#I pull no punches when drawing eri's scars | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ethanharli · 4 years

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Pairing(s): Shoto Todoroki x Top Male Reader.

Warning(s): Fantasy AU (I think I'm addicted to it now-), Angst, Fluff, Cursing, Fighting (heavily detailed), aged up characters.

DNI; if you use she/her pronouns.

_______

When the forest came into view all I could see was blue flames, while smoke clouded up the night sky, shielding the moonlight and creating a erie darkness. A messenger bird was sent to me not long ago by my lover Shoto, he said he needed help but I wasn't expecting everything to be this bad. "Shoto!" I shouted, guiding my horse to the edge of the forest before hopping off, looming around the burning trees for a certain two-toned male. "Stay here girl" I gently patted my horses muzzle before walking past the flames, not caring for how quickly they scorched my skin, I could endure any pain if it meant I'd be able to find him. "Shoto!!" My voice boomed throughout the forest, echoing off trees and the ash covered ground as I leaped over fallen trees and avoided burning bushes.

"[Y/n]..?" My head snapped towards the sound of Shoto's voice, quickly speeding past the trees until I finally found his hunched form leaning against a charred tree. "Shoto- are you okay?" I spoke quickly, kneeling down in front of him to scan him over, his body is littered in cuts and burns with small patches of frostbite on his right side. "I'm fine, but you're burning" His eyebrows pinched together as he starred at me, looking at the burns on my skin that I didn't much care for at the moment. "Stop being stubborn for once in your life damn it, you're hurt! I brought some friends to help get everyone out of here but I need to get you to a medic" I carefully put my fire resistant coat over his shoulders and turned my back towards him, helping him hop on until I had my hands secured under his ass to keep him up.

"Let's get goin' sweetheart" I muttered out, feeling the heat of his left side slowly burn through the layers of my shirt as I tried to walk out the forest. Watching out for trees and burning ash, I was determined to get Shoto out as soon as I could, already feeling anger boil up inside me from the fact I knew someone did this, someone burned the forest and hurt my lover. I couldn't stop the growl from ripping past my throat, but the feeling of Shoto cuddling into my back eased away some of my anger. It was when I saw my horse accompanied by many others, that I let out a sigh of relief, quickening my pace so that I could meet up with the others, but I was just a bit to slow.

A tree suddenly feel in front off me, causing me to jump back to avoid injury, but my blood slowly started to boil when I saw a male with stapled scarred skin was the cause of it, "Leaving so soon?" The males lips curved into a devious smirk that pissed me off to no end. "Depends, you willing to move that tree you so generously knocked down?" I smirked back, loving the way I irked him, but I knew better then to get into a pointless fight, what matters is getting Shoto to safety. I quickly looked around the area and took a step or so back from the male, making sure there was a good amount of distance between him and us, but that didn't seem to go unnoticed.

"Y'know you're not leaving here right? Trying to run away is pointless" Ah, well that's what he thinks. Tapping into my quirk I felt the fire around me suddenly burn hotter as I leaped backwards into the air, getting a good five or ten feet away from the male before taking off into a sprint, my lungs began to burn with the smoke that filled them, my skin feeling like it was practically melting off as I dropped to my knees, carefully setting Shoto on the ground in front of me. With a pained grin I gently traced the back of my fingers along his cheek, feeling my heart swell from the way he leaned into my touch, "I love you Shoto, I always will" And with a pained chuckle I kissed his forehead softly before making a drawed out whistle, calling out to any big animal near by.

"Found you" My eyes widened at the familiar tone, turning around slightly to see the scarred male with his hand pointing in my direction, and in one swift movement I lifted my coat over Shoto's head to cover his face as I shielded his front with my body. But all I could feel was an agonizing pain when the fire made contact with my back, black spots slowly seemed to fill my vision but I fought back against it, trying my best to lift myself off the ground when the male had finally stopped his attack. I could feel the muscle and tendons on my back slowly repair themselves as I turned towards our attacker, spotting a wolf not to far away. "You put up a mean fight.." I chuckled lowly, slowly feeling anger flood through my veins like molten lava.

"Now it's my turn" And I let it burn.

In a quick blur I stood in front of the male, reeling my fist back before punching him in the gut, sending the male flying back into the charred trees. "Get him to safety, I got a pest to deal with" I growled towards the wolf, not even waiting for a reply as I darted towards the villain yet again, not letting him get up as I landed a kick against his ribs, hearing a satisfying crack as I sent him flying yet again. The adrenaline and scorching hot anger pumping through my veins helped me ignore the black spots clouding my vision when I walked towards the broken male, watching as he tried to stand but miserably failed. I couldn't help but laugh and kick the man onto his back, pressing my foot against the center of his chest so he couldn't get up.

"Y'know I kill guys like you for a livin' and you're not that good at your job pal" I grinned devilishly, not caring that I could be breaking his rib cage at the moment, I still fumed from the fact he hurt my lover. But it was when he raised his hand towards my face that I knew I'd eat my words, he sent a burst of blue flames towards my face before falling into a purple-ish black hole, but all I could do was scream from the pain that engulfed me. All that adrenaline seemed to fade and reminded me of the pain that I was being put through, but I just couldn't move. Falling on my back I looked up at the smoke filled sky, taking in one more deep breath before I finally closed my eyes.

