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dandelion-blues · 3 months

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I was Never the Gods’ Hero

Intro:

Percy Jackson just wanted a break. He didn't ask to be favored by ancient beings. He didn't want to be a hero, he needed to, but here he is expected to be a hero again! And in another universe already filled with heroes to boot!

Percy Jackson x DC crossover fanfic

Chapter 1

Gasping, clawing, trembling for air. He can't breathe! His hands are on his throat gasping desperately for oxygen. The all-encompassing pressure surrounds him from every inch of his body, suffocating and consuming him. It's a thick and oppressive void of blackness where there is no color, no light, and no hope. It's a parasyte waiting to consume, where it's solid in the freezing, crushing pressure that cracks his bones and liquid as it oozes into his skin and feasts itself in his blood and lungs and brain. It lets him feel everything all at once, all of his nerves alight with agony as they are targeted too slowly and individually, yet numbing his body in less than a second.

It is still too slow! It felt as neverending and unrelenting cycle of continual pain and torture. More torment than even Styx could give to her river.

Then, as the pressure finally grinds his bones and organs to sand, and freezes and suffocates him molecule by molecule, there is the blinding light, electrifying and raging. It renews his once frozen and distorted body instantly to energize him with a thousand suns, making his body a inferno of heat and agony. His numbness shocked back into awareness with a potency much greater than lightning that sears though his being. Only, for his eyes to see light before they burn away to husks of ashes along with his skin, blood, and bones.

Over and over again, this cycle of crushing darkness and searing light, all at once and yet separate at the same time. He feels as if he is dying and given life all at once. He is pulled apart then put back together again and again. His very atoms pulled apart and then back together.

If he were given even a second to breathe he might even notice how when he was torn apart and put back together he wasn’t put back the same… how he no longer bled red, and how his very senses and being enhanced; to be more than human. However, all he felt was the agony, shocking and suffocating and burning. Percy Jackson just wanted it to end!

Ichor

Red blood of mortality,

Tastes sweet with immortality.

Colors were in shades of gray,

Enhanced through his decay.

Gold was for the riches,

Now in his blood so much it itches.

A mother's son forever since,

Crowned a God's prince.

…………………………………………….

Percy woke up, tremors racking his body. A silent scream tore at his throat, his heart pounding in his chest.

What was that?!

He looked widely around the dark room, his body high on alert, but still he wasn't prepared for the being awaiting him the darkness behind him.

The being cradled Percy and forced him back to sleep, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“It's too soon,” the being whispered.

The ‘dream’ all but forgotten the next day as Percy awoke in the morning in his home in Manhattan, New York.

Still Percy’s nightmares weren't just in his dreams. They have been a part of his life ever since he was introduced, since he was born, as a half-blood.

……………………………………………

Percy Jackson was done with the Greco-Roman pantheon. He fought and won their wars, and watched so many people, kids - Hades he was still a kid - die around him and he almost died too many times to count while the Gods did the bare minimum to just save themselves, for him to deal with any of their shit again. Yet, here he was, packing up traveling bags to see his father in Atlantis. Oh, he might have forgotten to mention that his father is Poseidon the Earthshaker, Stormbringer, and Father of Horses (yeah, all horses are Percy’s thousand time removed nephews and nieces, but best not to think about that) and don’t forget the God of the Sea.

Percy was just celebrating his seventeenth birthday with his Mom and Paul in their apartment when his Dad just showed up! He’s pulled this before on Percy’s fifteenth birthday, but Percy thought that was a once in a life-time thing. Gods don’t just show up for their kids! Then, his Dad pulls him into his room and proceeds to invite Percy to Atlantis in a week in order to get to know his godly side of the family better and relax without having to deal with the stress of being a leader for both camps.

At first, Percy just wanted to tell him no and tell him to leave, because where was his Father when he needed him, but the little self preservation that Percy had told him that would be a terrible idea to anger one of the Gods that was on his side. Plus, Chiron sent him home to take a break and heal; that there was enough help at the camps to rebuild and he could tell Percy was not okay and needed a break from being a leader. Then, Percy also thought of Tyson, his little cyclops brother, and Percy caved. Thus, Percy told Poseidon that he’d love to come. Poseidon got a wide smile on his face, and hugged Percy and told him how excited he was for Percy to come. Then, Poseidon just transported away.

Percy remembered his Dad’s genuine excitement and warm hug, and that made him smile that maybe it would be worth it to go to Atlantis and be with his Dad. Percy was also excited to really see Atlantis, after all it’s been a while (a year) since the end of their war with Oceanus, and surely more would be rebuilt now. Restored to some of its former glory.

Some part of him, though, was incredibly worried about his step-mother Amphritrite’s, and his brother Triton's judgment even though they became closer after the second Titan war when he came to Atlantis on the weekends - it was only for three months a blink in the time of immortals. Not to mention Kym, she just tried to kill him! Then, Percy was angry, because what right did the Gods have to judge him and treat him like scum just because he was born and that he had to work extra hard just for them to treat him indifferently! However, Percy was raised by Sally Jackson and he would do his best to be nice and polite until they crossed a line, respect was earned after all.

(Also, Percy thought secretly, hopefully, that maybe he could have a big brother to look up to and train with, and a step-mother to confide in.)

Then, came the part of explaining the trip to Atlantis to his mother. Yeah, that was fun to explain to his mom, especially when this was the first time Percy has been able to see her in almost a year thanks to a certain Cow Queen (aka the Queen of Olympus, Hera). Luckily, Sally Jackson is a queen amongst women and understood that Percy needed a break, and that maybe this would turn out really good for him.

…………………………………………….

Sally saw how her baby came back littered with more scars, haunted eyes, and worn down from life that no one, especially a teenager, should feel. Gods, when Sally first saw her son at that door, she held onto him for dear life and they both ended up crying and falling asleep in each other's arms on the couch because they couldn’t let go of each other, at least until Paul came home and joined the hug pile. Sally quietly wiped a tear from her eye at letting Percy out of her sight so soon, but she knew a demigod’s life was never without chaos, and he deserved to get to know his father. Maybe he would confide in his father what was haunting him, that maybe Poseidon would understand and help. Sally heard Percy’s screams when he woke up in the middle of the night, and his flinches from sudden touches - flinches that were going away as reminders from that monster of ex-husband, Gabe Ugliano.

Gods, Sally Jackson wished she never married him. She thought that she protected her son by having Gabe’s horrendous smell protect Percy from monsters, then sending Percy away to boarding schools to be away from Gabe and his terrible influence, but no the real monster lived with them all along. Sally Jackson had to work two jobs just to make ends meet, and would often end up having to leave Percy alone in the house when Percy was home, and Gabe used that opportunity to abuse her son! She never saw the signs, she thought it was bullies or having to change schools every year, but no it was her ex-husband. She was too focused on protecting him from the divine world, that she wasn't able to protect him from Gabe! She could remember all clear as day when Percy, just having turned thirteen, and finished his first quest, flinched and curled in on himself when a loud drunk man walked by them when going home. She proceeded to question him when they got home, remembering all too well her own tells, and he told her how Gabe beat him, berated him, and humiliated him.

The next thing Percy says, Sally remembers word for word when she asks why he didn’t tell her, “I thought I was p-protecting you mom,” he sea-green eyes shined with tears, “G-gabe said that if I said anything to a-anyone he would b-beat y-you t-too,” he gasps and his breath hitches from crying and closes his eyes. Then, he looks up to Sally, and gives her a look that breaks her heart, “B-but I failed y-you, I saw you f-flinch, M-mom. I-I couldn’t protect you!” It was then that Sally knew that she failed as a mother, and proceeded to tell him that it was her job to protect him, and that she failed, that she loved him and there was nothing that he could do that could change that.

From then on, Percy and Sally began to confide in each other their traumas of Gabe, but Sally could still tell he was holding back, trying to protect her. He still barely told her anything of his quests, and Sally just wished that he didn’t inherit her stubbornness and selflessness, but Gods Percy made her so proud and heartbroken at the same time because he is so strong and so so good, and that is Sally's Jackson's son, dammit!

However, he is also Poseidon's son, and with that unfortunately comes monsters and tragedy that Sally can only understand the bare minimum of either through her own research or of Percy's own recounts, heck even when Sally sees the monsters they just ignore her.

'Hopefully, Poseidon can protect her baby. Afterall, hasn't he done more than enough, he deserves a break and to be with his father. I just hope this trip to Atlantis will be good for him,' thinks Sally as she watches Percy pack his things.

…………………………………………….

Percy finishes putting the last items in his bag and looks up to his mother. She has a few more gray hairs and wrinkles around her eyes and forehead, but she looks so full of life especially when Percy came back. He feels terrible for leaving her again even if she said that it was more than alright. Percy is just so tired of the divine world, but he still loves his father even when he's mad at him - he's just so tired of being scared and alone and wants to feel safe again! Safe like he felt in his father's cabin before Hera kidnapped him. Safe in his mother's arms from when he was young and she protected him from monsters and bullies.

Percy takes a breath, and says tentatively "Mom?" Sally's deep blue eyes look into Percy's and soften, "Yes, seastar?" Just with Percy's nickname he smiles, and states, "Mom, how… how do I learn to not be afraid?"

Sally blue eyes water, “Oh my baby!” Sally grasps Percy's hands, his eyes looking down at the floor.

“Sometimes that fear will always be with you,” Sally remembered Gabe's beer-filled breathe as he leered over her, but then she thought of her family, her son and smiled, “but then I remembered all the things, the people, that make me happy, and I know that they be there for me. That I am loved.” Sally gently squeezes her son’s hands, and he looks up at her, “And baby I love you, and I’ll be here for you no matter what. So will Paul, your friends, and your father. We are here for you Percy.”

Percy’s green eyes swim with tears and he runs into his mom’s gasp as she opens her arms. He hugs her, a few tears escaping his eyes, but he feels all so loved.

“Thanks mom,” Percy says wetly and smiles after it feels as if they hugged for hours.

“Of course seastar,” Sally smiles back, "I love you so much, and I'll be right here when you get back."

Just then, a knock on the front door is heard. ‘What timing?’ both think and smile once again to one another.

Sally goes to open the door, and Percy follows shortly behind with his bag strapped around his back, and Poseidon greets them both at the door.

“Hello my dear Sally, beautiful as ever I see,” Poseidon winks playfully at Sally. Percy is to say the least, mortified.

“Ah son I see you’re all packed and ready, then let's make haste, I have a celebration planned in Atlantis!” Poseidon exclaims.

“Celebration?!” Percy exclaims.

“Of course my son, the Prince, is visiting after so long, a celebration is due of course.” Poseidon states.

“Prince?!” Percy yells, what is happening right now?!

Luckily Sally intervenes before anything can escalate, “Now boys, I know you're excited,” she says pointedly to Poseidon, “but Percy would have appreciated being notified about what he is doing instead of just forcing him into the spotlight like that.”

“Also, what’s this about Percy being a prince?”

Poseidon looks sheepish, “I’m sorry my dear, well I was just really excited that Percy agreed to visit and well one thing led to another, and after all Percy’s done for us, we agreed Percy should officially be crowned a Prince of Atlantis.”

Percy looks faint, luckily Poseidon notices and says, “It’s just an official ceremony and announcing it to the kingdom officially, but afterwards we can keep the party small to just family and close friends.” Poseidon, despite seeming oblivious, did notice that his son was never comfortable with the crowds for Olympus’s parties.

Percy smiles relieved at his dad, “Alright, I think I can manage that.”

Poseidon claps, “Alright, it’s really time we should go.”

Percy nods and gives his mom one last hug, melting into her embrace reassured in her love, but for some reason he felt like this would be their last hug for a very long time. Percy shrugs this off, surely he’ll be fine in the heart of his father’s domain, especially with no war or anything worrying going on.

…………………………………………….

A chuckle escapes an ancient being, their laugh reverberating throughout the lives held so tightly by the Fates.

“My young dear always had a knack for his future, didn't he? So powerful, so pure.” Their laugh echoing through the stars and galaxies, all mortal’s hearts beating in tandem.

“He’ll forever be Destiny’s chosen, after all.” Another being wrys, her smile so much like a serpent, so wide it could eat the world whole, “Perseus, my destroyer of my fates. You never could be confined by their roles, and it’s almost time for you to break free, to grasp your destiny!” Her light fills the darkness, lighting her descendants precious tapestry golden.

“Indeed, it’s Time,” The other being states, their word ineffable as the universe, as the past, present, and future are all ruled by the passage of Time.

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wistfulweaverwoman · 10 months

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58 and 72 for the ask game!! :D

Thank you so much for the prompt!!! I almost never get any, so this is a real treat!!!

58:

I think my favorite bit of figurative language I've written was for a Lily Everdeen (Katniss's mom) outtake. I was trying to explore her emotions around Katniss's father and his loss. This type of writing doesn't always flow for me, sometimes it's completely untapable. But when I wrote this I was feeling a particular grief for the boy that I loved growing up who died when we were 26. I find if I'm feeling a particularly strong emotion I can harness it for writing:

There’s something to be said about being poor and in love, a feeling of invincibility, the two of you against the world. Who needs food when you have each other. Who needs fuel for the fire when we could keep each other warm in the night. Still, we did alright, with his salary at the mines, his trades from what he could gather in the woods, my skills as a healer. My father never said a word after I’d left, and my mother stopped begging me to return home after my beautiful black haired baby was born. She told me I was tainted. I was tainted. With him, and his love. It grew in the strands of my hair and lived in the taste on my tongue. It was pressed to my knuckles and my hip and between my thighs. It was my air and my food and the clothes on my skin. And then he was gone. I shattered into dust with him, my pieces borne away in the wind. There was no air for me to breathe, but I had no body that required it, so what did it matter? There was something I was supposed to live for, or I’d have joined him. Afterall, how could my heart go on beating when he carried it with him? I stitched myself together, atom by atom, till eventually I resembled something human. A patched work woman. I was not what I was before the supernova, I do not recognize myself since clawing out of that void. I did not rise shining from the ashes like a mythical bird. I could not find all the pieces that were me, because they were him.

72:

I just went through and read all of the lovely comments I've received from readers over the years. Any comment is lovely. One was weird, they shamed me for not posting a trigger warner for something that didn't actually happen. But most of them are wonderful. Most consistently the feedback I get is that my characters are very in character (Canon-wise) and that I excel at weaving in book dialog with my own. One comment started with asking me jokingly if I was Suzanne Collins, which is a compliment in and of itself.

I have to say that my favorite writing compliment was a nomination for All-Time Favorite Hunger Games Fanfic for my first fic: The Awkward In-Between in the The Fanatic Fanfics Multifandom Awards.

I think there were maybe four other fics in that category and the two that I remember are The Miners Wife and When the Moon Fell in Love With the Sun (which of course won), both incredibly popular fics. I never expected to win, I never had many followers and even now, eight plus years since I posted the first chapter it only has around 260 kudos.

It's an insane honor and the biggest compliment that someone else thought my fic was worthy of such a title and then took the time to nominate it on a completely different website.

#wistfulweaverwoman #prompt #the awkward in between #lilymaid

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dragomer · 3 years

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Hello! Have you ever read "Black Sun or The Taste of Ashes" by noem1987 on AO3? It's a fic originally written in french ("Soleil Noir ou le Goût des cendres") but there is an English version of it. It's a very long story in process with zucest and a plot.

Obviously I did, I was even the first to comment on it on AO3, I just didn't comment much on it afterward.

Thanks for the ask ^^

#atla #avatar the last airbender #azula #zuko #zucest #fanfic #fan fic #azuko #firecest #black sun #taste of ashes #Thanks for the ask ^^

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kettlequills · 3 years

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C2: waking dreams: master of fate

Obligatory Miraak In Pain chapter! A classic for every Miraak-Lives fanfic. Lots of vomiting, graphic injury, some hallucinations, blood and gore, paralysis, paranoia, and other fun stuff in this one, bear in mind. On A03.

A high, anxious dragon-creel jarred Miraak from total unconsciousness. A pause. Then, again. That awful, hair-raising screech, the kind of sound that flaked chalk, cracked glass and shattered eardrums.

Miraak had never felt worse in his life. He was not even sure he was alive. If he wanted to be.

His body was numbness and agony. He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. His mouth, too, reducing his breath to a whistling wheeze past the turgid coagulant of thick, thick ink. Even his gasping little sob was stoppered in his blocked tear-ducts. His mask was sucked tightly against his skin. It felt like being choked. Stars burst in the dizzy darkness behind his eyes when he tried to breathe. His ribs ached familiarly. Broken? Something sharp jutted against the grind of his flesh. It felt like metal. It felt like death.

The dragon creeled again. The primordial terror of that sound. It was afraid. It was hurting. It was animal.

It was the sort of sound that summoned hurrying priests. It was the sort of sound that echoed off mountainsides and resounded down valleys, and woke even children wise enough not to scream. It was the sort of sound that came before the gristly snap of jaws and bone and viscera, and a new, bloody mask to press onto the quick-forgotten face of a new servant.

