ready he was for the question, nor the soft smile that she received when her look clouded over with surprise.

Myss belongs to @myssthyss !

There’s a hole in his chest and a hole in his heart. He reaches his hand through is only met with sparks jumping to it and coolant drenching it like blood.

thud thud thud

Like the beating of a heart he does not have he hears the steps of the broken knight. like the beating of a drum as the sun rises and he brings the blade above his head, an executioner. All too eager to see another head roll across the bloodied floor.

thud… thud… thud …

Like time slowing around him as his final seconds tick by.

tick… tick… tick…

Each is slower than the last. Each is not as heavy as the next. Soon it is all he can hear. A reminder of his own mortality. That he is no god, despite how he can live on the way others cannot.

He tries to stare at his covered hands, guilt eating at him as if it is the blood of all the lives he could not save. As if it was a testament to his sins, his own blood, if one could call it such. His sensors provide a poor image to him. His heart provides all too much shame to make up for it, to paint the picture he thinks he sees. Even though there is a hole in his chest where it used to be.

The slowing thoughts are cut off by a brief second of pain.

Then.

Nothing.

N O T H I N G.

N

O

T

H

I

N

G

.

.

.

Wakefulness.

He is jolted upright by the distant scream of his name, begging him to be alright, to come back. (All too familiar.)

When his sensors blink to life groggily he is met with a worried face, that glows and shimmers softly in the dim winter night. The frown on her face quivers, and eyes shine with a mix of fear and relief.

“Are you alright?” The voice sounds like it travels through water, too slow almost to be comprehended. He nods anyway, hoping that it is the right answer to what he presumes she has said. It isn’t convincing, he decides, because she slides from the temporary hammock that hangs on the other side of the room and sits on his bedside, offering her arms.

He takes it, as he always does, pulling her close and holding her tight. A comfort that he needs, that he’s not had for so long he’s almost forgotten what it feels like. His head presses to her shoulder and his fingers dig into the shirt she wears, his antennae pinned back to the point of physical pain as he tries to stave his tears.

He hasn’t noticed the way his chest glows. There’s a nasty scar there, proof that his dream had been real at one point, that he had lived through it. The metal of his cuirass is dented and torn away, exposing wires that function in that moment without problem. But they all glow, the scar glows. It is a sickly, poisoned green, as if the hole where his heart had been taken was made of a thousand seeing eyes, the Hive peering into their world from another.

But she has, and her eyebrows knit as she studies it. She remembers vaguely a story he once told her about when the Guardians tried to take back the moon, and makes the connection quickly.

“You’re safe now,” she promises. He nods in response, but the quaking of his body only lessens. His grip does not, and nor the force of his shuddering breaths.

They sit that way for a long time, with him clinging to her. Refusing to fall back into sleep, with the way his chest trembles with a pain long past.