I just hope he'll be okay.

-----

"Mngh.." I groaned softly, slowly trying to sit up, but the weight on my chest stopped me from doing so. So with what strength I had I opened my eyes and prompted myself up on my elbow, blinking slowly I looked at my chest, seeing thick wraps of bandages around it, but what caught my attention what the mop of red and white hair brushing against my skin as he cuddled closer into my side. I couldn't stop the smile from growing on my face, feeling a slight heat spread through my cheeks as I moved onto my side and pulled him closer to me, wrapping my arm around his waist while my hand gently ran through his hair. "Idiot, you should be in your room" I breathed out, taking in the features of his face before gently brushing my fingers over his cheekbone, feeling my face heat up more when he leaned into my touch, slowly blinking his eyes open.

"Mornin' sweetheart" Regretting the chuckle I let out due to the pain that pierced through my back and face. His eyes widened slightly as he leaned up and hovered over me, taking my face in his hands, it pained me to see the tears that slowly gathered in those beautiful heterochromic eyes. "Hey it's okay.. I'm here Shoto, and I'm not going anywhere" I muttered softly, taking his wrist in my hand as I leaned into his touch, the tears just seemed to fall after that. "You're so fucking stupid" He whimpered out, and I couldn't help but chuckle at his words, knowing he was right but before I could say anything he quickly pressed his lips to mine, desperately pulling my closer to him.

Placing my palm against the small of his back I did my best to lean up and return the kiss, not caring for the pain that spread throughout my body from the small action. He was the one to pull away from the kiss, gently tracing his thumb along my cheekbone before looking me in the eye, letting his fingers carefully run over the bandage that covered the left side of my face.

"You're an idiot."

"I know."

"But I love you too.."

#bnha shoto todoroki #bnha todoroki #mha todoroki #x male reader #todoroki x male reader #todoroki x seme male reader #x seme male reader #todoroki x dom male reader #x dom male reader #mha #bnha

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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DARING DO and the ADVENTURE of the X'IBIAN VASE! : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 5 of 21

Return to the Master Story Index

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DARING DO and the

ADVENTURE of the X'IBIAN VASE!

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck) @ask-de-writer

And

Carmen Pondiego @askcarmenpondiego

Cover Art by

Doctor Dimension

52630 words

Writing begun 08/26/15

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

Down in the comfortable lounge, with its dark, almost cave like atmosphere, she relaxed and had the waiter sit with her. They were quietly chatting in X'ibian while watching the front doors, over in the area of the lounge open to the public.

Soon the doors opened and a confident young looking mare with a forelock, mane and tail of an amazing blue that was almost black walked in. She had a single eye, centered in her forehead. She was carrying a document case.

Two big earth ponies, easily half again her size got up from a table and stated, “Just hand over the papers, Miss. We are Doctor Do’s personal secretaries and we will give them to her.”

“No. My orders are to put them directly into Daring Do’s hooves ONLY.”

One edged behind her, pulling a knife. The other pulling threatening hoof, ready to punch, demanded, “Hand over the papers or we are going to have to get REAL rough, got it?”

Her smile of sheer delight should have been a warning.

She dropped the dispatch case and backed hard. That slammed the one behind her into the stout doors of the club. Reaching back and grabbing, she had the thug’s foreleg. She lifted it to her shoulder and snapped down, while driving forward with her hind legs. With an audible snapping and rending of the joint, he flipped up, horror on his face. She slammed him down like a big meaty hammer on top of his fellow thug!

That unfortunate was trying to make a grab for the case when he was flattened. The mare, an expression of pure joy on her face, hauled her “hammer” back and whipped him over again. He not only hit his fallen comrade, his head flopped back as he came down. The shattering of his neck could be heard throughout the room.

She hoof rolled the corpse off his buddy and leaped almost to the ceiling, landing on one hoof, putting the full weight and force of her body on the last one’s spine. The splintering of ribs and the softer snapping of his spine announced the death of the second thug.

He twitched once and lay still. The cyclops eyed mare, simply glowing with delight, carefully rolled both bodies to the tiled part of the entryway. She examined the carpets and gave a high hoof!

Speaking at last, she exclaimed, “Perfect! Not one drop of blood on the carpet!”

With her face composed to a light professional smile, she came to Daring Do’s table.

She placed the case on the table. Daring Do smiled up at her and said, “Thank you, Cyrene. It is an honor that Eris sent her documents in the company of her best bodyguard. That was amazing to watch.”

Cy replied, “The honor is mine, Doctor Daring Do. In here are not only Eris’ releases and other documents, I have the honor of delivering the Royal documents and a formal notice that your expedition is under the Royal Wing.”

Turning to the Guadian, she made a deep formal X'ibian court bow and said, “I thank you, Guardian. I saw you draw your knife to throwing position but withhold your strike.”

He returned the bow and replied, “I saw that you did not need my assistance, Watcher of the Exalted One. We of the Guardians have been given the honor of watching recordings of your many actions on Her behalf.”

Cy replied, “I began by watching the works of your ponies on Her behalf. I learned much. I am pleased to be able to thank one of you in person.”