Names, traded like currency. But he was Mir-Aak.He was the mightiest Dragon Priest of them all, and everything he had won had been with fire and fury and strength no dragon could deny. That no dragon could replace.

Wherever he was, whatever cry the dragon made, he would face it, he would conquer it. As fate foretold, their power would meet the thunder of Miraak’s soul, and be subsumed.

Miraak fumbled at his limbs, trying to push off his mask in the vain hope it would help him see, struggling against the rubbery tentacles he was only half-sure he didn’t feel looping like a leash around his neck. He wouldn’t be sure he had hands any longer, if it wasn’t for the fact that one of them hurt.

Hurt like the word pain had been invented for this moment alone.

His glove was unwieldy and stiff, and it was only when the wreck of his hand struck the ground and it squished that he realised that it was because it was full of blood. His blood. Filling his glove, because his hand had been carved open as if by a great serrated knife, and air kissed scarred bone and his fingers hung uselessly and he wanted to vomit.

It was that one, naturally, that finally caught at the lip of the golden mask, because the gods had never loved Miraak.

The pain nearly topped him into darkness again, but he managed a blind scrape at the congealed ink on its face. It tore like skin, and bubbling, acid wetness sleeted down his cheek and jaw. It was like a Seeker’s bite.

But his eyes opened, and he could make out dim, blurry shapes. Light was needles in his eyes, but Miraak was a Dragon Priest, and his destiny had had him conquer every pain set before him and make himself its master. He needed no god. He had himself. He did have himself, didn’t he? It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He must be in his own body.

Stone floor, stone walls. Thick with dust, made him cough. The slumbering serpent of a dragon’s tail. Dirty, foul-smelling, dull; no loving priest had tended it with warm water and oil, the scalebeds were so dry he could see the ink-ridden cracks. Armour gleamed like a rusty hill under the slump of Miraak’s broken body, old steel warped and rent tellingly down the middle where a sword might slide home. A bloodless wound here, in Nirn, but a lightning scar across the stone like the spiderweb scarring of their face. The mask watching Miraak dully even now, centimetres from his hand where he must have dropped it.

Laat Dovahkiin’s armour and their flesh-stripped bones, his bedmate and bed both for his first night on Tamriel. When he coughed, wetly, ink stained their armour – oh, oh, that wasn’t rust, that was Miraak, bleeding all over the corpse of his foe.

Time – he could feel it, a silent rasp on his spine – passing, how dreadful, how glorious, to count it under his heartbeats like grains of sand in a gear, how long had it been? A night?

Not time enough for Laataazin’s bones to bleach. Their supplies to gather dust. Their potions. Large bottles of glowing red and blue and green, set carefully just below the plinth where the Black Book awaited. Closed, for now, but he could hear it whisper, could see Mora’s eyes on him through the susurrus of the pages. But the Prince did not reach out to reclaim his plaything, only watched.

Miraak could feel his oily laughter, could imagine the words that would drip from his wretched darkness, mourning how far his Champion had fallen – on his belly like a snake, hand over grim hand, straining towards Laataazin’s castoffs.

Not victorious, after all, but a strong name still for a worthy fight.

Never had a journey across a simple stone floor seemed so desperate and so humiliating. He crawled on the ground like a child, sweating profusely and unable to hold back his pained moans. Even his voice, his pain, sounded whispery and faint, barely an echo of its true self. It did not reverberate like it should, and the stone did not quake and tremble at its touch. He felt wrung out, limp, like a colourless ghost.

And Mora watched, watched. Miraak felt the eyes all over him, like ants. Or was it air? He felt every thread in his robes grating his skin like being dragged up the back of dragon. The fastest, bloodiest way to flay a man. Their scales could cut like diamonds. Only Miraak had made the euphemism ‘riding the dragon’ anything other than a painful death sentence.

He was the mightiest Dragon Priest that ever lived.

His shaking hands knocked the first potion over and it rolled out of his reach. The wetness on his face was warm as tears, sharp as acid. The blood and ink that wept from his watering eyes, his nose, that drowned the dragon’s scream in his ears, forbade that notion of ghostliness. No snowiness for Miraak, no, Apocrypha’s reek was all over him, dripped in him, made sodden and heavy as weights his robes.

The second bottle cooperated, but the cork wrestled with him a moment too long. That first sip stuck to his throat and teeth and tongue like paper. He hacked out some mulchy mess he didn’t bother to examine and managed two mouthfuls of crimson potion. Ancient nerves awoke protesting in his tongue – he could not tell what he tasted, only that it was foul, and thick, and felt like rot and ash.

His stomach’s revolt was instant. He knuckled his fist against his mouth, forcing the potion to stay down. But Miraak was already coughing around the first swallow, the second had him retching. Miserable bile stung his lips and splattered blue-green ink down his chin. Cold sweat sprung out on his forehead. Laataazin’s mask’s empty eyes watched him hauntingly.

Breathing dragged fishhooks through the soft tissue of his throat. To distract himself from the weak clenches of his exhausted stomach trying to empty itself, Miraak stared forbiddingly at the neat row of potions, scattered now by his clumsiness, and tried to memorise their colours. There were green ones, red ones. Blue ones. Sahrotaar, he thought dimly, the colour was like its scales. Where was he? The dragon had gone quiet. More colours than Miraak had seen in thousands of years. Of eras of human history he had been forced to read about, with no hand on Tamriel to rewrite the passage of events.

No longer.

A glint caught his weary eye, deeper red than the rest. Wine-red, rather than blood-red. The stony glimmer tantalised him, teased some exhausted part of Miraak that still craved to know. What secret was hidden here, among Laataazin’s healing potions? Miraak’s, now, by right of conquest, whatever it was.

The first person to speak to him in a thousand years, whose bones had held Miraak’s bleeding, unconscious body.

He retched again when he tried to move, but his stomach only cramped warningly around nothing. Miraak fumbled ungently through the stock of potions, his blurring eyes more hindrance than help. Eventually, he drew out a necklace, simple wood set with the ruby that had caught his eye, nothing more. Crudely-carved dragons squirmed around that red sun, chasing triangular shapes that might have been birds, and tattered feathers frayed around the cord. It was shoddy, no masterpiece to Miraak’s discerning eye.

Disappointment was sharp and quick, but chased quickly on the heel of intrigue as he sensed the enchantment that laid over the piece. A strong sacrifice had been made over this little scrap of wood and feather, so strong that it hummed and burned. But why waste such powerful enchantment on so fragile a material?

Wood burnt, and cracked, and rotted. Dragon Priests built in stone, for the servants of generations that would come after them and convince their master they had never died at all. No change, no loss, stubborn to time. Enduring, immortal, unfleshed.

It did not feel detrimental, so he looped it over his head. His, now. Laataazin was dead, and their world, their life, their soul, it was all Miraak’s, as it always should have been. The necklace itched like a secret, but he would decipher its enchantment. For now, it served as challenge and trophy both to Miraak’s strength. Such arrogance, from Laataazin, leaving behind even a scrap of power when they went to face their death.

The dragon shrieked, lower and louder. Miraak jerked, torn from his contemplation, and his back seized into a hard knot of painful muscle. Through watering eyes, he saw the long whipping neck, the flutelike snout, the leafblade tail – Relonikiv, craning shrilly towards dimness that swallowed the world twenty feet from Miraak in all directions. Relonikiv’s jade head dipped and danced, its yellow eyes ringed with apocryphal ooze that splattered the ground.

“Relonikiv,” he tried to say. It creaked out weakly. “Rel-“

It heard him that time, and Relonikiv’s cringing head dropped low to the ground, neck arched up like a snake, wings fluttering with anxiety. It groaned at Miraak, yellow eyes bright as lamps in the darkness, snarling teeth barrelled with putrid breath that warped and smoked the air of the darkness they shared.

He could not see what disturbed it, what horror above had it so transfixed, nor did he know why it did not simply fly to escape it. Relonikiv had not been brave when it had met Miraak, and the centuries hence had only sharpened its instinct to flee when faced with something it did not understand.

“Come,” he whispered to it, but Relonikiv cowered away with a low whine. Miraak hissed out a breath between his teeth. He had no patience for Relonikiv’s timidity today, not in this much pain. “What do you think I’ll do, fool? … Find me Sahrotaar. Relonikiv? Sahrotaar.”

Relonikiv blinked at him. It reared its head out of sight into the lumpy darkness, those dizzying swirls of venomous yellow leaving a glowing trail, like a sparkler through the night. There was the telltale snap of dragon jaws, and then Sahrotaar’s brassy, confused bellow as it was jerked abruptly from slumber. Miraak’s eyesight was blurry, and Sahrotaar’s great head rearing out of the darkness looked like nothing so much as a vast, terrible serpent. Relonikiv screamed back, and now the darkness was pierced by the dusty light coming from – somewhere, and four luminous dragon-eyes, moon-pale blue and acid yellow.

“What is this place?” Sahrotaar snarled, “I do not believe what my nose tells me.”

Relonikiv rustled its wings and snapped its jaws. It groaned again, quiet and low and distressed.

“Sahrotaar,” Miraak wheezed, and at once the blunt blue head was nudging at his side, Sahrotaar’s eyes already thoughtfully lidded, so that their soft glow was muted. Though Sahrotaar’s searching snout was gentle, the contact nearly knocked Miraak over, weak as he was.

“Thuri.”

“Up,” Miraak fumbled at the dragon’s nose with his uninjured – his less injured – hand, but thankfully, Sahrotaar understood his meaning swiftly. Sahrotaar nudged its nose underneath his arm and took Miraak’s weight with it as it carefully lifted him to his feet. He clung on to the fringe of webbed scales beneath its protruding jaw and tried very hard not to faint.

It took more effort than Miraak would ever admit.

The ridges of Sahrotaar’s scales felt harsh against his bared forehead. Miraak was aware of the lank locks of hair that fell across Sahrotaar’s snout as his own, the same way he knew that the hand that throbbed with blood and pain was his – distantly, without full recognition. He missed his mask. But the ink was still leaking out of him, his mouth, his eyes, his ears and nose, in irregular, acidic spurts that made him choke and his skin burn.

He could just see one crystalline blue eye, the colour of the bright ice of his homeland, watching him underneath the protective inner lid. Sahrotaar’s breath gusted his robes about his body, felt like standing in a tempest, though the ancient, soaked fabric barely stirred.

Miraak panted wetly against Sahrotaar’s head, spangles of pain jarring from his much-abused body with every breath, every second he forced his muscles to lock and his legs to bear a portion of his weight. Apocrypha had preserved him, so he knew his body was more than strong enough to stand tall, but theory had never felt so far from reality.

“Where is… where is Kruziikrel?”

Relonikiv uttered a mournful warble. Its wings pressed tight against its back, it sniffed at what Miraak had taken to be fallen rock, or some other masonry. Something heaped and grey, utterly still. But not dead, or else Miraak would have taken its soul, and likely feel far better than he did now.

“I smell blood, thuri,” Sahrotaar rumbled. Its voice jarred Miraak’s bones all the way up to the elbow, and he bit back a bitter curse of pain.

“Take me,” he commanded, and ignored how thin his voice was.

Sahrotaar helped him limp over to the prone form of Kruziikrel, who slumped like a dragon dead and bled steadily. Thin grooves had worn where it had lain as its acidic blood bit into the ancient stone. At first, Miraak mistook its neck for its mouth, several mouths, all open and staring red red tongue – then he understood that Kruziikrel had been grievously wounded indeed.

Ragged tears had ripped all the way up its neck to its shoulders, where now loose skin flapped like lips, scales peeled back like a gutted trout. As they got closer, Miraak could smell the blood himself, brittle and violent.

Miraak collapsed next to Kruziikrel. His slump against the dragon’s mostly-intact chest was graceless, but if Kruziikrel felt any pain it was not enough to jar it from slumber. Blood soaked his glove and stung his skin. Kruziikrel had covered their retreat, he ascertained – last through the portal, it had been the one to bear the brunt of Mora’s teeth.

Tracing one of the wounds, Miraak considered – briefly – the spell that had slain the Last Dragonborn. Kruziikrel was weak, but his soul was old and strong.

Relonikiv whined behind him. Miraak could feel Sahrotaar’s presence hunkered at his side, ice-bright eyes watching its master carefully. He felt, at once, the strength of Relonikiv where he was weak, the steadiness of Sahrotaar where he faltered. Some emotion touched Miraak then as he reached for the tired spring of magicka within him, something that was uncomfortable but hid from his examination. Thousands of years they had been his only companions in servitude, and yet, when he was weak and in pain, all his body told him was that each one had teeth longer than his forearm, and years to fester vengeance.

“Laas, Kruziikrel,” Miraak bade, and felt the dragon stir as his magicka reached it golden and bright.

It was the last light he saw.

---

Miraak snapped into awareness. His head throbbed. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He was paralysed. Miraak panicked. He was a prisoner – he was trapped – he was not alone. He could feel breathing, massive, muscular breathing, the whistling snore of a predator so much larger than he was. He could feel soul-shredding pain in his chest. His entire body felt shrunken and small, stuck as sandbags.

“Miraak,” a voice murmured. He knew that voice.

I killed you, Miraak wanted to shout, but his lips were stiff as marble. His heart thundered in his chest, and a cold sweat sprung out on his skin. The air felt wrong – weird. His body was limp, folded against something horribly soft. It was warm, wet. Like a corpse, Miraak thought wildly. Like Laat’s blood soaking his robes. Their body, soft and warm and still in his arms, eyes glossy, dark, dead.

Laataazin. Laat Dovahkiin. Niid, niid – hi los dilon. You are dead!

“Miraak,” Laat called again. Their voice was quiet as always, but close, as if they were standing right by his ear. He could feel the shivery vibrations of it across his skin. Could feel Laat’s wheeze in their voice, the gurgling of the blood they hadn’t managed to cough out in time to speak, before he killed them. “Do you feel mighty now, Miraak?”

Miraak screamed.

The piercing sound shocked him. He gasped suddenly for breath, choked on the vomit heaving out of his mouth. He tried to sit up, tried to roll, but his body was unresponsive and instead he panted between retches, feeling the warmth of his vomit trapped against his face against his chin, his neck, dripping into the neckline of his robes. It reeked of ink, the sour smell of sweat. His tongue was swollen and dry in his mouth, like a gag. The bile stung his lips, burned in two hundred small wounds that split his skin, dry as a draugr.

There was a collar of fire around his neck, blistering with the strength of the sun.

Shuddering sobs took over him after the worst of the retching passed. Tearless, dry, hurting more than it helped. The world rocked and spun underneath him, like he was in flight. Like he was falling. His hands wanted to twitch and curl into claws, wrinkle his robes – the robes, not Laat’s corpse, soft and warm – beneath his punishing grip. The agony of his destroyed hand almost failed to register.

Robes. Not books. Not bodies.

Tamriel. Miraak was free. He was floating somewhere above and below the word, like it dragged him in orbit. Someone was watching him. Mora. Mora was watching him.

He cried, made some horrible mix of sounds that made his aching gut cramp and groan. His body felt like a bruise. He had sweated through his robes, and his skin itched and ached, and everything was too loud, and he was free. So then, why did it feel like he was trapped?

Miraak’s head pulsed in time to his heartbeat, quivering and irregular. His mind felt swampy and confused, reality sliding away from him like softened soap whenever he tried to grasp it. Twice, he commanded himself to move and rose all the way to his feet before he realised his body had not shifted an inch with a deep, internal tug that had his heart hammering in fear. Thrice, he tried to open his eyes, and saw only darkness. He had no eyes, his body told him, there was nothing to open. But he knew – he knew it lied…

Someone was watching him. He could feel its presence, tall and eternal, its greedy hands reaching to grasp him. To take him.

He could hear its breathing, deep and huge.

Mora?

Some part of Miraak knew, vaguely, that he was probably dying. Dehydration, if not shock. It had been so long since he had to worry about these things, but a body was only an animal, and it knew when it hurt. It shouldn’t be like this. The power of Laataazin’s soul should have been enough to sustain him until he could heal the wreck of his body.

Mora’s eyes were tangible as feathers brushing along his skin. Miraak was so cold. So hot. Each thought made his temples pound. And the world spun, spun, spun underneath him, and mocked his attempts to move and breathe. Even when he tried to lie still, there came the sharp, brutal yanks in his sternum, as if he was constantly floating free of his body, some animal part of him so desperate to move it wanted to scrape free of his unmoving flesh altogether.

Something cold and wet, rubbery and strong, licked over the back of his neck. It tickled the shell of his ear, dragging strokes of damp slime and slick ooze of oil. Miraak’s thick tongue stopped his scream. Mora? Mora?! The Prince’s gaze pierced his skin like needles, saw the fetid creature within. Saw him struggling, panicking, against a limp form that had become his new prison. There was never anywhere to hide from Mora’s allseeing eye.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to look over his shoulder. He wanted to check that there was no ghost, no Laataazin. He wanted to slap his hands against his ear, rip away the thing that teased there, flirting with the idea of squirming right the way down into his brain. It would hurt so much.

One final betrayal by Mora? Had the Prince done something? Freed him, just to watch him die slowly inches from three dragonsouls that could save him? … Was this always how it was going to end?

Miraak wanted to cry. Shame warred with his terror, his disgust for himself. How revolted the Miraak of centuries ago, bold and proud in his prime, would be by this shivering, fearful wreck that had stolen his name. And where was Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel? The repositories of power where Miraak might steal a few more heartbeats of life… He could feel them, the pulse of their souls, not far from him, but they might as well have been far as sundered Atmora for all he could reach them.

He thought about water. About the endless seas of ink that ebbed and flowed within Apocrypha. Thought about wrenching his mask off and gulping desperate, some critical creature inside him so fearful of thirst that he’d taken Mora’s bitter sap willingly down his throat, the Prince’s deep laughter and the solicitous curl of the tentacles that had pulled Miraak’s seizing body from the inky waters. He tried to remember what it was like to cup his hands in pure sweet lakewater, good to drink and fresh, but the memory was faded and grey – more like an awareness it was something he must have done at least once than it was personal.

He thought about water, and he thought about moving, and he thought about dying.

Sounds brushed by, and when he heard the cultists, he thought at first it was another trick of his mind. Their voices were varied and muttering, scuffed by their robes and the wet slap of bare feet on stone. Creaking hinges, rasp of wood-bristles.

“-hearing things,” he heard – his mind parsed the language vaguely, understanding it more as a dreamlike awareness than any cognisance – “I am not of course you are. Temple sealed shrine. Dream-demons … You see demons everywhere. They are everywhere. I was in Vvardenfell … dreamwoken and then slain Blight ash – Lord – how would a dragon get underground, then, you damn fool?”

“Well, it could not be that, sounds like a squealing netch,” there were two voices, Miraak suddenly ascertained, and they were speaking Dunmeris. Did he speak Dunmeris? He must.

“Or a cliff racer,” the other intoned dourly. “They nest in caves.”

“Blessed Jiub, I hope not,” came the reply, then, “Help me with this buggering door.”

The ancient iron doors had been sealed for a long time – longer than Miraak could remember, in fact. They shrieked awfully, ground like glass over the stone. A growl, deep as rocks muttering under the weight of waterfalls. A dragon. Restless, dream-slunk, exhausted. Reflexive.

“… fucking heard that!?”

“What …” A flurry of words that were too quick to grasp. “- heal! I think it’s…”

Something wrenched his shoulder in a fierce grip. Miraak’s body moved limply under the touch, and he heard a sudden clatter – a lamp, perhaps a blade. An icy touch on his neck, fingers, fingers – someone was touching him and he couldn’t see who –

“-still alive, go-!”

The hand on him moving then – silence –

“… Master?”

#miraak #inkwrites #my fic waking dreams: master of fate #tes #skyrim #elder scrolls #the elder scrolls #relonikiv #kruziikrel #sahrotaar #blood #violence #hallucinations

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fedeipox · 3 years

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The Way of Time (Rdr2 fanfic) - Chapter 2 (1/3)

I actually wanted to post more than one gif but my WiFi isn’t my friend this evening :(

Previously on TWoT: Emily slowly understands she isn’t in 2020 anymore, she realizes where she is, when she is, and who the people who rescued her are. After a brief moment of panic, she finds comfort in Hosea’s words and goes to sleep with the awareness that the next days won’t be easy.

Chapter 2 (1/3) - Smiles

Words: 2,6k

When Emily opened her eyes, for a moment she forgot. She forgot she had made a strange kind of journey, an impossible kind of journey, a journey not in space but in time. She forgot, or her mind had wanted to forget, because of the shock it had been for her.

Can you imagine? What would you do in her place? Just think about it: you lose everything you have, everything you are and everything you know. Wouldn’t you go crazy? Panic? It takes a great strength of both mind and body not to start crying out in desperation, and this is exactly the type of strength Emily had had that morning, when she opened her eyes and after a moment of oblivion, she realized where she was.

Emily was strong, indeed, she just didn’t know.

The fire in front of which she had fallen asleep was extinguished and what remained of the logs they had burned the night before had turned into a grayish ash that spread its smell inside the room.

She stayed there, in the twilight, with her eyes open and the muffled noise of asleep breathing inside her ears. Everybody else in the room was still sleeping and that made her wondering what time it was. Was the sun up in the sky already, or not yet? She could have told if she had got up, reached the little window and pushed the curtain aside, but she didn’t want to.

Standing up and looking outside would have confirmed what she already knew, that it hadn’t been a dream, but staying there, lying inside that dirty blanket on that dirty floor, it was like she was still in her house, in her time, with the people she loved. She was refusing to acknowledge the truth.

When the door busted open without any notice, she jumped out of her covers and could barely restrain a yelp.

“Rise and shine, ladies! It’s time to leave this place” said Miss Grimshaw before going away without closing the door behind her.

“Ooh God… give me strength” she heard Karen’s voice from her right.

Now that the door was open, Emily could see that outside the sun was rising. There was that beautiful pinky light that she loved so much, but that she could barely see because of the late hours of her job that forced her to over sleep in the morning.

But now she could see it, so she stood up and got to the door letting the feeble sun hit her face and warm it. She smiled, weakly, but she did. She had just found a positive thing in all that mess, and she was going to hold on to it until she could.

“Hey, what are you looking at?” asked Mary-Beth’s sleepy voice.

“The sun” Emily simply replied.

“Why, you don’t have it where you come from?”

Even in a moment like that Karen was able to spoil everything. It seemed the night hadn’t improved her temper.

Emily huffed before she headed outside to enjoy the sight. The yellow-pinky light, filtered by the branches of the trees all around the old mining town - now she could say that - hit the snow, making it glitter like it was made of diamonds. If it wasn’t for the cold, piercing her flesh and bones under her light clothes, she could have stayed all her life out there, just looking at it.

She heard a sound of a wooden door cracking and from the cabin right next to hers Dutch came out, closing the buttons of his dark coat.

“Ah! Good Morning to you” he said squinting his eyes against the sunlight.

She just made a nod in his direction and then he silently went away, leaving her alone again with her view, but no much time passed before more movement behind the opened door of her cabin made her understand the peace had ended.

“Jack!” exclaimed a voice and right after a child came out running and stopped by her side.

Emily fixed her eyes on the boy’s face: he was looking at her with the curiosity children usually have for amenities.

“Hi” she said.

“Hi. Who are you?” he asked shamelessly.

Curious and brave, that was a combination Emily loved in people and especially in children. She couldn’t stand those babies who hided their faces when she said “hi” to them. They were cute, yes, but boring.

She opened her mouth to give him the answer he deserved, but his mother came out with a little scarf in her hands and a severe expression on her face.

“I told you to wait. You want to catch a fever?” she scolded him, kneeling down and putting the scarf around his neck.

“I wanted to see the new lady” he replied.

Abigail raised her eyes on Emily and murmured a “morning” that sounded both as a greeting and an apology.

Emily smiled again, the second time that morning. This time not genuinely, but just to show her appreciation for the child, as a sort of rule of social behavior, the kind of rule her mother taught her.

“My name is Emily” she said to the boy as her mother closed his tiny coat.

“I’m Jack. Why are you here?”

“Don’t bother her. Come let’s take something to eat” Abigail said taking his hand and pulling him away.

Abigail’s words had a strange effect to Emily’s body. The day before she had eaten nothing and the consequences of that choice were starting to be felt. She felt empty, so empty she believed she could fly away with a too strong gust of wind. Who knew if they had something else to eat rather than that disgusting thing they had served her.

“Emily” a voice called her and turning over she recognized Mary-Beth standing on the doorstep of their cabin and showing her a…coat?

“Wear this or you’ll freeze to death before noon” she said.

“No, thank you. I told you, I prefer to wear my clothes” she replied trying not to sound too rude.

She had no intention to wear any of their things: not a coat, not a hat, not even a glove. She had already slept on that filthy floor and she felt terribly in need of a shower, she wouldn’t do nothing else that could compromise her hygiene or her health.

“But this will keep you warm. If we have to load the wagons and move we’ll stay all day out here” said Mary-Beth trying to convince her.

Emily puffed looking first at the girl, then at the snow all around her and finally at the coat. She took a few steps towards it and studied the lousy thing more carefully. It was a long bottle-green woolen coat with some holes and unstitched points, but no dirt stains, which gave her hope.

“Okay” she sighed taking it from Mary-Beth’s hands. “I guess… I’ll try it.”

“It will fit you well. It’s mine and I’m not half as skinny as you are” she replied smiling at her.

“Listen, do you have something to eat which is not that slime they gave me last night?” Emily asked wearing the coat that, just like Mary-Beth had told her, fit her perfectly.

“Yeah, I know, Pearson’s stew is not the best” she said biting her lower lip in a sorry and thoughtful expression.

“Come, maybe we’re lucky and they have some biscuits” she added with a sign of her hand before walking away.

Biscuits! The idea had exited her more than she could tell and made her smile again. Emily loved everything that was sweet: vanilla, chocolate, cinnamon, the taste didn’t matter, the sweeter the better.

She followed Mary-Beth like she was her little lapdog, until they reached the other side of the little village. They walked past the cabin where she was taken the night before, but they didn’t stop. Instead, Mary-Beth kept walking and headed to a shed. Under it there were three people: Santa Clause, the dark Native and a man she hadn’t seen before.

“Good Morning folks. Mr. Pearson, do you have some assorted biscuits?” asked Mary-Beth to the third man.

Emily laid her eyes on him and immediately understood something: if that man was Mr. Pearson, and from what she had heard he was some sort of cook there, she could understand why his stew was that terrible. That man looked dirty: his hands were black of coal, the little hair he still had on his head were greasy, his clothes were… Emily couldn’t find an adjective for the clothes.

“Biscuits, uh?” he said and looked at Emily with a grin on his face.

“For the new entry here? I heard you didn’t appreciate the last meal I offered you” he added with a sudden severe look.

Emily widened her eyes: someone had told him she hadn’t eaten the night before, and her gesture had offended him. Now what? He would have made her starve? She didn’t have to forget they were criminals, they were able to do anything.

“Don’t scare her, Pearson. You can’t blame her if that thing of yours in uneatable” said Santa Clause with amusement.

“And without that thing of mine you would all starve” he yelled back.

The man with the white beard scoffed and took a sip from his bottle.

“Anyway, no, I don’t have no biscuits. I can give you…” said Pearson looking at the cans on the table in front of him.

“Oatcakes. That’s the most similar thing to a biscuit I have.”

Disappointment appeared on Emily’s face, but she tried to hide it and nodded to the man who gave her the tin box.

“What’s your name, Miss?” asked Pearson watching her as she opened the box and took one.

“Emily” she answered giving it a bite.

She wasn’t fond of oatcakes, even if she liked them, but at that moment they tested like the best thing in the world.

“Well, Miss Emily, I gave you the oatcakes, so now you must do something for me” said Pearson laying a hand on the table.

Emily froze with her mouth full of oatcake and her eyes fixed on the man’s face. What did he want from her? Some kind of payment? With money or… How did things work with those people?

“Next time I make the stew, you have to try it. It ain’t as bad as they say it is” he added with some kind of defensive tone.

Emily laughed and nodded to him, chewing what remained of oatcake in her mouth and thinking how stupid her thoughts had been.

“I will” she said in the end.

“Smith!”

Emily turned to look at the man walking towards them. It was one of those of the train robbery, the big man with the long beard.

“We have to move the wagons to the front” he said to the Native who nodded to him. Then, he looked in the direction of Emily and Mary-Beth.

“Miss Grimshaw is looking for you, we’re packing” he added.

“Come, you don’t want to hear her complaining when we don’t help” said Mary-Beth with a nod of her head and a roll of her eyes.

Emily took another oatcake from the box before handing it back to Mr. Pearson.

“Oh no no, keep them. My gift” he said with a wink which she had no idea how to interpret.

...

Mary-Beth led the way, taking the new girl to the main cabin where Miss Grimshaw was giving orders to everybody, as always.

“Miss Gaskill, you’ll show Miss Richardson how things are done here. Start taking care of the two cabins in the eastern part of town. Miss Jackson, you go with them. Not you Miss Jones, I’ve got something else for you.”

Mary-Beth exchanged a look with Karen: she knew Miss Grimshaw didn’t want to put her and the new girl together, because of what had happened the night before.

“We’ll load our things on the wagon first and then we’ll take care of the others” she said to Emily as they both walked among the snow where the wagons driven by Bill and Charles were being moved.

“Where will we go?” Emily asked.

“I have no idea. It’s the men who make decisions here” she replied.

“Here and in the rest of the world” added Tilly behind them.

When they reached their cabin, Abigail was already at work in the other room, picking up her things.

“Okay, look” Mary-Beth called Emily’s attention kneeling down at the feet of her bedroll.

“You roll it over” she said showing her how to do it, “and then you close it with the strings” she added taking the strings and lacing them up.

“I think she knows how to close a bedroll” said Tilly as she took care of hers.

“No, I don’t. Never used one before” replied Emily as she took the edge of her blanket and started rolling it on itself.

“Never? Where you come from? I haven’t asked yet” asked Abigail leaning out from the other room.

Mary-Beth looked at Emily next to her out of the corner of her eye. What would she reply? She wanted to go on with that fantasy of the time travel?

“I-I… well… I come from Saint Denis but… in the future” she stuttered.

Yes, she wanted to keep on with that story.

Abigail raised her eyebrows as she looked at the serious face of the girl, withdrawing the instinct to burst out laughing. Then, she moved her eyes on Tilly and Mary-Beth who were both looking at her, but she did not understand what they were silently telling her.

“Are you serious?” she asked in the end.

“Absolutely” Emily replied while she kept folding the bedroll.

“And from what time you come from exactly?” she asked again crossing her arms on her chest. That surely was a funny way to try making a fool of her.

“2020.”

“Ah…very funny” she scoffed before returning to the other room and pick up the rest of her things.

“Yeah, it may seem funny, but I can assure you it’s not” said Emily.

Tilly frowned at her. She really believed in what she was saying, so she was either crazy or… it was real.

After the bedrolls they started loading the trunks with their clothes, the crates with their things, the chairs, the tables, the barrels they used to sit on, the boxes, everything that belonged to them and also some new things they had found in the cabins and that might be useful.

Emily wasn’t a good worker. Not because she didn’t want to help, but because she had no strength in those little arms of hers. Everything seemed too heavy to lift, too heavy to move, too heavy too push. She didn’t complain, though. She did everything she was asked to do.

When they finished with their cabin they moved to the one where Bill, Micah, Charles, Lenny and Javier slept, according to Miss Grimshaw’s orders.

“Can we help?” asked Mary-Beth walking inside.

“You can take Bill’ things” replied Javier.

He was already at work, with Charles and Lenny. The three of them were great workers, the girls knew that: they always helped when necessary and always took care of their own things. Bill generally didn’t, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was one of the strongest there and always requested to move heavier cargos.

Micah on the other side…

#rdr2 #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female oc #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #Charles Smith #javier escuella #bill williamson #simon pearson #susan grimshaw #karen jones #tilly jackson #mary-beth gaskill #abigail roberts #jack marston

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thejudgingtrash · 4 years

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[ID: A dark camping side with a fire pit in the foreground. A white frame highlights the logs and the fire. Orange sparks ascend into the sky. Underneath the white frame stands the title ‘A Warm Place at the Fire’. End of ID.]

As promised, @goldendaysareahead a little fanfic about my Camp Hestia AU!

I hope you enjoy it and thank you for @the-real-annabeth-chase for being yet again an amazing beta!

A Warm Place at the Fire (3,8k)

“There! We’ve almost made it!” yelled Bode. His hooves would have brought him much faster near his goal if it weren’t for the mortal legs next to him that trampled to keep up with his speed. Thunder crackled in the distance which made Bode’s brown skin glow in an unusual pale blue.

The satyr looked over his shoulder. His enhanced hearing made him filter out the noise much better. It also helped him focus on the danger behind him. The growls, the hissing and the mass that the animal carried as it surged ahead to kill its prey. “Don’t look behind you!” panted Bode as his friend was about to turn his head.

“Are you kidding me?” coughed the young boy. His legs were burning, and his lungs felt like they were set on fire. “Look who’s talking!”

“Parker, now’s not the time!”

Thunder.

Everything today fell apart. Everything today was nothing but a major disaster. Everything… was simply strange. Parker was used to strange things. He had a vivid fantasy as a kid and always talked about the plants singing for him before he started elementary school. But today really took the cake.