He put his hooves together and bowed his head. “The greatest compliment that a teacher may receive is a student who excels. The Student has far surpassed the teacher. We are proud.”

Daring Do, ignoring the nearly frantic police at the club entrance, opened the case and began to inventory the contents.

She was delighted at what she found. Expedition clearances, of course. Letters of credit. Travel documents from Equestria and the Chineighese Empire. There were even documents for X'ibia, even though it was technically a province of the Chineighese Empire. Her eyebrows rose at PRE CLEARED Chineighese Artifact transportation and export.

She muttered to herself, “They must not want a repeat of the Darkling collection fiasco.”

To her surprise, her comment brought a smile from both the normally impassive Guardian and Cy.

She had just packed it all back and sealed the case when a pony in the uniform of a Canterlot Police Sargent Major strutted up self-importantly and made a grab for the case, snapping, “This is evidence in a double murder!”

Cy’s blindingly fast move snapped his foreleg away from the case. She said in an utterly level voice, “Sargent Major Haystring, I would think that you would remember the last time that we met. It only took you five years to recover your rank.

“This is a formal legal statement in regard to the present double ponycide. I, Cyrene Yvonne Clopes, was given detached duty from Eris, Inc. My duty, given under the Royal Wing, was to deliver a case containing documents for Doctor of Antiquities, Daring Do.

“Entering the Adventurer’s Guild, I was accosted by two thugs attempting to steal the case and documents. They first tried the ruse of being Doctor Daring Do’s secretaries. When that failed they attacked me. I killed them both and delivered the documents properly.

“This whole event is legally protected by the Royal Wing of Equestria.”

Sargent Major Haystring sourly examined the ID’s offered by both Cy and Daring Do. Smarting under the memory of a five year dent in his career, he handed them back.

Truculently he demanded of Cy, “Don’t you ever let anypony live?”

To his surprise, she replied promptly, “Of course I do, if they have useful information for Eris or the Princesses. Otherwise, no. Where is the fun in letting slime ooze away?”

Defeated, he retreated to his fellow officers and held a conference of whispers with much hoof pointing at Cy and Daring Do.

The Guardian smiled serenely and offered, “If your personages will be so good as to follow me, we can avoid further foolishness on the part of these most unwise police.”

They both followed him into the tidy service areas of the Adventurer’s Guild. They passed through the surprisingly busy kitchen and on to a service elevator.

They went down two levels and got out in a big underground service tunnel filled with heavy cables, mains for water and other things that Daring Do did not have time to identify.

Cy did, though. She happily twirled several handwheels and pried open a big gray box. She pushed the button inside and neatly shut the box again. The Guardian watched with sparkling eyes. He quit trying to maintain an impassive face and started to chortle as he led them down the dusty and spider webbed service tunnel.

Cyrene, smiling angelically, explained, “The police were setting up a hard point in front of the Guild. They use the ponyholes for the electric and gas when they do it. Those all have emergency fire fighting pressure spray systems in them nowadays. I just routed the sewer into the fire fighting line and set off the sprinklers!”

Daring Do joined into the merriment as they trotted away down the rarely used tunnels. They emerged near the Canterlot Central Railroad Station. Daring Do bought them all tickets.

Almost as an anticlimax, the ride to the modest seaport of Milestago was uneventful. They enjoyed the scenery along the way and dark had fallen by the time that they arrived, but that was the worst of it.

Soon they were all relaxing around a table in the Rusty Barnacle. Their rooms were paid and a modest meal of the locally famous sea-grass, harvested only days before, was in front of them. Daring Do was studying the ship schedules and docking reservations.

Cy pushed back from the table and said, “Doctor Daring Do, It has been an honor to deliver the documents to you.” She paused and her face took on a grin that was paradoxically both savage and serene at once. “It was FUN, too! I am so glad that it did not upset you like it does so many others.”

Daring Do looked up from her schedules and asked, “Has been? Are you leaving us?”

“I will be with you until time to sail, Daring Do. Then I have duties for my Mistress, Eris.”

The next morning, they were assembled about the scarred and battered table in the Rusty Barnacle. With daylight, the delightfully tacky decor of the place stood out starkly in view. There were the usual nets festooned about, antique looking whale spears, phony treasure chests and, though it was easy to miss, in the corner, enmeshed in the net, dangled a lovely fake skeleton of Sea Unicorn.

Daring Do did take the time to admire the place once again. She had started many expeditions here and the management used that knowledge in their marketing.

Daring Do was picking at her breakfast while making many Magic Net mirror calls. Finally she sat to eat seriously.

She snickered as they all set out to examine the many assorted goods that she had ordered from the many Chandlers of Milestago. “Never turn your back on food. Who knows when you will get the chance to eat again?”

Their expedition’s supplies finally seen to, they reported to the ship that she had engaged. The Captain met them at the gangplank. He had a phony smile pasted onto his face. “I am sorry, Miss Daring Do. We have been otherwise engaged. They paid twice the lading deposit that you did. I have your deposit right here.”

He started to hand her a check. Before he could complete the action, Cy had him down, one hoof on his back, his foreleg bent up at an unnatural angle.

Over his yelps of pain, Cy said clearly, “GOLD ONLY. You were paid in gold. I do recognize the name that check is drawn on. R.O.T. will not honor it.

“Get Doctor Do the coin NOW. If you do not, you will be known as Captain Svien the three legged. If you survive.”

Perhaps it was the sheer happiness that was radiating from his assailant that caused the Captain to fold at once. “Nicor! Get the bag of coin from my quarters now!”

When Nicor showed up with the bag, he handed it over promptly.

Cy said cheerfully, “Count it, Doctor Do! It is five gold short, to make it look like a miscount of stacks. The good Captain has the missing five right here in his pocket!”

Betraying himself, the Captain demanded, “How could you know that?”

Daring Do instantly replied, “She is Eris’ personal bodyguard. Where there is anything amiss, Eris lets her know. Not sure how that works, but I’ve seen it happen often enough.”

They took the gold and left the Captain trying to rise on his twisted foreleg.

Sitting in the Rusty Barnacle, they were approached by an elderly faded red sea-pony with a wooden stump replacing part of his left hind leg. He had a battered captain’s cap worn around the stump of a horn. His eyes, though, nothing old about them.

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#DARING DO AND THE ADVENTURE OF THE X'IBIAN VASE #Part 5 #MLP Fan Fiction #Written by De Writer and Carmen Pondiego

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atlasenduring · 4 years

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What's the worst thing you've ever done to your muse? Also hello~!

「ali speaks」– accepting

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to your muse?

I haven’t done it yet, per say – but Toshinori is probably not going to live to see himself turn sixty, or if he does it won’t be to long before he dies.

His remaining lung isn’t in the best of conditions, his body is only functioning by a combination of heavy medicine and his newfound refusal to die, and something’s inevitably going to give within the next five or so years.

I have an entire thing written about this! Toshinori knows he’s going to die, and his character arc culminates in him accepting that fact, and deciding to make the absolute best of however many years he’s going to be allotted. He signs ownership of the Might Agency over to Midoriya after he graduates, making him All Might’s sucessor in more ways than just One for All, and absconds himself to a retirement home near the beach.

I actually! Have an excerpt about exactly this, so if you’d allow me to break some hearts.

———-

Shōta looks around the room, again.

He sees, then, what he didn’t before. The gaggle of people in black and white — are all the same people who spent any available free time at the retirement home, in his tiny little room with a view of the gardens, brimming with mementos.

Pro Hero Deku bowed over with fat tears rolling down his cheeks, huge, scarred hands drawing in the air between him and the Pro Heroes Creati, Froppy and Pinky as he half-mumbles, half-shouts a story about Yagi-sama tricking him into eating his hair, the underground hero he took as sidekick, Shinso, shaking his head like he’s heard the story a thousand times by now. They, too, all have tears in their eyes, but they’re laughing.

Ingenium, Red Riot and Shōto huddled together with Uravity and Charge Bolt, Kirishima standing on the pew with one fist raised high above his head, proclaiming how he’d never felt so scared in his life as he felt in Kamino, and how he’d never felt so safe, either, when All Might appeared for his last battle. The cacophony of agreement that rises is nearly deafening.

The heavily guarded American man sitting on the back, one arm around the young woman he came in with, free hand holding up a cellphone, showing whatever is there to Tsukauchi, Bakugou, and Hizashi. Shōta watches when the police chief laughs, wipes the tears from his face, and mouths ‘this fucking idiot’, as the American swipes across the screen, and Hizashi breaks out cackling.

Shōta looks forward again. Mirio with Eri on her arms, the young child nearly a teen, still too short to reach the coffin on her own. He bounces her on his hip, smiles with shining eyes, and she kisses her own palm, pressing it on Toshinori’s cold face. They walk away, Mirio whispering something to her, maybe a story, maybe a memory. Nemuri walking up next, a flute of something on her fingers that she raises high in the air, a bubbling toast he can’t hear, downs nearly the whole thing in a sip. Leaves the flute with a lipstick mark on the rim and a bottom full of the drink besides Toshinori.

There’s even more people — some Shōta knows well, some he’s only seen in passing. They’re not mourning, not in the usual way people do. There’s no wailing, no somber silence to betray their grief. The air isn’t stale with the taste of death, it’s filled with the sound of laughter and cheering and someone (probably Hizashi if only by the volume, likely that whole portion of the funeral, plus Midoriya) belching out that god-awful All Might theme song that used to play ad nauseum to promote his Golden Age merchandise.

Aside from Nedzu, there are no long, stricken eulogies, and even the Principal’s was more a retelling of a student named Yagi Toshinori learning how to become who he wanted to be under the tutelage of his ambiguously furry homeroom teacher.

It’s not that I want to die, Shōta, he suddenly remembers Toshinori say, I am going to. Why not make it as painless as possible?

He understands now. It was never about making it painless to Toshinori — funerals are never for the dead anyway, grieving is not for who leaves. It’s for the people left behind. It was never going to be entirely painless, but how can it not be a moment of celebration of the life and deeds of the retired Symbol of Peace when he died as he wanted the world to feel, in peace.