It started with Parker failing three reports at school and slowly peaked to Parker’s father getting robbed in his shop, to said father calling Bode to tell him to put Parker far away in a summer camp for gifted kids out of all places and now after running through the busy streets of New York City, a hell of a ride in a taxi cab that three blind ladies who fought over one single eyeball drove, some weird animal hybrid had sensed them and decided to hunt them the minute they arrived in Long Island.

Oh, and Bode Underwood, Parker’s newfound best friend and neighbor who had just transferred to his middle school, was apparently a satyr with the hairiest goat legs Parker had ever seen and he even had tiny horns hidden in his tight black curls.

The earth shook. It was an earthquake. It had to be an earthquake. But the way the ruptures of the earth had shifted it was clear that it could not be an earthquake. The massive body of an animal still wanted its prey. Tearing two children apart was what he desired.

“There! We’ve almost made it, hold on, Parker!” hissed Bode.

Parker was trying to not land on his face as the path became muddier. It had rained the previous days in New York. “Look! The sign!”

Parker’s eyes followed Bode’s arm. It was true. Deep into the forest there was an archway. It was made out of marble and a wooden sign said New Athens. Behind the archway were… buildings? Houses? Didn’t Parker’s dad tell him that he would be brought into a summer camp? As the two boys came closer Parker could even read the small insignia underneath: formerly known as Camp Half-Blood.

A roar made both nearly jump. The animal. The monster. It also hissed?

Parker jumped over a fallen tree branch and Bode bleated. Oh, he’s really a goat, Parker thought.

A roar. Parker felt the heat in his back. Was he imagining acid tearing his jeans jacket apart or was it truly happening? He had no time to care about it.

The two boys nearly reached the archway. “JUMP!” yelled Bode and Parker did. The both of them slid through the archway and were greeted with silence. Parker vowed to himself to never slide on mud again. The taste of grass and dirt was truly displeasing. No wind was howling and only the echoing songs of the cicadas kept them company.

This so-called camp looked strange. It was a clash of cultures. It was a fight between new and old. To Parkers right it did look like the old grounds of a camp. They looked like they had sporting events, a dinner area and a large area for all kinds of other activities. It would have been fairly normal if it weren’t for deadly ancient weapons lying around in front of a cabin and the dozens of cabins themselves. Each cabin had a different character to it as if they were dedicated to someone. They radiated a strange force. Parker instinctively knew that it was old and ancient, that it was powerful.

The left of the campgrounds were the polar opposite. It wasn’t just buildings and houses. It was an entire city. It was a huge construction side with many finished and unfinished buildings. A city so big yet so hidden deep in the woods of Long Island. The architecture was astounding, and the design was precise and heavily inspired by the world of Ancient Greece.

Was that a CVS out of all things placed into something that looked like the pantheon? And it had a Trader Joe’s next to it in something that looked like another temple? An entire Ancient Greek Taco Bell with a crunch wrap supreme advertisement that had a lightning bolt pressed into its side?! And in the middle of the city was an old market place like in Hollywood movies?

What’s going on? asked Parker himself.

A big blue house seemed to draw the line between old and new. The old ways and the new life. The yesterday and the new beginning at dawn. The old life that Parker had and the new one that rose like a phoenix from its ashes.

Yes, Bode and he made it. The boys had truly made it. They were alive and safe! For now. They gave each other a high five as they rested on the ground and thanked the shining stars above them for their guidance.

A clash disrupted their celebratory mood. The beast. Parker finally saw it in its entire glory. The head of a lion. The back of a reptile? Was that a dragon? And its tale was a snake out of all things?

Fearsome snarls and growls were drowned out behind the invisible layer that prevented the beast from entering campgrounds. The piercing yellow eyes shifted and tried to find the mortal flesh it desired only to be disappointed. The barrier was too strong to be penetrated. The massive beast turned around and was lost from Parker’s sight as it became one with the forest’s darkness. Parker’s adrenaline rush slowly faded away and his heart rate returned to normal.

What he felt rushing over him was a wave of fatigue. He felt the aching pain of his burning lungs that demanded more oxygen, the pain in his bones and muscles that wanted some rest. The young boy sank into the soft grass and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Bode only patted his shoulder as he sat down next to him. The satyr was tired but not as exhausted as the camp’s newest family member.

“You’ve made it,” Bode whispered.

“You’ve made it here, safely! Everything will be alright once the moon chariot sets and the one of the sun rises, we’ll take the entire day to truly process what happens and make a plan about what your father had said, alright?” Parker was too tired to realize the true meanings behind Bode’s words. He only mumbled a “yeah,” and tried to breathe with a steady rhythm.

“Hey Parker,” Bode started, “You just survived the chimera which is something I’m incredibly thankful as that beast has killed other kids prior.”

Chimera? For some odd reason that weird Hercules movie from Disney came to Parker’s mind. “It did what now?”

Bode raised his hands in defense. “Woah hold your horses! No one was seriously injured – this time.” he said.

“What’s important is that you’ll catch your breath and meet the new camp director. Right there at the fireplace.” Bode pointed into the distance and Parker’s gaze followed. “I know all of this is new and weird to you, especially since this place isn’t the most organized, but trust me.”

It was true what Bode said. The juxtaposition between the two worlds that clashed at Camp Half-Blood were simply weird to Parker’s unaccustomed eyes. But there! At the old camp site, right at the edge of old and new, there she was. A woman poking a log with what looked like a golden hook. She wore a brown gown and held a hand to the flames. The flames rose and Parker was worried that the strange lady might have singed her eyebrows accidentally. But no. It was the opposite. It was as if the fire were dancing for her. As if it’s flaring was a beautiful melody for her eyes and only her eyes.

The orange and yellow and golden streaks of the flames were hypnotizing. Parker didn’t even realize how he was already standing up on his two feet and walking towards the pit. Bode followed him. The pit looked small in the distance but only enlarged close up. Parker didn’t feel fear – it was the polar opposite. He felt as calm as he had never been before. The young boy stopped.

“Parker Mbata,” the woman smiled and turned her head to him. The reflection of the flames danced in her eyes and Parker knew that the orange highlighted his beautiful black skin. Beautiful dark skin that she had as well.

“How do you know my name?” he asked her and raised an eyebrow. His voice cracked; he didn’t want to appear impolite as that was what most people thought wrongfully about him. The woman only smiled and pointed to a seat next to her. She was middle-aged and her black braids would probably reach her knees if she had been standing upright. She was pretty. A round face that loved to smile. It wasn’t the movie star look, but she had the calm and grace of someone who had seen much of the world and was able to see the wonderful side of things.

For Parker, she had the aura of a friendly aunt that would help out with homework, try to play on a console with you and would bake here and there from time to time with you. Rib crushing hugs, hands that drove through hair, a pat on the shoulder that said: “No matter how far you’ll go, remember that I’ll always be proud of you.”

If it hadn’t been merely the surface level of her being. She was no ordinary woman like his math teacher – of that Parker was certain. Her eyes. The gleam of the orange nourished her skin and highlighted her beauty. The warmth in her eyes radiated the power of a thousand hugs.

She reeked of power that should never be underestimated.

“I know the names of all new campers,” she simply answered with an honest smile on her face.

“Thank you, Bode.” The woman said and shifted her gaze to the young satyr next to him. Parker could have sworn that he saw his best friend blush at the compliment. That or it was a simple illusion from the fire. “You may now go to your parents’ house. I’m sure Juniper is still waiting on the porch, and Grover will be over the moon with your first search that was a successful one at that.”

The corner of Bode’s mouth threatened to tear his face apart from grinning so big. “See you tomorrow, Parker!” he said before he bowed to the weird lady.

Parker waved goodbye and saw how lights of lanterns turned on in the modern part of the camp as Bode crossed the streets. They turned off again automatically as he turned to the left.

“You may call me Hestia. I’m the new camp director of Camp Half-Blood.”

“Hestia,” Parker repeated, and he saw how she nodded.

“This is a camp for very special people,” Hestia continued and poked the fire. A flame erupted and rose to the sky. “You are safe in here. No monsters or other meddlers will interfere within camp boarders or in the wider city of New Athens. You will train like other half-bloods, find your strength and weaknesses so that you may survive into adulthood and now how to protect yourself and those that you love.”

Half-blood? Monsters? Survive into adulthood? The questions stood bright on Parker’s face as his dark brown eyes widened.

Hestia laughed and patted his back. The warm feeling of being comforted flooded Parker’s body.

“You look an awful lot like my sister,” Hestia said after a few seconds of comfortable silence.

“People just say that I look like my dad only with a better fade on the sides of my head,” Parker denied. “Also, how can I look like your sister?”

Hestia grinned yet again and shook her head. The golden jewelry on her braids clanged. “That is not what I mean, Parker,” Hestia stated.

“Her personality. Her abilities. Her capabilities. All of that and more I see in you. After all, she is your mother.”

Parker’s jaw dropped. Hestia was actually his aunt? She knew his mother? How?! His father had always told him that his mother was a busy person and big in the botanic scene, chasing new discovery after new discovery and that that was the reason why she was never around. Also, Parker had the suspicion that she had fled the country so that she didn’t have to pay child support.

“But I see more in you. Further down your line.” Hestia placed her index finger underneath his chin and lifted it up slightly.

“I can see Morpheus as your great-grandfather. I can see Hermes even further down there.”

“Hermes like the Greek god?”

“Yes, my nephew is a funny albeit sometimes exhausting one.”

“So you want to say that I’m a descendant of Greek gods?”

Hestia nodded. “That I do.”

Parker coughed. Hestia was worried. She waved her hand in the air and Parker had to suppress the scream that was bubbling inside of him as a bottle with a clear liquid appeared. Now he definitely believed her. It wasn’t for the fact that a terrible monster had hunted him for nearly two hours earlier.

“Here drink this slowly. Do not haste, I’d rather not clean up the burnt remains of my newest nephew,” she winked. Parker took the bottle and a first sip.

“Nectar. The drink of the gods. It heals you demigods but too much and it’ll set you on fire.”

The drink tasted like good times. Like the fondest memories that had been deeply buried inside of Parker. The fudgy chocolate brownies with a hint of peanut butter that his father used to make for him whenever he had a good mood. And now his father had sent him away.

The disappointment hit Parker harder than the strenuous activity that had been fleeing the chimera earlier. Hestia sensed his mood and decided to distract him.

“Normally I start camp tours and initiations in the mornings, but I see that I should start out early. You aren’t the only new camper but who would mind a little head start?”, she winked again. “Let me do it differently as well. We used to show a terrible introduction movie around to introduce you into the new world but the reception has been mostly negative.”

Okay thought Parker and nodded slowly.

“How do you feel about your classmates? The Jackson twins?”

Parker narrowed his eyebrows. The twins were weird in a way that most twins were. They were definitely the sort of twins that could read each other’s minds and answer for one another if it weren’t for the fact that they seemed to annoy each other. Apart from that, they were also very friendly and sat down at lunch with him at school despite their constant bickering going on Parker’s nerves.

Ari was the more out-going and bold one and her twin Theo was quieter and more reserved. And he wore glasses that he always readjusted. Parker was definitely not fond of him. No, he was absolutely not. And the swoon in the pit of his stomach that he felt was something he would ignore for the time being.

The more important question: what did the twins have to do with all of this? Hestia grinned as if she had read all of his thoughts and emotions. “As much as I adore Ariadne and Theodoros, we need to begin a generation earlier with their parents. I have much to thank them for.”

Hestia’s immortal memory brought her pictures back that happened decades ago. As her brother threatened to smite Perseus Jackson for daring to stand up to him and ask him for another wish instead of the gift of immortality.

“From now on, I want you to properly recognize the children of the gods. All the children . . . of all the gods,” young Perseus Jackson wished. “I want you to promise to claim your children—all your demigod children—by the time they turn thirteen. They won't be left out in the world on their own at the mercy of monsters. I want them claimed and brought to camp so they can be trained right and survive.”

Oh, how her youngest brother had been furious. “And the minor gods,” Perseus exclaimed. “Nemesis, Hecate, Morpheus, Janus, Hebe—they all deserve a general amnesty and a place at Camp Half-Blood. Their children shouldn't be ignored. Calypso and the other peaceful Titan-kind should be pardoned too. And Hades as well. As for Hestia and him, I have another wish for them. Give them their seats in the Olympian council back.”

That demand made the eyebrows of Poseidon and Athena rise as Zeus’ mouth grew into an even thinner line.

And then Perseus Jackson had turned around to her and had given her the biggest gift she had ever received in her immortal life. “And aunt Hestia, you are the heart and soul of Mount Olympus. You are the guidance and comfort we seek, the hope that remains in our very core. With your permission—the permission from all gods—I’d ask Hestia if she would like to lead Camp Half-Blood as a new co-camp director alongside Chiron and Dionysus until he is done with his punishment?”

Then Hestia did only two things. Hug the savior of Olympus and accept his gracious gift to her as Zeus was legally bound to make his nephews wishes come true.

“Mr. Jackson did all of these things when he was a teenager? With his—uhhh—future wife? And Bode’s dad?” The tales of him having that much influence seemed too great and big and so… unrealistic? Parker couldn’t believe that Percy Jackson was that sort of man. He was a pastry baker and started crying whenever his wife butchered the name of one of his fancy creations according to Ari. That and he was supposedly very busy with his bakery Blue Jackson’s in Downtown Manhattan and another subsidiary in Los Angeles. And that person persuaded Olympian gods as a teenager? Saved the world as a child?

“I mean Mr. Jackson is just a baker,” Parker shrugged. “And Mrs. Chase is this crazy busy architect that also plays mom taxi somehow and drives her kids around while she’s running from meeting to meeting?” At least that was what Theo had texted him ages ago.

Hestia pointed to the beautiful city of New Athens. Not the majestic buildings that stood proudly there surrounding the market place but beyond that where the façade began to crack as the largest construction side he had ever seen. “Yes, Annabeth is incredibly busy with her occupation. As it was she that bore the grounds of New Athens as a safe haven for your kind. Do you see that house on the hill?”

It was pompous, enormous and combined the modern and ancient style beautifully. A light on the second floor was on. “The residence of the Jackson-Chase’s.”

Parker’s jaw dropped. These people must have been filthy rich. No wonder that Mr. Jackson ordered flower arrangements on the regular from his dad. Those pieces were expensive. Parker’s eyes shifted slightly to the left. A few feet away was a Blue Jackson’s bakery right next to the house. Easy commute for Mr. Jackson.

“The illuminated room is Annabeth’s office. It seems like she is still working on her designs.”

The light was suddenly switched off. “Oh!” Hestia sounded surprised. “It looks like Perseus was for once successful in telling his wife she ought to sleep. Oh well.”

Parker snickered.

“After all it is way past two in the morning. You should also rest so soon.”

But Parker didn’t want to. He was wrapped up in the tales that Hestia told him. The middle schooler reassured Hestia that he was yet not entirely worn out. The goddess sighed like a tired mother.

“And it was she, Annabeth, that restored the honor of the gods and built a cabin for every one of us gods—even the ones without half-bloods—so that we have places for our children, visitors and prayers. Until you are claimed, you will stay at Cabin Zero—my cabin,” Hestia smiled.

“We all start at Zero. We all start from nothing only to learn and to grow into something. You will find new friends, a new life, a new home. Just like your parents intended and. I am sure that Mr. Mbata will arrive soon safely at camp. I have given him instructions to hide in a secret place due to the monsters starting to sense you.”

That made Parker smile and relief spread throughout him. He would be reunited with his father very soon.

“You remind me very much of Perseus Jackson, Parker Mbata. Since the introduction movie left a sour taste in many campers and inhabitants of New Athens and you do not appear to be so sleepy, let me retell the tale of Perseus Jackson from the beginning. The most famous demigod of them all. Greater than any other hero the Greek pantheon had ever seen.”

The flames seemed to dance around goddess and demigod. “He was just like you. Small, a little bit on the scrawny side…”

Parker frowned a little bit, but Hestia giggled at her backhanded compliment.

“A half-blood. A child of man and god… Perseus gets quite frequently asked to retell his story. At first, he did so begrudgingly. He wrote his memories down. For his and anyone else’s sake. Had an entire folder with papers in his hand as he sat down. But now he grew confident and into an incredible speaker. He speaks from his heart and not from paper.”

Hestia inhaled sharply. The eldest child of Kronos turned her face to the red of the flames to recount the events that happened nearly twenty years ago.