There’s no looming threat of a unkilled enemy, no shadows cast that could possibly touch the sun that still emanates from his presence. Toshinori carefully chose the plot of land he’d be buried in, and he cultivated a world of flowers across the grounds so people could look and think of him while he lived and breathed, could be reminded that his light is never going to be extinguished, even when he is.

Shōta cries, partly to spite him, but mostly because he feels like a fool for not seeing it sooner.

——

Outside, with the closed casket and the flower arrangements sent by a thousand and more fans, with the media circus arranged under a tent in a way Shōta would normally hilariously ironic, the Number 14 Pro Hero Deku stands on a podium. Someone has given him his costume, somewhere in the time between they all leaving the private funeral to here, a couple dozen microphones pointed at his face.

His dark-green cape flutters in the wind, teary eyes exposed by the way he pushes the visor up to rest atop his head, entire face opening in a smile.

Midoriya pulls an envelope from a pouch, smooths it on the podium. “All Might-sama — he knew this was going to happen. Not the dying part, per say, but that I’d be asked to speak and that I wouldn’t be able to think, and that’s his words verbatim, ’because I would be too busy blabbering like a crybaby’.”

That gets a roaring laughter from the crowd, and Midoriya’s smile widens. Shōta can see on that smile how the tabloids could go off on their theories of love children and nepotism.

Midoriya clears his throat, holds the envelope up. “So, he wrote what he wanted me to say. I haven’t read this yet, so — apologies in advance for all the weeping.”

Rubbing the heel of one hand on his eyes, he rips the envelope open. Shōta can see, from where he’s seated, the ink bleeding through to the back of the page, Toshinori’s large, bold handwriting, black ink blotted where he pressed down too hard. It makes his throat lock up, reminded of the dozens of times he’d chided the older man for it.

Midoriya clears his throat again, louder, closer to the mics.

“Young Midoriya,” the fact that the young man chokes up at that is telling that it really was for the best this was written for him, “I do hope you’re not — you’re not crying enough to have soaked through your suit’s sleeve. That would be unbecoming of my — my — my inheritor.”

He pauses, sniffles, and raises his free arm. The sleeve is, in fact, sporting a large, wet stain. He rubs his face into it, muttering that ‘it’s a moot point now’, before continuing: “I want to be brief, for I am not a man of words, I lived by and through my actions every day of my life, and I hope those are the things the world will remember me by.

“Remember me for the legacy of peace I attempted to establish. Remember me for my kindness, my patience, my temperance. Remember me for the people I saved, but remember me for the ones I failed to as well. Remember me for my faults, for my failures, lest they be repeated, for the things I changed and those I could not. Remember me in my prime, and remember me in my fall, let my story be one of glory and the warning of what that might bring.

"To the ones who criticised me — thank you. One who lives surrounded by only yes-men is bound to forget that he’s flawed and human,” Midoriya chokes on the next sentence, wrinkling the paper between his fingers. His eyes find Shōta’s, he takes a deep breath, continues: “To the ones who loved me, thank you. I cannot offer comfort for your pain, but know that I have lived and died as I wanted to, w…with a brave smile, and I want you to do the same."

Shōta can barely register how much that feels like a sucker punch, because Midoriya is on a roll now, gripping the podium hard enough for the wood to creak in his hand.

"To the ones who wanted me gone, those who hated me for what I stood, I hope you find no comfort in my death. My legacy is not one that will die with me — I am gone, but the generation I saw being raised to the ranks, and surely those to come, will uphold the lessons learned from my mistakes, and peace will rise even stronger.

"To the ones who are afraid — fear not. I can no longer say that I am here, but — but they are.”

The podium creaks and cracks under Midoriya’s hand as he bows his head forward, the paper now crumbled in his fist. The only sound for a long beat is the pitter-patter of his tears falling on the wood like rain.

When he looks up, there’s a fire in his eyes.

“I — I was raised watching All Might rescuing a hundred by himself,” he declares, level and fierce. “I know I can’t be him, not one person can. The hole he’s left is too big, too all-encompassing. But—!"

Shōta watches, dazed, as Midoriya motions and twenty, forty people rise, gather around him. Almost in slow motion, his entire year — their children, in a way — join him behind the casket, them and Kan’s kids and some more they’d gathered along the way. Heroes in formal clothing and tearstained, smiling faces.

Midoriya grasps the podium with both hands now, leaning into the mics, "I am his legacy. We are his legacy. We learned from him, from the things he didn’t want us to do like him as much as the ones he did. And no one will have to live in fear of the space his death left…”

Shōta looks, eyes going from face to face. They’re not —

“And you know why?” Midoriya bellows.

As if on cue, as if this was rehearsed, forty-some young pro heroes and sidekicks raise their fists into the air, a choir rising from their ranks, a single voice yelling, “Because we are here,” into the skies, and Shōta has never felt quite so proud, nor quite so sad.

#death tw #general sadness #I make myself cry every time I read this why do i gotta hurt myself like that #shiftingsupport #» my tongue's getting real tired of me biting it ━━━━ askbox

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eri-223 · 6 years

Text

Destiny 2: when the cold day comes

Jenev Furnon has both hands on that thorny gun, eyespots sprouting green from its tangles, when she decides whether or not to shoot the Drifter. Will the way this started make any difference to the way it ends? Guardian/Drifter, 3k, rated T

Jenev Furnon has both hands on that thorny gun, eyespots sprouting green from its tangles, when she decides whether or not to shoot the Drifter.

She focuses on the reticule on his chest instead of the black-clad people approaching through the trees. Leaves swirl around her and fall to the spongey ground, the first warning bells of autumn coming to the emerald coast. The trap has snapped shut. The gambit, the opening play in a quiet war, has given way to Shadows at the edge of her vision. Guardians startled mid-match have already been transmatted out, leaving her and these black-cloaked, masked cultists, and the Drifter himself.

(Her Drifter?)

Jenev is a Hunter, so her questions all imply action.

1. Which one should she aim at first?

2. Are the Shadows of Yor coming to help or hurt her? After all, she holds Malfeasance. She clawed toward that old title—but was it for the same reason?—it was for a different cause—

3. Is she as complicit as they are?

4. Will the way this started make any difference to the way it ends?

Weeks earlier.

It starts on a hot, humid night in the Tower, wind blowing like a murderer’s breath. Someone else’s fireteam is going after Cayde’s killers, insists a nervous beat in the back of Jenev’s head. She taps her fingers against her knife, blue-silver Awoken hands against blue-silver metal. The Fallen from the prison and that rogue prince killed him, people say. Out there in the Reef, rocks spin in long, crazy orbits and Tower law is a rumor and a suggestion. The Tower there is as optional as gravity. That’s Jenev’s world (not Reefborn but Reef-tugged, Hunter-born, fond of wild space and the unknown) and she can’t go there now. With other Guardians on the trail, she thinks as her stomach curdles, she would just get in the way.

Another new horizon has opened up in her world. Visions of jade coins won’t leave her: that carefully edged stone, the luck of the draw, the Drifter’s dragging shuffle. She has been throwing herself into Gambit, win or loss, seeing motes in her sleep and wondering whether the rumors of Shadows were true. So she goes to him, ducks under the grated door (half-closed like he doesn’t want visitors, like he’s hiding something), and they talk about coin tricks.

Half the time he looks away, even turns half-around like he doesn’t know she’s there. But he keeps talking, and eventually they’re both leaning against the glowing machine near his workbench, so that when he turns it’s toward her. Fluorescent light casts neon glow, turns shadows into pitch. She toys with her braids, digging blue fingers into black strands. And his scarred face is very close, and his hands are very quick, and she wonders what horrors she can manage to forget on a night so hot the air seems hateful.

They talk about sleight of hand and the weather and the frustrations of being a Hunter grieving for her Vanguard, and then when he balances a jade coin across his knuckles she snatches it from him and takes his hand. Meets his eyes while she turns his hand over, places the coin in his palm and strips the padded gauntlet off, folding the coin inside clammy cloth. His hand is scarred too, ugly bar-punch ripples of tissue across his knuckles. For someone with a Ghost, marks mean vanity. Jenev’s stomach aches.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Who do you want me to be, ma’am?”

Coy. Fool. Perfect. She’s happy to mix the interrogation with the purr in his voice, so before she speaks again she pins his hand to the curve of her hip. The glove crumples onto the floor. “It’s no secret you work with dark things. How do I know I can trust you?”

“Work with ‘em? I bind ‘em. Doesn’t matter what you work with if you’ve got a knife to it’s soft parts.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.” She draws her own blade. The blue-etched sheen glints in his eyes as she presses the flat to his cheek, against the three too-clean scars. “Let’s say I’m not a Guardian tonight. If I’m just a Light thing, looking to bind you…?”

She shifts the knife to his lips. He grins, wicked, then licks the flat of the blade.

It’s easy to sheath the knife while he moves back against the neon, drawing her against him with his bare hand. On the plaza, a heavy rain begins. No one will see us, Jenev thinks. No one will turn that corner, duck under that door. When she kisses him he tastes sour, his beard scratching against her cheeks. Her world becomes heat, static, warm rain on her face. And then she remembers who he is, who she is, the suspicion with which she flavored her attraction. Maybe it should have been more than suspicion.

She pulls back, slams her hands onto the machine to either side of his head with breaking force. They’re both breathing loud, winded as the invader after the fourth kill. The Drifter licks his lips and hums, ambitious and satisfied all at once.

She stays close enough to feel his lips against hers as she speaks. “Let’s get you in that arena. See how you are against the Taken.”

The Drifter smiles, slow. “How many times have I seen you die? It ain’t pretty for anybody, but what are bodies for Guardians? Ghost’ll raise you right up.” His gaze sharpens. “But you.... There’s even grace when you fall. When you become little bitty embers, I just wanna scoop ‘em right up.”

The Drifter’s problem, Jenev thinks, is that he talks too much. But there is such promise in his words. She speaks of a thinly-held belief to get her bearings. “You’re a fool if you think primevals will prepare us for that prince.”

He interrupts her. “You want training, go talk to Shaxx. That ain’t my job, sister. You want blood … I think I do my part all right.”

She talks over him right back. “I said, let’s see you in embers for once.”