“Perseus always starts his stories with ‘look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood’…”

The End

I’m not really an OC person but I hope you enjoyed this little thought experiment regardless ;>

If anyone is interested in my other fanfics, I can offer you How Could You (Percabeth, sad, finished) and The Fool (Percabeth, mystery, on-going) :3

#pjo #Percy Jackson #percy jackson fanfiction #camp half blood #chb #hestia #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo fanfic #mel writes #demigods of color

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buns-with-a-book · 3 years

Link

Nero blinked awake at the rising dawn, peering through the tiny window in the kitchen. He let out a grumble as he slowly stood, stretching to force himself awake. He was met with brick and stone, the hearth of the kitchen cold and dusty from the ashes. He tossed some logs into the hearth and lit them, coaxing the flames to rise. Standing up, he walked out of the kitchen. He swiped a wicker bread next to the door as he made his way to the back, where a small collection of farm animals were kept. A small gathering of chickens, a black cat, a raccoon (who was more content with just sitting in the sun than causing havoc for some reason) resided in the tiny yard. Entering the coop, he smiled at the laid eggs for him. That would provide well enough for breakfast and lunch and he could make meals involving eggs that didn’t taste so breakfasty.

It’s time for a new series!

Tags: @furyeclipse @harlot-of-oblivion @queenmuzz @i-write-fanfics-to-procrastinate @astral-space-dragon

#devil may cry #devil may cry nero #devil may cry kyrie #nerokiri #nero/kyrie #chapter update

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aquaquadrant · 4 years

Text

ravenous red

Star Wars: The Clone Wars fanfic Rating: T Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, injury, blood, death Summary:

i heard you wanted a war funny, i wanted it more

~*~

So he says nothing, letting his gaze speak his hate as he relents, turning and walking away. It feels like disgrace, it feels like a failure, to go do her bidding- go cause some chaos, she taunts- but real victory lies in that which she does not yet know. Good at it, sure, he can admit as much, but the means to the end will be something she doesn’t expect. That’s how he’ll get her, collateral damage in this personal storm he directs.

At her request.

Lady Tano, you don’t know what you’ve just asked for.

A/N: I know I said my last oneshot was my tribute to the Clone Wars, but then I heard a song that fit Maul perfectly so I had to do a tribute to him too. It’s actually a song fic, I’ve been writing fanfic since I was 13 but this is my first song fic so hopefully I did it right. This is basically Order 66 from Maul’s POV, showing off how much of a spiteful, unhinged badass he really is. Hope you enjoy, reblogs/comments are appreciated! – Aqua

Song is Appetite for Destruction by Vo Williams

Click here to read on Archive of Our Own

Click here to support me on Ko-fi

~*~

ravenous red

It starts with a scream.

Ringing out through the force like a shot, chaos crashing in after it. Words pass in flashes, snippets he can’t quite decipher. The impressions of feelings brush against him; shock, betrayal, desperation. He feels the flicker of lightning, a bygone but familiar sensation. Someone somewhere has made a very poor choice, one that will echo for ages, one that he expected.

(He did try and warn them)

It’s not long before they come. Identical faces behind identical helmets approach without words. They are rigid, unflinching, as they move to lower the shield that protects him, ensnares him, with unspoken intent written plainly as anything else.

Any lingering sympathy he has for these beings, these clones that were raised to be tools- as was he- dissipates like mist in the sun. To think, they would kill him like this. Trapped and defenseless. A coward’s method of choice; it insults him, right to the core. Let him out, let him fight, he’ll give them a show. He’ll remove the spines they don’t deserve. They aren’t using them anyway.

The death in the air is a pulse in his brain, a constant crashing and ebb of bloody waves. It’s hard to concentrate, hard to mediate between what’s happening right in front of him and what’s happening lightyears away. The force is a furnace, thousands of bodies toppling into it to burn. It devours them gladly, wiping out light from the sky to leave nothing but smoke and ash in return.

He wants to join in, wants to destroy. Not a Sith, not quite, but he hunts like one still. The darkness beckons for him, a familiar cold, coursing through his veins. Yellow eyes glare through glass, burning with hatred and rage. He’d kill them, if only he could. He wants them to know it. He wants them to feel it.

If looks could kill, they’d already be dead.

this is the end of your days it's time we end the charades open the cage, i want to play time for the bridges to blaze

Blasters are raised- but cut down just as quickly.

His savior is a flash of blue. Unexpected but welcome (though he prefers red). Her hostility is unsurprising, her fear concealed well- but not completely. She feels the same death he does, but it frightens her, whereas it only strengthens his resolve. He will not fall as the Jedi do. He loathes the thought; there is too much unfinished business for him to perish now.

(Kenobi will survive this because Maul must be the one to kill him, no one else, he wills this with every fiber of his being- and will is a powerful thing, will allowed him to survive being cleaved in half)

Between the two of them, everything falls into place. His master’s plan, beautiful and deadly. Brilliant and artful. Cowardly and despicable. To strike them down with the men who were created to serve, to protect. They’re nothing but droids now, mindless droids coated in flesh. It doesn’t matter to him; he’d kill either way, but he knows that she won’t.

It’s good that she’s come to him, he’ll do it for her, do what must be done to get them out alive-

Except, no.

She rejects him. She wants to strike out on her own, condemn him to the same lonely fate. It’s foolish. So blinded by her lofty morals that she fails to grasp they’re both members of the same dying breed. The Padawan who might’ve joined him has retreated far beneath the surface, hiding under a cloak of denial at the vision he sees. Her attachment is strong, too strong, that she cannot accept the truth even when given freely.

How dare she? How dare she?! Dare to use him and cast him aside, as so many others before- always remember that you are nothing- this child in a warrior’s mask, thinking he’ll act as her pawn. No, not anymore.

Oh, he’ll kill her. He’ll kill her for that. So many ways to do it, weapon or no. Reach out a hand, reach for the force, strangle the breath from her lungs, crushing her throat in his grasp. In this moment, he hates so greatly he truly thinks that he could. Crush her throat, or crush her skull, he wants to, grab her head and smash it against the wall. Red dripping down lekku of blue and white, a striking image it’d make, to be sure. He always did have an eye for these things.

He wants to see it.

i'm slipping into a craze twisted images into the brain turn up the volume on the pain give me the feeling i crave

But no.

Logic and reason win out. They dictate he cannot waste time on the likes of her. She proved a difficult fight before and his chances are slim as they are. Save his energy, save his effort for the real battle to come, for the ones who march to the tempo of death and come for him next, they’ll come for him just as well as for her.

Neither of them are Jedi but he knows they will not see it as so.

In the end that’s all that matters, how they will see you, how they perceive you, all the words in the world make no difference at all. Words do nothing, only action can produce results, as he’s clearly been shown.

At her request.

Lady Tano, you don’t know what you’ve just asked for.

show me your villainous ways show me the killer's awake make me afraid that's how you bring me to life make the adrenaline race i want a taste

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

Alone, he persists.

His path’s uncontested, legs of metal storming heavy and loud through the ship, not trying to hide. Let them come, he’ll be ready. This aggression needs somewhere to go, after all. It’s burning him up inside. He knows intimately what it’ll do to him, if he won’t let it out. The anger, the pain. It seeks to devour, a ravenous red haze flowing through him, taking control of his brain.

It guides him and he lets it. His stalk is a predator’s stalk, single-minded focus on the hunt. He’s not afraid. They’ll see they aren’t the only executioners at work today.

They find him quickly, scattered through the ship as they are, and greet him with a volley of fire. Metal bends to his will, peeling away like skin off of flesh. Weapons or no, he’s been given a task. He can be creative. The true measure of a warrior lies not in their blade. To wield power, he needs only to look within and ask.

The very walls of their ship become the instruments of their demise. He lifts without effort, advancing slowly but surely with an unbroken stride. Walls to deflect their shots, to smash them aside, to cut through armor, through flesh, and through bone. Two heads roll off with a thrust of his arm, slack faces concealed in their helms. Bodies crushed in between, crumbling limp to the floor. A sharp flick of the wrist pins one to the wall, sliced in half- the irony is not lost on him, but humor has no place here, in this tomb.

And finally, they make their retreat, aiming to seal him inside. But no, he’s not done with them yet. There’s something he needs and he’s not asking politely.

The arm comes off in the end, the vital comm-link still attached to the bracer. He slips it on, leaving the limb to bleed red on the floor, staining the armor- and he was right, what a striking image it makes. But he can’t linger long.

Chatter through the communicator gives him his next target.

Chaos… really, she should have been more specific.

i heard you wanted a war funny, i wanted it more here comes the "bang-bang" on your door it's time to back up the noise i've been ignoring the voice begging me seek and destroy it's eating my core feel like a time bomb in the eye of a storm

He makes it to the engine room without interruption.

It’s cavernous, the floor far below, a pit spanned by narrow bridges. It’s protected, as he expected, clones charge to stop him but they matter not. Their efforts are wasted. Over the edge they go; others fall to commandeered blaster fire, or to his fists. He will succeed by any means. It’s futile of them to resist.

(They can’t help it, he knows, but he doesn’t care- he wants their blood anyways)

The dark side has never flowed more strongly within him. It’s a wellspring inside his chest, filling him completely with inky black cold. Their will is one and the same; burn it all. He reaches out, power surging, fueling his rage as it takes hold. All around him, machinery falls. Sparks rain down from above as reactors are peeled off the walls.

He’ll tear them apart from within. Metal shrieks and groans as he pries it away. The ship’s hyperdrive core is his aim. Without it, they’re stranded. Him as well, but he’s not planning to stay. There must be shuttles, and nothing will get in his way.

The doors part, and another squadron advances to stop him- but they’re too late. He topples the reactors on top of them and down it all goes, crashing to the floor far below, sealing their fate.

And with that, it’s time to take his leave.

let all the chips hit the floor do everything that you want settle the score that's how you bring me to life that's when I'm feeling recharged i want it all

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

The flight deck is a battlefield.

She’s here- but of course- attempting to hold off the rest of the forces, their volley of fire. Somehow, someway, she’s pulled one to her side. Her little captain fights bravely, but there’s too many, it won’t be enough.

He senses opportunity, another chance perhaps to make her see. Come to her aid now and she’ll have no choice but to accept. Offer survival; a joint escape from this wreckage for her and her dog (though he cares not for three). Two are better than one, even if two is the way of the Sith, which he’s not. Their chances are better together. He knows this. He feels this.

Except, no.

She already had her chance, she had three. She rejected him. She scorned him. She cast him aside. You lie, she told him. Your vision is flawed. Arrogant. Stubborn. He hates her. He hates her.

Within a second, his choice is made. He runs past, towards the ship that would be her salvation- now it’s his. She pursues, he deflects; a dangerous dance. The world’s falling around them, and still they cannot help but fight- it’s in her nature, in her nature as well as in his.

You wanted this chaos, he taunts.

Then, without mercy, he pushes her over the edge.

i feel the monster rising up inside and i can't hold it down i'm hungry for destruction pieces crumbling, fall into the ground

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

She’s still alive when he leaves.

His ship arcs away from the crash, plowing through smoke and fire. The entire carrier is doomed, every last soul aboard sharing its fate. Escape pods destroyed, no more ships to salvage. Surely, then, this is their end- but not his.

(He did tell them they’d all burn; but while some burn in fire, others burn with it)

There’s no remorse in his escape. It’s a measure of strength; only he was enough to get out alive. He cares not for her, for how she will burn. She deserves it. In fact, he’d say out of all the beings on that ship, she’s the only one. The droids-who-were-clones cannot ‘deserve’ a fate either way. Every action is the command of somebody else, not their own.

A great victory for his master. The thought curls his lip. But he’ll count his blessings; he survived, and as the galaxy is reshaped, he knows that he has all the skills required to thrive. A tool he might be, but a sharp one. A deadly one.

His master saw to that. He should thank him. Maybe he will- before he kills him.

As for her... the possibility lingers that she might’ve survived as well. Resourceful. Determined. He sensed these traits in her. But he truly hopes that she hasn’t, that the firestorm has swallowed her whole. Not for his sake, but hers. Because if she survived, then the next time he sees her- and he will, if she has- she won’t be so lucky simply to burn.

He will kill her slowly, painfully. Unimaginable agony. Broken in body and mind. Enough to beg for death. Enough to understand what he’s felt, the culmination of all his suffering- truly, a fate to wish on no one.

Best to be taken in fire and chaos.

Lady Tano, isn’t that what you wanted?

i feel my rage erupting feed my appetite for destruction blood rushing i love when you feed my appetite for destruction

~*~

#star wars the clone wars #swtcw #clone wars season 7 #darth maul #tcw spoilers #my writing

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loiseau-lyre · 4 days

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Chapter 5? Already? After only one week? Yes, it's real!

#zucest #firesiblings #black sun or the taste of ashes fanfic #zucest fanfic

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beautifulblhell · 4 years

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An Ordinary Morning (Banana Fish Fanfic)

Pairing: Ash x Eiji

Summary: All Eiji wishes was to be with Ash and live an ordinary life together... Or was that too much to ask for?

Warning: Contains angst and spoilers for the end of the anime/manga.

A/N: I would like to thank KingSirahk, who helped me with so much more than just proofreading! Thank you!

The gentle aroma of miso soup drifted in the quiet morning air.

“Ash.”

Eiji poked his head around the door and saw no signs of response in the bed. Walking over, he gently shook the person buried under the duvet.

“Ash?”

Eiji grabbed the edge of the duvet and flung it into the air, before walking over to the window and opening the curtains. The bright summer sun greeted him, casting its warm rays onto the person curled on the bed.

“Wake up, Ash.”

The young man emitted a groan as the sunlight hit his face. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, reaching his hand out to grab the duvet and proceeded to pull it over his head.

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago.” Eiji crossed his arms, trying to sound stern, yet he could not help but let a smile slip onto his face. “Breakfast is already ready, so hurry and get up. Otherwise you won’t be getting any food.”

Eiji returned to the kitchen. He was finishing spooning two bowls of rice when he felt a presence lean against him. Ash rested his chin on Eiji’s shoulder and sniffed. His breath tickled Eiji’s ear.

“Why’s there no meat?”

“I made salmon.”

Ash pulled a face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Salmon is good for you. Here,” He said as he hands Ash a plate topped with a piece of grilled fish and smiled wryly when he saw the skeptical frown directed at the fish. “Fine, I’ll make steak for lunch.” Hearing this, Ash’s expression immediately brightened and a small laugh escaped from Eiji’s lips. Seeing Eiji laughing at him, Ash pouted, a slight pink dusted his cheeks, and he poked at Eiji’s cheeks. “Don’t laugh, I’m still growing. It’s no wonder that you are so short if this is what you eat.”

It became a routine for them: Eiji making breakfast, waking Ash up, eating breakfast, then going for a stroll afterwards, if the weather permits. It was these short, precious, everyday moments that Eiji treasures so much, with nothing coming in between them.

Ash stood by the front porch, waiting for Eiji to finish locking the doors. In the summer air, Ash’s hair danced in the gentle breeze, shining all the more brightly in the morning light. When Eiji turned around, he reached for Eiji’s hand and naturally entwined their fingers together and gave Eiji a bright smile that made even the sun pale in comparison.

“Let’s go, Eiji.”

They walked along the beach, leaving behind a trail of footprints imprinted on the white crystal sands. Two pairs side by side. The sound of the waves gently breaking against the sand, washing ashore a thin line of white mist, before rolling calmly back into the sea. Seagulls flew overhead, crying out, their white wings spread against the cloudless blue sky, freedom etched to the tip of their wings.

They stopped right at the edge of the sea, feeling the waves softly washing over the tip of their toes before receding.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ash murmured. Eiji brought a hand up to his eyes and gazed at the ocean. He didn’t realise Ash was looking at him.

Endless blues of bright azure, deep sapphire, and rich aquamarine dance underneath the sun, causing thousands of white, glittering light across the surface to shimmer like jewels against the bright blue sky. This beauty could take one's breath away and yet in Eiji’s eyes, nothing could be compared to the beauty of the man standing next to him.

It was so peaceful standing here with the salty sea aroma enveloping all around them. The cool water washing all their worries away and the calming sound of waves hiding the noise of any human activities. It was as if they were in a world that only consisted of

themselves and the deep blue sea. Eiji closed his eyes and breathed in the ocean; tasting the salt on his tongue and feeling it seep into his lungs. Ash watched him with a tender look in his green eyes.

“The sea reminds me of Japan. When I went to my grandparents’ house in the summer, I could see the ocean from the window in my room.” A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he squinted at the water and the memory brought a smile upon his face.

Emerald eyes become troubled for a moment. “Do you miss Japan?”

Eiji shook his head. How could he feel homesick, when the person standing next to him embodies the very meaning of home?

It was bliss to be able to wake up every morning and hear the gentle sound of waves crashing against the shore, and most importantly, with Ash by his side. If this could last for eternity...

Ash suddenly dropped Eiji’s hand.

“Sorry, I gotta go to the library.” His voice was cold, suddenly devoid of any emotion, his expression faraway.

...The library?

The sudden shift in topic jarred Eiji in his tracks.

Was there even a library around here?

A library...

Somehow, the word sets off a warning bell inside his brain and dread begins to spread in his chest as he hurriedly goes to grab Ash’s hand with a shout, “Wait!”

But Ash had already turned around, his back now facing Eiji, and walked forward, away from him. Panicking, Eiji tried to grab Ash’s hand, but missed, his fingers grasping nothing but the empty air.

Without realising, a deathly stillness had settled over. The waves stood still, the birds hung unmoving in the sky and the heat of the sun was gone, replaced by a cold chill. Then, the scene around them cracks like a mirror before shattering and falling away, revealing an expanse of darkness that surrounds them. It was impossible to tell which way was forward or which way was back. The only thing that Eiji could see was Ash, slowly getting smaller and smaller as he walked steadily further into the blackness.

“Ash, wait!” Eiji’s horrified cry echoed eerily in the gloom, as he hurriedly ran after Ash. But no matter how hard he ran, Ash kept on getting further and further away.

He shouldn’t have let go of the hand.

The darkness was suffocating, slithering into his lungs, choking him, until Eiji was gasping for breath. His legs started to cramp, his mind deprived of oxygen, but still, he pressed forward, forcing himself to work harder, faster. Keep running, keeping running.

Run.

Run!

RUN!

Out of nowhere a solitary snowflake fell. Then, another one descended, then another one, and another one, until it turned into a blizzard. The wind whipped mercilessly around him, causing the icy air to pierce like a thousand swords into his bones, freezing him from the inside out. With every breath the white clouded his vision, yet nevertheless his eyes never left the back in front of his eyes.

“ASH!”

His strangled yells were drowned out by the fierce, howling of the wind. But then, Ash paused and turned back towards Eiji with a small smile.

Hope spreads through Eiji, giving him a sudden burst of energy as he runs towards Ash. He was so close, Ash was just within his reach. Eiji extends his hand-

Ash’s mouth moved slightly but the wind swallowed his words.

In the next moment, another gust of strong gale blew around Ash, shrouding him in white. From within the darkness beneath the storm of ice, a skeletal hand extended. It curled its bony fingers around Ash’s shoulder, and with one, finally angry shriek of the wind, Ash was gone.

Within a blink of an eye, the storm had vanished as quickly as it came.

“Ash?”

His trembling voice dissipated into the void around him that had once again reappeared.

“Ash?” Only silence echoed back.

“Ash?” He called again, desperation seeping into his voice.

Eiji cried out, “Ash! Where are you?!”

The desperate hoarse voice screamed on, again and again. No, he must have not ran hard enough. Ash must be here somewhere. He HAD to be...

As he took a step forward, a crackling noise sounded below his foot.

He looked down and saw several sheets of paper, scrawled with familiar handwriting.

Because it was his writing.

Eiji’s chest becomes constricted as invisible chains appear out of nowhere, shackling him down and forcing him to watch as the scene unfolds in front of his eyes.

Small splashed of red slowly seeped inwards from the edge of the pages, dissolving the black ink until it became a darker, murky red.

Like blood.

Eiji wanted to turn his head away, to close his eyes, but his body won’t obey, frozen in terror.

The words slowly blurred as the red creeped inwards, until it finally reached the last untainted sentence in the middle. Eiji had just enough time to register the words in his brain before the red engulfed the black ink, curling around it.

The pieces of paper stained with a dark blood red stared at him accusingly. From the darkness, it felt like a thousand eyes were glaring at him, blaming him, with whispers chanting over and over again that it’s all his fault.

It’sallhisfaulit’sallhisfaultit’sallhisfaultIt’sallhisfaulit’sallhisfaultit’sallhisfault-

“AHHHHHHHH!!!”

He clutched his head between his hands and fell onto his knees, giving out a broken scream as if his soul had been ripped from his body. The pain in his heart took a physical form, threatening to tear him apart. He threw his head back and screamed towards the heavens that had abandoned Ash, towards the vicissitude of life, and most of all, towards himself, who shouldn’t have left Ash-

A blurry ceiling came into view.

At first, confusion clouded his brain. It took him a while before his disoriented mind could re-piece back reality. He blinked as the remnants of the tears rolled silently down his cheeks, leaving two damp trails, side by side.

The sound of people bustling in the busy street and traffic below sound muffled to his ears as if he was underwater; unconnected to reality.

He tightened the blanket around him and laid there; simply waiting for sleep to come.

It was morning, the sun in the grey sky had risen, but his sun was forever gone. Only in his dreams could he be with Ash again…

Before he drifted off, the words from the letter echoed inside his mind...

“ My soul is always with you.”

#Banana Fish #Banana Fish Fanfic #Fanfic #Banana Fish Ash #Banana Fish Eiji #Ash x Eiji #Ash x Eiji fanfic #Ash and Eiji #Ash Lynx #Ash Lynx fanfic #Eiji Okumura #Eiji Okumura fanfic #Banana Fish Angst #Banana Fish Fanfiction #BF #yaoi #yaoi fanfic #beautifulotomehell fanfic

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inter-bellum · 4 years

Text

You deserve to be happy

Song: There for you - Martin Garrix + Troye Sivan (!) I will follow you into the dark - Death cab for cutie (Covered by YUNGBLUD and Halsey)

So, this fanfic is inspired on this post (you have no idea how long it took me to have a link that included all the reblogs). Of course I got a little very carried away and it turned 4 pages long. Oh well, I hope it lives up to your expectations, @princess-of-fandom!! The quote at the end is part of this post by @dylanholyhellobrien. With all the credits given, enjoy!! (if you feel like the improper credits were given, be sure to dm me, I don’t mind at)

PS: I don’t have ao3 hence why I post it here. If you want to post it anywere, ao3 or fanfiction.net, on behalf of me, you can, but please give the proper credits and message me so that I can check it out :)

Unedited (I tried my best, but English isn’t my native language.)

The contours of the trees that lined the horizon finally regained shape under the guidance of the first sun rays. In the dead of the night, the huts, tents and trees had blotched together with the sky to assemble ill-proportioned shadows that made Thomas’s heartbeats rise to feverish heights.

The hammock wobbled as he swung his legs over the edge to find solid ground. He steadied himself against the stripped bark of the pole and counted his breaths until they were calm and measured.

“Beautiful, huh?” Minho said when he noticed Thomas’ gaze on the horizon. His face finally started to lose the last traces WCKD’s experiment. The light in his eyes has returned in full force and gone was the ghostly white sheen on his cheeks.

Thomas didn’t share the sentiment. “It’s too alike.”

Minho sighed. “But it will never be the same.” There was one thing that still seemed in WCKD’s possession; the fire that lingered in his friend’s voice, the kind that used to deliver his characteristic snarky comments tirelessly. Or perhaps it wasn’t WCKD that took it.

They watched as the sun climbed higher and higher and other immunes starting to appear from their tents. A couple people Thomas had befriended during the course of the first few weeks greeted them as they strolled by.

“You’re hungry?” Minho, who still by his side, jerked his chin over to where Frypan was preparing what seemed to be a thick soup. Just when Thomas was about to say no, hunger hit him like a punch in the gut.

“Yeah, sure.” He ignored the relieved look his friend shot him.

The familiar sound of pots and pans scraping against the metal of spoon and knife like tools reached them, Frypan looked up and tossed them a wave.

“Saved something for you, shanks.”

A bowl with soup was thrust into his hands. Thomas brought it to his lips, avoiding the chipped edges. It tasted like wet ashes in his mouth, something frequent when it came to food, but it was better than nothing. He smiled and nodded at Fry before wiping his mouth.

After breakfast, he and Minho headed to fields. As one of the first things to establish, it started to become larger day by day.

Soon, it will be bigger than the gardens in the Glade.

That was like another punch in the gut. Thomas staggered on his feet. The only thing that kept him spiraling down to the ground was the smooth weight of the necklace. It was all he had. Whenever his heart would be choked by grief, unable to beat any longer, Thomas’d swear the necklace started beating instead, reminding him of his friend’s wishes. You deserve to be happy.

“Are you okay?” Minho’s face swam into focus. Thomas managed to respond with a shaky nod.

“Yeah... yeah, don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m... fine.” The last word needed to be wrenched of his tongue but he was glad that his voice didn’t crack. To strengthen his reassurance, Thomas grabbed a shovel and set to work.

The day gliding by, like a boat on the peaceful water. Large campfires were howling their scorching anguish to the night sky as people gathered around them. Thomas watched as the workers started to leave the fields, collecting the shovels in various bins of all shapes and sizes that stood near the entrances.

One of the boys who had worked alongside him walked past him. Upon noting that Thomas was still rooted in the same spot, he freed himself from the group.

“We’re roundin’ up, Tommy.”

Tommy. The moment he closed his eyes, he was back in the maze-like realms of his mind. Where memories piled up on top of memories to create the walls and ivy sealing them away from focus. Now they were moving, and the ivy was tearing like wet paper.

Tommy

“Don’t!” Thomas lurched forward to grab the boy’s shirt, nearly lifting him off his feet. “Don’t,” he repeated. “Don’t ever call me that, only he could!”

Thomas felt himself being janked away by someone. Other people entered from the side of his blurred vision, crowding him and the other boy. He lowered his eyes to the ground. A hand clamped around his shoulder for the second time this day.

“Allright, slim it everyone.” Minho’s voice topped that of the other’s as he stood besides Thomas, with his hand still on his back. The murmur remained among the immunes as their gaze drifted from Thomas to the shell-shocked boy, whose eyes already harboured a faint understanding.

“Okay.” Minho muttered once the crowd had settled down. Thomas could feel his friend’s gaze tracing the edges of his face. “Thomas, what happened, man?”

“He…” Thomas struggled to catch his breath. “He called me Tommy.”

“He… what?” Minho blinked stupidly. Like… Like he has forgotten who’d always say that.

Thomas had already turned around, shrugging his way through the crowd, ignoring Minho’s calls. The blurry remnants of unshed tears dotted his vision as he stumbled down the path. The soft earth underneath his feet turned into the fine sand of the beach. Large waves were smashed against the sides of the ship while others reached the shore, dumping their foamy residue in the sand before retreating again.

He pursued his trek along the beach. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the smoke of fire trying to reach for the moon until they were shattered and dispersed by the wind. The sound of laughter was drowned out by that of the waves as Thomas neared a large rock formation. Amidst the asymmetrical blocks of grey sat a black, rounded stone with a name notched into it. Upon coming closer you could see delicate leaves carved underneath the name.

Thomas didn’t know when he stopped visiting Newt, but now that he was here, it felt like coming home to an empty house. He sank to his knees while soft sobs wretched themselves past his lips.

Instead of saying something to the boy sleeping beneath the stone, Thomas settled on shifting the sand through his fingers, gathering the grains in small piles besides the grave. Thomas watched the tide change.

“Thought you’d be here.” Minho took his place next to Thomas.

“Sorry, I just… I just lost my shit when-”

Minho cut him off. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Clyde’s not mad.”

Absence of either of their voices left the silence to be filled by the sound of waves and screams of seagulls.

“Is this a closed meeting or can we join?” Brenda’s voice filled the silence. She, Gally and Frypan were standing behind them, holding a bottle of what seemed to be the drink Gally used to make back in the Glade.

As an answer, Thomas scooted to one side to make room and together they formed a semi circle around Newt’s grave. The silence was filled by the waves once more while they passed the bottle from hand to hand until it was empty.

“Do you remember, Gally? When we snuck into Fry’s pantry to steal some jam and using it to dye Newt’s hair?” Minho suddenly asked.

Between a couple snorts of laughter Gally managed to muster a nod.

“So it was you?” Frypan gave both of them an incredulous look. Thomas could laughter bubbling from his lips.

“Why did I never hear of this story?”

Gally shrugged. “Newt can be pretty scary when he places a knife on your throat in the middle of the night…” The grumpy faced blond shuddered.

“At least he got the jam out.” Fry muttered.

“Not completely, though,” Thomas could feel a grin making its way on his face. “I remember when coming up in the box, Newt’s hair had this pink shine.”

Each story or memory that came afterwards earned round of loud laughter. Brenda, at some point, went back to the camp to get some more drinks and the laughter went on.

You deserve to be happy. Maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t as far away as Thomas thought.

“If there is a reason why I’m still alive when everyone who loves me has died, I’m willing to wait for it.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #the maze runner #the scorch trials #the death cure #tmr #tmr newt #tmr thomas #tmr frypan #tmr gally #tmr brenda #tmr fanfic #this took sooooo long #but im reasonable pleased #i think

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flameofchaos · 4 years

Text

Whispers in the Dark - The Slayers Fanfic

Warnings: none (I suppose)

Beta: @naiokiara <3 (this girl is a treasure)

Chapter 3

Of the group of adventurers, Princess Amelia first appeared downstairs, as always with a broad smile on her delicate face, and stretching her body happily.

“Good morning!” she waved to the innkeeper and two still-a-little-sleepy waitresses. “Birds are singing with the first rays of sun and there is not a single cloud in the sky. The day is SO BEAUTIFUL, I want to dance and… Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Xellos!” The dark-haired girl finally noticed a very sour expression on the Mazoku's face, as her positive energy literally filled up the room. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“No hard feelings, Miss Amelia.,” The demon almost immediately returned to his usual innocent and polite smile, already tasting the sweet flavour of regret from the princess. The poor girl was so pure and good that she was even worried about how her happy attitude could be unpleasant for a Monster. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I assume the others still aren’t up? They are missing such a wonderful morni-” She bit her tongue at Xellos’ eyebrow’s twitch; “Oh… I mean, Miss Filia will be angry that we still aren’t on our way.”

The demon’s face was now literally angelic. “She tried to wake you all up by knocking on the doors, but I decided my friends deserve good rest… so I have thrown a silencing spell on your rooms, so that no one could disturb you. I suggested that Miss Filia take a refreshing walk meanwhile.”

“And what did she say?” Amelia took her seat on the other side of the table.

“Should I omit filthy words?”

“Of course!”

“Then she said nothing," Xellos took a sip of tea.

“Hello there,” Gourry joined them, yawning like he was ready to swallow them for breakfast. Zelgadis was just behind him, visibly not happy with the fact the Mazoku was still here.

"What has happened, Xellos? Aren’t there people other than us whose existence you can poison with your presence?" The chimera sat next to Amelia, as far away from the Monster as was possible. Even after so long, he wasn't very fond of the demon. The fact that in the past Xellos burned, with his eyes, a precious manuscript that may have contained a remedium for Zelgadis’ cursed look (the Mazoku insisted there wasn’t any useful knowledge, but could the word of a demon be worth anything?) still burnt Zel painfully.

"I couldn't deny myself such a delicious breakfast as your helpless anger, Mr. Zelgadis," said Xellos, with a voice sweeter than chocolate, looking at the chimera with slightly more open eyes in a way that forced Zelgadis to move uneasily in place. He snorted and waved for a waitress if only to break eye contact with the demon, but halfway to their table the girl was attacked by Lina, who practically yanked the menu from her hands.

“Those five things! Double portions!” She ordered, pointing at the card.

“But maybe your friends would like to choose by themselves, Miss?” the waitress mumbled, overwhelmed with the sorceress' confidence.

“You understood me wrong. It’s only for me. I’m starving!” Lina passed her and placed herself on a free chair between Xellos and Gourry.

The blonde swordsman waved. “I want the same! Lina always chooses the best dishes!”

“Sorry about them,” Amelia sighed, a little embarrassed, taking menus for herself and Zelgadis.

“Where is Filia?” Lina finally counted her group and gave Xellos a very suspicious look. “Did you eat her?”

“Golden dragon scales are hard to digest even for me,” The demon answered with a nasty smirk. “Don’t worry so much about her, Miss Lina.”

“I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about my breakfast. Filia is the one who pays our bills. If you did something to her-” The sorceress tried to throw a proper threat, but then she reminded herself who this man at her side was. “-you’d better have enough coin in your pouch, because I am ready to eat everything that isn’t fast enough to run away.”

Xellos sent her a smile. “So I assume you did rest well, Miss Lina. The proper relaxation after a hard day can be incredibly effective.”

The sorceress blushed a little, knowing the second layer in the demon’s words. A fast peek at her friends: Gourry was napping with his head resting on his arms on the table and Zelgadis studied the menu with Amelia, probably happy that Lina’s presence meant that he wasn’t any longer the centre of Xellos’ attention.

“I have a slight headache.” The witch tried not to show her unease, and a thousand questions had been buzzing in her head from the moment she had awakened. The number of holes in her memory seriously worried her. She remembered bathing, talking with Xellos, and the massage of his long skillful fingers on her feet. And later he entered her head. What had he done to her? She had awakened in her bed wearing a nightgown.

“I only presented you with the offer, but it was a little too much for your mind and body, so you lost consciousness in the bathtub,” whispered the demon calmingly. “I took care of you.”

“Don’t read my thoughts!” she snapped at him, suddenly panicked about what might have happened when she was blacked out.

“I don’t, and I can’t, do that. Reading thoughts is impossible even for Mazoku.” The Trickster Priest sounded offended. “But your emotions are behaving like scared wild horses, Miss Lina. I assure you, I didn’t do anything inappropriate to you. I didn’t even take peeks.” Not too many, anyway, he ended in his mind.