She kisses him again, feels the jolt as the back of his head hits the plastic. Jenev raises a hand to his throat, sharpened silver nails like knives. They both like to fight, so she gives him just the suggestion of blades against paper-thin skin, and then puts her other arm around his shoulders and sighs against his neck because it wasn’t all fight. He supports her while she clings. The grief for Cayde has retreated, or devolved into a smaller creature.

“That’s enough of an answer for me,” she says.

“All right.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but meets her eyes with a concerned softness.

“Hunters make bets.” She moves backward, hand still outstretched. “Ten wins, and we can try this again. See if you can kiss better with practice.”

“Your wins?” He looks at her calmly and stretches his arms above him, showing off. “What exactly is the losing part of this bet, darlin’?”

“Doesn’t seem to be one, honey.”

“’Til next time.”

The grief has faded. She slips the coin she stole from him out of her pocket, and makes sure he can see it between her fingers before she turns the corner.

After the ten wins, he calls her.

“I’m opening up a new Gambit arena in that Dreaming City. Want to scope it out? I’ll give you a behind the scenes look.” His drawl turns slavering, sometimes.

She says yes.

Her Ghost, Iris, asks questions all the way to the Dreaming City. She’s practical and warlike, and both she and Jenev are comforted by one another’s speech even if they often tune it out. Iris memorized the major armories’ catalogues. Her Ghost is a Warlock, Jenev jokes sometimes.

And then the Drifter ushers her through a silver door into the Cathedral of Scars. The beauty of the crystals and plants makes her want to touch every surface, see it all from every angle.

“How did they let you into this place?” she asks.

“What, because I’m not Awoken?”

“No. Because you’re …” You. Even as an Awoken, she doesn’t feel a connection to this impossible place. Nevertheless, its majesty replaces more personal worship easily. How was it preserved for so long? What invisible cosmic dust is coating all of those jeweled pathways, all of those geodes glistening with water? Her distant cousins keep secrets. And here’s the Drifter, exhaling greed, owning a patch of the place. She resists gesturing at him, especially because she would be too tempted to touch him if she tried. “Not exactly the Vanguard’s favorite.”

“I know the Ascendant Plane, sister. This world touches it like clothes on skin. Doesn’t matter what the Vanguard thinks if they don’t know. Me and Petra worked some things out.”

They walk toward the sunlight, across shining floors.

He thinks himself so separate from the Tower, Jenev considers, but Ikora surely knows more about him than she lets on. After all, she controls the Hidden, the long arms of the Tower. Eris Morn, one of the Hidden now, had even been in a place not so different from the Drifter’s situation years ago. People hadn’t trusted Eris either, but through secrets and service she had become a part of the Tower. If Jenev asked what the Drifter thought he was getting away with unbeknownst to the trio, she wouldn’t get a true answer.

Duo.

The correction thunders through her.

The Drifter gestures her forward. Before they walk into the courtyard (beautiful, fragile) she gets his attention, back of her fist to his shoulder like a fireteam friend. He pushes her back, flat of his palm, and laughs. It’s the thrill of a new place, a strange place. The steps far ahead of them, beyond the plaza that will be the backfield float impossibly out beyond a foggy cliffside. Hunter wanderlust and the memory of kisses in the Tower drives her forward. She wants to talk to the Drifter forever and she wants to make him wait before she speaks.

“Lots of ways to mess a place like this up,” she says. Explosions in the crystals. Gilding ripped off the walls. Gold melted in sun-fire. Guardians were going to chew throughthis place. Good. She thrills to know she’ll see it. Let the Reefborn know they aren’t untouchable.

On the edge of a cliff stands a blue-purple platform, like a sequoia trunk sliced low and transformed into crystal. The surface is smooth but not slippery. The Drifter lays out a picnic: spring rolls and bread thick with grains, one cup and a bottle of a blue-black drink she doesn’t recognize, busy with bubbles.

“Soon they’ll be killing on every inch of this place,” he says.

The wind blows gentle, spiked with the acid scent of the endless drop. Trees wave, sending leaves spilling down. “Good. Get them ready for the ugly stuff.”

“There’s beauty in that too, sister. Death always brings out the vitality of things.”

Speaking of that. “Let’s talk about my ten wins, if you so much want death.” Pride bubbles in her chest, along with impatience. “I challenged you too.”

In answer he shifts closer to her, one leg stretched beside hers on the violet stone and one arm propped up on his other knee. His fingers brush her thigh so lightly she can barely feel them, just a prelude. The kiss isn’t sour, isn’t clean or furious as their first had been: it’s messy and whole-hearted and tastes like mint and ozone. She sits up against him, pressing her fingers deep into his hair and under the bandana where it scrunches against the back of his neck. He’s sweat-salty and lost, and when the kiss ends he pulls away from her bright-eyed and with a laugh that heaves up from him like a drumbeat.

When the Shadows do come, the wind is high and loud. Jenev stands in the emerald coast, listening to it roar grim and impersonally hateful as apocalypse. The Shadows of Yor are a hooting band like she imagines Prince Uldren’s Fallen allies to be, but the shapes under dark cloak are all Guardians. They attack mid-match, as the Drifter planned they would. She was in Gambit herself, which of course was also part of the plan, since she has the gun.