Lina’s face was at the moment far redder than her hair, however, she somehow knew he wasn’t lying to her. Probably indeed better he had transported her to bed rather than leaving her in the cold water where she might even have drowned.

This is like ending up playing games with Mazoku, the witch realized sourly. She’d let him get into her head not knowing the consequences and he had touched her naked body, even if he wasn’t interested in using the opportunity.

“My, my, Miss Lina! Are you really so disappointed nothing more has happened?” Asked a surprised Xellos, his smile wider with every second, making the sorceress feel the blood flow away from her face. If she only could block his empathic skills.

“I am NOT!” she hissed through teeth, however they both knew it was a lie.

Xellos’ smug smile made her want to punch him or do anything else that could make this handsome face not so handsome anymore.

Suddenly she felt a touch on the inner side of her palm under the table, tickling like someone was brushing fingertips against her skin. Lina froze, seeing that both of Xellos’ hands were actually busy holding a teacup. Who said that human-shaped hands were the only ones the Mazoku had, and that the shadow under the table was just an ordinary lack of light, not a living darkness? The sorceress cringed.

“If you are so interested in more naughty games, we can discuss the conditions of my offer again, Miss Lina,” purred Xellos… and sighed heavily, as Lina had hit his teacup from below, so the warm beverage was now pouring off of his face. “My bad. I guess you need time to rethink the idea. One more tea, please.” The demon asked the waitress with an apologetic smile, wiping up his face with a cloth the woman quickly had offered him.

***

It was late evening the same day when Lina thought (not for the first time) that Filia and Xellos in one place were a greater threat to the world than a gathering of all four Dark Lords created by the Lord of Nightmares.

The group had ended up camping in the desert because of an embarrassing adventure.

"It is all your fault, you cockroach! You raw garbage! You… you!" Filia's anger finally burnt off and she just drowned in tears, while Xellos’ face was literally a visualisation of the sentence: This time it really (almost) wasn’t my fault! “My dignity has been destroyed! I hate you! Hate you! Hate you!!!”

Amelia massaged the dragoness’ back, pleading with her eyes for Lina's help, but the sorceress could barely suppress her own rage. Her dreams about a cosy room and tasty supper had literally turned into ashes… in Filia’s dragon breath.

"Enough of that! Go sleep! All of you! Gourry, Zel, make a small campfire," she ordered, and something in her voice made the swordsman and the shaman obey without further questions. "I'm taking the first watch near those rocks. Xellos, you are going with me! If I don’t keep you far away from Filia, I will go insane soon!”

“Don’t blame me just because I’m a Mazoku.” The demon followed the redhead girl. “It was all her own fault! She destroyed the town. Filia was the one who chose our path this morning.”

Lina massaged her temples, trying to get rid of her murderous impulses, remembering the quarrel between the monster and dragoness about which way to choose. Xellos’ choice had been definitely rejected by Filia… only because it was a Mazoku’s proposition. Filia was stubborn to a crazy degree, so finally the group had followed her lead and they had reached a nice town.

A wonderful place except one, but important, defect.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell her that dragons aren’t allowed to enter there when she chose that damn path?” Lina yelled at the demon with so much anger that Xellos took a small step back.

“Do you really think she would have believed me? Some people, even dragons, have to burn themselves a little to learn from their own mistakes.”

“But it is MY ass that will freeze now in the desert all night! And you had chosen the right, safe path only because you KNEW she would be in opposition to you. You planned it, didn’t you?”

A smug smile and a light shrug were all from Xellos’ side.

“You aren’t even pretending to be sorry.” Lina sat heavily on sand, leaning her back against one of the rocks.

“Pretending something like that would be an offence to you, Miss Lina. You and I know each other well enough to abandon some false games. Besides, no one there knew Miss Filia was a dragon, but Valgaav’s minions appeared and told that to people in town. She was jailed and they were ready to execute her. Luckily a big bad Mazoku - Me! - appeared to piss the golden dragon off enough that she freed herself from the chains. I was a hero!” He pointed at his own chest happily.

“Filia literally leveled the town to the ground trying to catch you in her rage, you asshole!” Lina ran her palm across her face, tired, knowing the demon definitely had too much fun with this story.

Even from afar the sorceress still could hear the Priestess of Light’s whining:

“I destroyed the town! How embarrassing! What a shame! If only that devil hadn’t provoked me to change into my dragon form!”

“The other outcome would have been you bringing her severed head to the Flare Dragon King’s Temple,” reminded Xellos, sitting low by Lina’s side, to disappear from Filia’s sight. “Don’t worry. People there were fast enough to survive. They will rebuild the town and this time they will be sure to put there also a giant sign: Seriously! Dragons aren’t allowed to enter here.” He burst out with a loud laugh. “Did you see Valgaav’s minions' faces? ‘Oh dear, she REALLY is a dragon’, " the demon parodied the surprised tone of Gravos and Jillas, who hadn’t run quickly enough, and the impact of Filia’s tail had catapulted them high in the air.

Finally Lina chuckled too. Yes, maybe that view had been worth a night under a starry sky, here in the middle of desert. She would have paid to see Valgaav’s face when his servants gave him the report. Anyway, whatever Xellos did, the sorceress just wasn’t able to be angry with him for too long. This damn monster always knew the ways to distract her.

The air was cooler and cooler. The heat of day in such a place quickly changed into cold night, and Lina embraced herself tighter with her black coat.

In the camp, Filia finally got quiet, and one peek told the sorceress that the exhausted dragoness had fallen asleep cuddling herself up to Amelia. Gourry was already snoring near the fire. Zelgadis also was preparing for rest.

Lina inhaled deeply, enjoying the quiet and peace. Xellos’ side was warm and sheltered her from the wind, so she allowed herself to relax a little.

“You can rest too, Miss Lina. I will keep guard.” The velvet demon’s tone made the witch snort.

“I’m on watch also to keep an eye on you, Mr. Evil,” she noted, patting his nose sympathetically. “What if you sneak up to Filia and fill her sleep with nightmares?”

“Miss Lina, don’t give me such delicious ideas. Now how could I resist that?” His white teeth flashed in a grin, and Lina answered with her own bright smile, before she rested her head on his shoulder, sighing heavily.

Xellos was surprised with that sudden show of trust, so he reached his senses into Lina’s aura to check it. The demon suspected she was too tired to be fully on guard, or maybe she believed that their agreement about cooperation against Valgaav was valid. Her feelings confused him a little. The sorceress was tired, of course, but Lina had simply sought his closeness because… she was accepting him as one of her tribe. There was neither embarrassment in her now, nor hostility. Only uncertainty. She was far away from home. These were unknown lands, and Filia was also a stranger to her, unlike Xellos. The Mazoku was something familiar to Lina. She knew he was dangerous as hell and that she can’t believe him, but… somehow he was hers, a stable part of reality, from her point of view.

Xellos considered how to use the new situation to his advantage, but finally he also let himself to put aside his mischievous nature and enjoyed the unusual atmosphere. In this fight between him and Filia over Lina, he was winning at the moment, and the art of manipulation sometimes demanded patience.

“I’m glad you are again with us, Xellos.” The girl’s murmur confirmed what the demon had concluded from her emotions. “Like in the good old good day.” She was observing stars, but her mind was somewhere else. “So many adventures behind us. This town today reminded me of when we snuck into the city where only ladies were allowed to enter and we forced you, boys, to dress like women,” she chuckled, covering her face in his blouse.

“I remember. Mr. Zelgadis as 'Miss Lulu' was quite popular there. I can recall the taste of his embarrassment.”

“And poor Gourry. Till this day he shivers when he sees a pink dress.” Lina wiped away a tear of joy. “Not to mention you. Martina said later that she had to hide you from others’ eyes because of how sexy you were in that red outfit. With what did you fill those false boobs, huh?”

“Who said they were false?”

Lina choked in the middle of laughing on her own breath and looked at the demon in disbelief.

“Nooooo… Seriously?” she blinked.

“Mazoku don’t have males or females,” the priest winked at her. “Being a shapeless darkness which can take preferred form has many advantages. But I am the most used to the male vessel I have now.”

“That explains those perfect hips in that red dress too. How many convenient secrets do you have, you beast?” Lina enjoyed the new fact to the point that she was biting the fabric of Xellos’ coat so as to not awake her friends with laughter.

“As many as I need. I am always open to new experiences. Even those including your lovely but sharp teeth. Do you remember that my clothes are part of me?”

Lina immediately straightened her back and cleared her throat. It was quite dark despite the stars and the faint light of the nearby campfire, but the Mazoku’s eyes could easily notice a deep blush on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, but then shivered when, away from his closeness, cold attacked her fragile body. In the next moment she found herself in the previous position as the demon wrapped her shoulders with his arm, pulling her to his warm side. Lina stopped breathing when she felt how that which looked like his “coat” moved itself too, covering her tightly.

“We don’t want you to change into an icicle, do we?” Hypnotizing amethyst eyes with vertical pupils flashed a little too close for Lina’s preferences. “What is it? You have goosebumps? Just like then, in that doll tower. You were so scared there, because of that little horror story I’d told you all the evening before. Scared of ghosts, ha! If you could have known then that a real Mazoku was just next to you. What a silly adventure. I adore those times when you all didn’t know who I was and were acting so boldly. I remember Miss Martina protecting me, a poor victim, from the rage of cruel Lina Inverse.”

Lina’s stiffness slowly vanished as she noticed that Xellos is still in a talkative, rather harmless mood and she adjusted her position under his arm, looking for comfort, resting a cheek on his chest. Somehow it hit her a lot when she noticed the lack of a beating heart sound. Her brain reacted nervously to the conflict of expectations and reality.

“Oh, my apologies. Next to you, Miss Lina, I’m not so on guard about the human form in such detail. Take it as a compliment that I feel good with you.” The demon finally noticed her confusion, and a moment later, the girl caught the slight beating under her ear.

A cheater among cheaters, she rolled her eyes.

"Poor Martina, you broke her heart! She was so devastated when she discovered that her charming prince was a monster.” Lina still could feel the satisfaction from seeing the annoying princess of Xoana's face in the moment she had understood the awful truth about her chosen man.

"Miss Martina was so funny and delicious! And full of energy in many ways." The demon sighed dreamingly.

Lina raised her head to look at his face suspiciously.

"Did you and she… you know…"

Was there really a sparkle of jealousy in his redhead sorceress? "Curiosity killed the cat, Miss Lina.” The witch gasped, surprised, when she felt a light kiss on the tip of her nose, and she wrinkled it in a lovely way, ashamed by the cold feeling of wetness that his lips had left on her skin.

Lina suddenly became aware that most of the intimate moments in her life (all of them unplanned), she had experienced with Xellos, and it didn’t help her to feel better.

Him and his teasing games…

"I'm asking only from a scientific point of view." She added quickly. "I wondered if it was possible for your race to-"

"Engage in a sexual act?" Finished Xellos with a low voice that made the girl’s heart drum. He laughed quietly. "Some kinds of knowledge you have to earn." His fingers ran lazily through long red locks. "Mr. Zangulus was gifted with Miss Martina's innocence during their wedding night. It was not her who I am interested in."

The demon's words confused Lina more than everything else. It wasn't a clear declaration, she tried to convince herself, ignoring the tips of his nails gently caressing the skin of her head. The sorceress realized that his hand was bare again.

"So there is a woman you are interested in?" She asked, regretting it in the next moment.

"The fact it is a woman isn't important for me. Human mating rituals aren't natural for my kind."

Lina felt suddenly very uncomfortable. The creature next to her looked exactly like a human, but it was only an illusion. To be honest, the Mazoku race was a great mystery even for those who spent all their lives studying black magic. They were evil. They were darkness. And power. Especially power.

"What's happened, Miss Lina? I thought we are talking from… a scientific point of view?" The thumb on the arm he was using to embrace her body brushed her cheek. His cruel lips were smiling mockingly. Oh, how he was enjoying the moment of the storm of her emotions now: the desperate wish to withdraw from this embarrassing moment, to distance herself. And fear… yes, she was scared of him again.

"Yes." She mumbled with an offended tone. "Only from a scientific point of view."

The monster giggled, calmingly massaging the sorceress' shoulder to give her more warmth.

"From a scientific point of view humans aren't constructed to fly, but they do that using spells like Ray Wing or Levitation.” He pointed. "Mazoku don't need intimate acts to breed like humans, but… unknown terrains are always very tempting to explore. Am I not right?" He played with one of her red locks, slipping it among fingers.

"Enough of your seductive tricks," she tried to push him away, but it would be easier to move a mountain than Xellos’ arm.

"It wasn’t doing anything like that. Should I show you my seductive side, Miss Lina?" he whispered, grabbing her chin and pulling it up, so she looked straight into his gleaming demonic eyes. The sorceress became as if paralyzed, when she felt his breath on her own mouth. He smelled of black magic. She could easily recognize this scent, heavy but fresh, like thunder ready to strike a tree in an open field. "You awoke curiosity in me, and a curious Mazoku is rather hard to get rid of." His lips brushed against hers when he spoke. Suddenly it became definitely too hot for Lina. Growing panic took control over her and she reacted like always, with a burst of anger.

"Let me go, you awful…!" A mistake. In the moment she opened her mouth, his tongue slipped inside, teasing hers and withdrawing before she was able to bite him.

"Mmm… you are more delicious than I thought." The beast murmured huskily and then chuckled. "What’s with that terrified face? I was only teasing you."

Lina slapped his cheek.

"Oh, dear." He caught her wrists before she could hit him again. "Watch out, sweetling." Amethyst reptilian eyes started to glow delicately. "Violence is a language in which I am better versed than you."

Lina breathed fast, trying to fight down her own fury. Again he had done with her as he pleased. Monster!

The sorceress snorted, giving up. It wasn't possible to win with Xellos, so she sighed and laid her head back on his chest, observing stars and remaining silent. Soon his hand returned to caressing her hair.

She still could taste the flavour of him on the tip of her tongue. It was like little lightning, tickling her taste buds in a rather pleasant way. Lina wasn't able to compare it to any other taste she was familiar with. Slowly the sorceress calmed down.

"Asshole." She said, resisting licking her lips.

"And still you like me as I am, Miss Lina." He noted, sensing that the girl was now more amused by her own helplessness than angry with him.

"Oh, shut up." Lina yawned widely. It was too comfortable to lie like that by his side. Warmth, the softness of his clothes which weren't clothes, the soothing caresses of his fingers in her hair. She started to get sleepy.

Then she felt it. His aura brushed against hers in a delicate but demanding way.

"No way. Not again. I’ve had enough of that for now." She refused with a tired voice and Xellos withdrew his astral parts obediently.

"For now," he whispered, and kissed the forehead of the drifting girl. "There is always a new day, like you, humans, say."

#whispers in the dark - xellina fanfic #xellina #xellos #lina inverse #the slayers

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seekingseven · 4 years

Text

The Most Sincere Kind of Lie (Ch3)

Chapter 3 of my Linked Universe fanfic! Also available to read here on AO3 :D

┍━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┑

The pink pads of Legend’s fingertips reverently brushed the mirror’s handle, running themselves over the tiny engravings and elegant handiwork. Under the sparse moonlight he could barely make out the ridges and bumps of carefully-etched Sheikah symbols on the mirror's rim. The Sheikah magic in the Lens of Truth must have been very strong, then, for it to persist even during fusion. Even now, he could feel the lens' dark magic intermingling with the cascade of light magic the Magic Mirror had always contained. But the enchanted aura of this artifact was much less stable than either of its constituents: intense, dark, and almost uncouthly passionate. While the Lens of Truth had a certain, smug mysteriousness about it, and the Magic Mirror had a quiet, enigmatic confidence, this artifact...

This was something entirely different.

His hands hovered over the mirror's surface and his own pale, angular face stared back at him. With a start, he noticed the delicate web of capillaries that pulsed against his sclera and the split, dirty ends of his bangs -- he needed a good nap and a good shower more than anything else right now.

Of course, that wasn't going to happen. Not when Hylia had decided to pity his ravaging, insatiable curiosity by giving it something to feast off of. Legend turned the mirror over in his hand, wondering what exactly this...thing...could do. It didn't have a name, not that he could tell, and when the realization dawned on him that he got to name it himself, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Well, it would be easier to name the artifact once he knew what it did. He was no fan of obscure, enigmatic names as the other heros were, so it shouldn’t be difficult. Time could keep his "Golden Gauntlets" and "Lens of Truth." To Legend, simple names like "Magic Mirror" and "Magic Cape" were far superior. The veteran flipped the artifact back over. The mirror’s glass was an odd, shimmering shade of gold, almost like it had been coated by liquid yellow diamonds before placement into the rim. The longer Legend stared at it, the brighter it got.

Perhaps it was a portal? What was it that the Wise Man had said earlier, about what the hypothetical-turned-real artifact could do? Something about a dimension between dimensions. He nodded to himself. It would make sense, this artifact seemed hungry enough to bend space and time itself.