Figures flicker between the trees.

The Drifter himself marches across the grass, without a war helmet, pistol in hand. “Let’s go, sister. If we take ‘em out, we end this!”

In surprise and fear, she points Malfeasance at him.It startles him, an honest expression she isn’t used to seeing.

Light, she wants to help him. She wants to fight by his side, to wear his mark, to leave her marks on him. But what if her first instincts were right, the ones that said she couldn’t trust him? What if he’s smarter than he appears to be, and can hurt the Vanguard? If she took him out for just a moment, stopped the game with the very gun she earned from her devotion to it, she would be changing the tide of the Shadows on a whim. What power! But it would be a whim, chaos sewn. She’s used to acting on impulse.

She looks back and forth between the Drifter and the people lining up, careful as a high noon standoff, at the tree line.

She knows the Vanguard wouldn’t want her consorting with shadows, but Cayde was always irreverent and the other two are shattered with grief. Loyalty to the Tower has always come second for Jenev: second to her instincts, second to her wants. She knows now that she can please both sides: the Vanguard of the Light will want the Shadows of Yor dead, and the Drifter will want to draw attention to his game. After Cayde died, the whole world feels more gray.

Neither the Vanguard nor Cayde nor the Drifter nor Jenev herself would benefit from her staying her hand against Dredgen Yor’s followers. She has no love for the Shadows. She teeters on the edge of a cliff, and there’s no harm for a Guardian for following that impulse to jump.

She carefully takes one hand off Malfeasance to flash the jade coin at him, the one she stole. Please understand this message. I’m gambling right now. I’m performing sleight of hand. The Shadows are frozen in confusion. She sees him take his first breath since she raised the gun.

Then she steps onto the backfield and fights. The Shadows swarm, person-shapes becoming monstrous. Malfeasance screams in her hands. Maybe the gun is the only part of her that feels for the Shadows. Hive magic! It exalts. Twins-in-Darkness! She rejects whatever grief she imagines for it.

She sees almost immediately how the Drifter plans to shake the Shadows. He has unleashed some of the Darkness he keeps, trapping the Shadows in a zone where their Ghosts struggle to raise them. She feels it too, but she isn’t the one trying to gain ground. Interesting to have the upper hand, to be the one creating the mess instead of cleaning it up. Especially if the Shadows never reveal their leader. To them, it’s an exploratory cut. To the Drifter, it’s a slaughter.

She pumps the trigger. A Shadow drops, his chest a broken blur. Others rush forward, and she takes the opportunity to burn up and throw knives into three of them before they can recover. She sidesteps and returns fire. They’re good, but she has Malfeasance, and the Shadows can’t break into the space between her and the Drifter’s backs.

She sees him spin his pistol like a trick shooter behind the nearest Shadow. Crack of a shot, loud and almost echoing, and that one goes down.

Then it’s over, almost too easily. This wasn’t the real thing, she thinks immediately. They were testing us, too. Two remaining Shadows fade into the forest.

She holsters her gun, hardly seeing the landscape in front of her any more. Will the Shadows come back? What did they learn?

The Drifter moves closer to her, looks down at her with absent calm.

“They’ll be back with more,” she says.

“What did you think would happen, sister? We took down what, ten of ‘em? That’ll give the old man a message. They’re recruiting fast these days.”

Malfeasanse seethes at her back. Am I a recruit? “This gun brought them out already. And they didn’t wait around to hand me pamphlets. Guess I don’t fit their criteria even if I do have it. Which means we can bait more.”

“Game’s gonna accelerate now,” he says.

“Come here,” Jenev says.

He’s looking into the middle distance, back toward where the Shadows arrived. She grabs his arm, pulls hard enough that he stumbles.

“I’ve earned this,” she says, and kisses him on the mouth. She can feel his sly smile, can see it as clearly as if she was beside them instead, watching human-pink lips on Awoken-silver. There’s a smile, too, in the way he holds her around her shoulders. She curls her hands into fists at the small of his back, tenses for a moment before she gives in to herself and presses further against him.

“There’s still one more step,” he says against her cheek.

“The man with the Golden Gun.” She pulls far enough away that she can look into his eyes. Immediately they grab for new holds on one another, her hands on his jacket, his at her waist. “I don’t know what’s going to come of that. I’ve heard how you growl. Keep secrets if you want; I’ll watch my own back.”

Some of his talks with other Guardians in the Tower brought out a defensive anger in him. It’ll shake the walls if the time is ever right.

He laughs. “We sure understand each other. Together until it ain’t convenient any more, right, lady?”

“Until the Ascendant Plane collapses or one of us gets distracted.” A pirate’s life ...

So what, if someone else avenged Cayde? The sidelines are where Jenev lives, and she’s good at it.

“Glad to have you along,” says the Drifter. “Until the next cold day comes.”

The freedom of a dark forest, an unspoken promise to crash like a wave over her grief. She would not need him when her wandering was over, she thinks. She would not need him forever. Neither of them wants him to become an addiction, and so, Jenev, also, would comfortably drift.

#Destiny #writings #The Drifter #Drifter/OC #Jenev Furnon #with thanks to exordiumnoctis

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