For a second, Legend wondered if it was actually a good idea to be fiddling around with this thing. He instantly brushed the thought away.

He'd been messing with reality, space, time, and the fate of a kingdom his entire life. This would be nothing for the Hero of Legend.

Really, what's the worst that could happen?

Legend stared at the mirror's golden glass with redoubled intensity. This always worked with the Magic Mirror; just looking into it long enough would be enough to suck him into the Dark World. That didn't seem to be the case with whatever-this-was. And it couldn't have the same functionality as the Lens of Truth, if only for the simple reason that it wasn't a lens. Legend settled backwards on the cushions. He flinched as Hyrule muttered softly in his sleep and shifted closer towards him, reaching out a callused hand for the frayed corner of Legend’s tunic.

The veteran hero subconsciously flicked the hand away and got to his feet. Perhaps if the Wise Man was still awake they could figure this out together. Eyes still trained on the mystery mirror, Legend began to pick his way across the room. The moonlight was bright enough to ensure he wasn’t stumbling around blindly, but too dim to give him any confidence that he wouldn’t trip over a stray bag or bedpost.

He gave the mirror a half-hearted, throwaway glance.

His eyelids opened so wide that the muscles underneath them strained.

The mirror's glass was no longer golden, instead, it was a dull, obsidian black. The metal around it boiled with magic and shook temperamentally under his grasp: insistent, demanding, impatient.

Blue eyes flitted around the silent room, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Something had provoked the mirror's tantrum. There was no competing magical aura in the room, aside from the petulant shivering and hissing of the artifact in his hands, so it couldn’t be that. And there weren’t any monsters nearby -- Hyrule had assured them that Ganon’s lackeys never traveled this close to civilization. His eyebrows cinched as his chin fell to his chest. What could it be? He let the artifact drop to his side.

He nearly screamed when the metal flared and burned his skin.

It wanted something.

Whatever this thing was, it wanted something, and it wanted it NOW.

The smell of charred flesh filled Legend's nostrils. He pointedly ignored the melted strings of his skin clinging to the metal, thankful for his incredibly high pain tolerance, and looked around for an object he'd never seen. What did this thing want? What did it--

His eyes alighted on Wind's sleeping form. The artifact in his hand cooled in recognition of his epiphany, almost as if to apologize for its earlier outburst, and all but pulled Legend towards the sleeping boy. Legend crouched down to get a closer look. A halo of bright hair swept across the flat bridge of Wind's nose and cheeks, fluttering in the rouge breeze. The undersides of his fingernails were still crusted with the retributionary cream he'd smeared on Hyrule earlier that night, and a sweet, content smile tickled the pale skin of his lips.

Legend's soul revolted within himself.

He would rather have his entire arm burned off than sacrifice a child to...whatever this was.

A rusty voice spoke up in the back of his mind and cut off his thoughts.

"Do you wish to see this Hero through his own eyes?”

The artifact. It had almost the same reverberating voice as the Master Sword, albeit cracked and somber from millenia of disuse.

He said nothing. He thought nothing. The artifact repeated its question.

“Do you wish to see this Hero through his own eyes?”

Oh.

The mirror didn’t want to hurt Wind. The mirror didn’t want to hurt anyone. It just wanted to show Legend a vision of each hero ‘ through their own eyes.’ Legend's eyes widened greedily. A thousand questions effervesced to the tip of his tongue. He bit them back. Magical artifacts weren't known for their straightforwardness or conversationality, and besides, he was growing impatient.

The artifact asked its question for the third time.

Legend nodded.

The world turned white. The ground beneath his feet tore itself away, and the terrifying lightnessness that came with nighttime terrors of falling shook his entire body. Reality spun and spilled around him, sloughing away in brilliant, iridescent shards as his consciousness was ripped away and ejected into another dimension.

He woke up in a room with no sound and no light and no air. The only thing he knew was that he was choking, he was drowning, that the darkness had forced its way up his nostrils and into the back of his mouth. Tastebuds he didn't know he had revolted at the bitter taste of ash, and he coughed pathetically. Slowly, he got to his feet, almost smiling at the sight of his bare feet and the brown, itchy cloth of his pajama pants beneath him. The mirror had been kind enough to let him keep not only his consciousness, but body as well.

In most situations, that was a good thing.

He decided he would interpret it as such.

Legend's legs started moving, towards what and for what neither him nor his appendages could fathom. The black eventually melted into blue; the crisp, clean smell of sea and salt and sand carried on a breeze of unknown and unknowable origin. With nothing else to do, the hero kept walking, marveling as the world took form around him. The ground beneath him became water -- water he walked on as if he was a son of a goddess -- and a distant, sandy hill came into view. A tall silhouette stood on the hill's highest crest, face and form indecipherable from the distance between them.

High, shrill notes of a pan flute floated by Legend's pointed ears. They were cheerful and lilting, accompanied by the rapid bristle of a guitar, and melted in the airless atmosphere as soon as they were born. The figure in distance finally came into view as the music and lapping waves reached a crescendo.

Wind.

It was Wind, but taller, stronger, prouder. An emerald tunic strained against the tight muscles of his chest and pinched the bones of his slender hips, skirting around sinewy thighs. A long, droopy cap fluttered genialy in the breeze behind him and waved mischievously at the dumbfounded Legend. There was a cool confidence in his shoulders; despite the fact that they were bundled with sheets of strong, stringy muscles, they were relaxed and easy. Two hands, broad and smooth, rested on the purple hilt of the Master Sword. His hair was an almost neon yellow, bleached from the sun and glossy with health. Wind's lips were set into a blashempously calm smile. His dark, cunning eyes stared straight through Legend, as if the veteran hero was nothing more than a ghost.

The mirror's harsh, rusted words came to mind.

“Do you wish to see this Hero through his own eyes?”

Legend's eyes pricked upwards and a subdued thoughtfulness settled onto his shoulders. Of course. Of course. This made so much more sense than it was supposed to. This was who Wind saw himself as, the hero Wind knew himself to be: confident, proud, and strong. This was the Wind he tried so hard to communicate to the others, only to have his hair ruffled and be dubbed the group's collective "little brother." Legend took a tentative step forward, relaxing imperceptibly when the movement went seemingly unregistered by pseudo-Wind, and reached out towards the smiling ghost.

The vision started to crack, first browning around the corners and then shattering from the center. Legend swallowed a scream and stared hard at the ghost as his consciousness roiled within him. He bit back the urge to resist the pull of reality when a flash of recognition skirted across the ghost's dark eyes.

Light.

Dark.

Sea.

Wood.

Legend's body crashed onto the room's wooden floor. The overpowering stench of smouldering skin and stomach acid smacked him upside the head, and every muscle in his body contracted at once. He breathed in deeply, greedily swallowing the air, and turned over on his back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Wind's sleeping form -- just as small and precious as ever. He instinctively checked his magic reserves. They hadn’t even been touched. As his vision began to clear and the fear subsided, a familiar fire burned at the back of his head.

This mirror.

This portal.

The tiny muscles lacing his knuckles moved on their own accord, grabbing the mirror that laid next to him and drawing it close to his face. His breathing slowed. His mind raced. This mirror. This portal. This...

To just say it was amazing would have been the epitome of an anticlimax, but the veteran's mind could think of no other word. This thing was a portal to a dimension between dimensions, a harbinger of visions both true and false, a witness to the most sincere kind of lies...and it laid in the palm of his hands. The mirror had answers to questions he didn’t know he had.

A curious, hungry lust burned in his chest. Answers. Answers. That's what he wanted. That's all he wanted. That's what the mirror wanted to give. He pushed himself to his feet. The mirror sat coldly in his hands. Its glass was golden again. He made his way across the room, legs heading towards the bed but mind racing for a reason to stay awake. Maybe the mirror still had something to give? It had to, it hadn’t unfused into its components yet. He had to stay awake. He had to see. Legend stared at the golden glass, silently hoping for it to turn ashy once more and invite him back inside.

The mirror was silent. It didn't burn, shiver, or shake, instead dangled from the tips of his burned fingers with resistance and resolution comparable to that of a dead man. Was it tired? Perhaps it had drawn on its own magic reserve. The Wise Man had said that these fusion artifacts were unstable and temporary, so maybe the magical aura was settling down before splitting back up. The warped, melted flesh of his palms nuzzled against the mirror's cool handle. He would have to heal that before anyone noticed, but all his healing potions were downstairs. His brows furrowed as Legend made his way back to the bed where Sky and Hyrule were sleeping. The two had shifted around so much in their sleep that there wasn’t any room for him now, but that wasn’t really an issue. His mind mulled over the issue that was, quite literally, at hand. He needed to either heal the burn or have a story for it -- and if he wasn't in the mood for interrogation now, he wouldn't be in the morning.

Time let out a massive, wet snore that nearly ripped Legend out of his skin. The veteran hero, surprised and unstable on his feet, toppled backwards onto the bed Hyrule and Sky were sleeping on. His bones banged against theirs, but, miraculously, neither of them woke up. Legend shifted uncomfortably between the two sleeping heros and pulled the mirror out from under him. Some of the cream smeared on Hyrule's face and hands had rubbed off on the side of the bed where Legend was supposed to be sleeping (not a big deal, in all honesty, he knew he wasn't sleeping tonight) and a vial of red potion dangled from his belt. Most likely, the traveler had forgotten to leave it downstairs. How beautifully convenient! Legend unclipped it softly and took a swing of the drink, smiling as the blistered, burgundy skin on his hand cooled and healed. Hyrule wouldn't be mad, he thought as he clipped the potion back to the traveler's belt, and he would make sure to pay back the traveler the next day. Legend's fingers curled idly around the mirror's handle and he brought it to his face to check that the red potion hadn't left a crimson scrim on his upper lip.

Legend was confused for only a split second, then he gasped.

The glass was pitch black.

It was still awake, and it had something to show him.

Legend grinned, previous preoccupations completely forgotten, and inched closer towards Hyrule. The mirror began to clear, almost turning golden once again, and Legend scooted backwards. Okay, it was clear the mirror had no interest in Hyrule. Vertebrae in his back popped as he twisted around, and Legend panned the mirror over Sky's sleeping face. The last vestiges of gold on the mirror's glass were instantly replaced by crashing, boiling waves of black.

"Do you wish to see this Hero through his own eyes?”

"Yes," he heard himself whisper. There was no hesitance in his voice this time.

The world seized once again, shattering around the edges and sending thin, spidery cracks across his vision. Darkness pooled between the fragments, oozing between small shards of reality and swallowing them whole. The floor was gone, the air was gone, his mind and emotions and pale, sleep-deprived body were sent hurling through a bridge between worlds.

He didn't need to catch himself this time. With a soft thump, his feet hit the floor, and his mouth was assaulted by the taste of metal and snow. The slippery taste clung to his tongue, and Legend ran the back of his hand over it in an attempt to wipe the tang away. It only grew stronger. Oh well, so be it. It didn’t matter. Anyway, there was no need to stand here. He knew how this thing worked. Nothing was going to get done if he stood here and lamented the odd taste in his mouth or the very, very bad feeling in his chest.

Legend didn't walk this time, he ran, he sprinted down the airless, soundless, lightless corridor. The world created itself as he moved, replacing black with white, the vacuum with whispers of music, the emptiness with the crisp, clean scent of air never breathed in before.

Cool, gentle, white fingers combed through his hair, and Legend noticed with a start that he was quite literally walking through clouds. He sent a tentative glance to the endless expanse of blue underneath his feet and praised the mirror for forgetting to introduce gravity to this fever dream. There was no ground beneath him, and he walked on the surface of the sky with ease.

The quavering soprano of a harp threaded its way through the silence, careful and slow. No other instruments accompanied it except the hushed singing of a child, the heavy smell of heartache thick in each note. It sounded almost familiar, like a hymn reversed or a favorite childhood lullaby played backwards, and Legend's thrumming heart slowed. He started walking faster, refusing to let himself melt into the music. He was here to meet someone, not to listen to pretty harp music. Clouds stared curiously at the hero as he ran through their wet bosoms, and Legend blinked away the dewey residue they left on his eyelashes. Up ahead, he could make out a figure standing sleepily on a small, grassy hill.

He didn't need to be told that this was the pseudo-Sky he'd come here to meet. The Sky saw himself as. Frankly, Legend wasn’t expecting much. Sky had always struck him as a pretty well-put together guy, and the veteran’s mind was already thinking of which of his other incarnations might offer a more interesting vision.Legend’s legs carried him towards the distant figure regardless, and his burning curiosity propelled him forward each step. As he approached, the clouds around ghost Sky started to shift. They clustered in Sky, almost queuing up behind each other, and gradually took on an uncomfortably familiar form. The wind first whipped the clouds into something vaguely humanoid, then pulled back the sides of their heads into pointed ears. A biting breeze whizzed around the clouds and sculpted chests and legs and something resembling tunics and swords.

Cloud Links. An army. They covered the entire blue expanse ahead, standing shyly and awkwardly in front of the figure on the hill. Legend drew closer, drawing himself up onto the grassy hill where Sky’s ghost stood. Completely ignored by the spectral figures around him, Legend stared at the scene with comfortable amazement.

Sky, eyes half-closed in his ever present amiable grin, unsheathed the Master Sword from its scabbard and held it out to the first Cloud Link in front of him. The white, puffy arms reached out for the sword. They turned black the instant it held the hilt. The Cloud Link screamed as he was torn from the inside out, blistering boils of red and black and blue bubbled and popped across his chest, and his existence was wiped away by a vicious breeze. Each Link that stepped up met the same fate. A scream, then they were nothing. The air grew thick with black smog, bitter and angry and ashy. Each Link stepped up in front of Sky, blank eyes hopeful and ignorant, only to watch as their bodies were shredded where they stood.

Ghost Sky was still smiling: unseeing, unfeeling, unknowing.

He kept holding out the sword.

He kept murdering the Cloud Links.

The harp music continued happily on.

Bile crept into Legend’s mouth.

The music began to quaver, and Legend noticed that something black and scaly was creeping up Sky's arms. The skin split and sloughed off, revealing hard, obsidian sheafs underneath, and Legend's eyes widened as a white X drew itself on the ghost's forehead. Puffs of charcoal leaked from Sky's eyes, which had grown small and hard and orange, and trailed down his face in the imitation of tears. The music exploded into an orchestral wail; the drums shook, the choir screamed, the violins shrieked. Sky's hair slowly turned from blond to black to bright and flaming. His chest, now covered in scales, bulged and tore through the green cloth of his tunic.

The demon was still smiling; smiling a horrible, grieving, heart-broken smile.

There were no more Cloud Links left.

The Master Sword clattered to the floor. Legend moved instinctually to pick it up, only to be knocked back by the demon on the hill.

Sky, Sky's ghost, Sky's demon, whatever it was, stared at him blankly before letting out the most terrified, devastated howl Legend had ever heard.

It opened its mouth to speak, to scream, to apologize and beg for forgiveness, but Legend was already falling. The sky, black, red, and green, throbbed and bled as the veteran hero plummeted into an uncreated abyss.

Red.

Green.

Hero.

Demon.

Legend's face, wet with sweat and tears he didn't know he shed, stuck to the bed's fabric. He didn't need to breathe, he didn't want to breathe, he didn't want to do anything. He didn't want to think about what he'd just seen, or what he'd just learned, or the implications of what he should do now.

His fingers reached for the mirror if only to console himself, the same way one might reach for a mother’s hand after being spanked or cling to a toy being torn away. But his hands wrapped around two individual artifacts. The Lens of Truth and Magic Mirror. They’d unfused.

Well, he’d had enough excitement. Perhaps the same was true for them.

He laughed. There was no hint of mirth in the hollow, choking noise.

Since when had he become so quick to lie to himself?

┕━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┙

#linkeduniverse #praisejojo #lu #loz #fanfiction

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celticfeather · 4 years

Link

Chapter 1: Dawn

Chapter 6 Below

-Uchiha Itachi-

"Itachi, wake up."

"Itachi."

Itachi opened his eyes and regarded his partner calmly. The first thing he saw was Kisame retracting a guilty hand, and a bluish eyebrow twitched. "Did you have trouble sleeping?"

Apparently he had overslept.

"The nights in this country are short," Itachi said.

Kisame looked over at the rising sun over the waves. It was already two hours high. But the mist-ninja said nothing.

Gulls wheeled as the pair trekked along the sand. They walked in the wetness where their footprints were quickly erased by the swiping glasslike waves.

"Finally!" A voice behind them said.

The disturbance's whining tone signaled no threat and dually annoyed Itachi. Zetsu had risen from the dunegrass, grains of white quartzite sand rivuletting down the creases in his leafed crest. Itachi did not particularly like Zetsu: it was some kind of association that the plant-ninja always brought bad news.

"About time we found you two!" the white half exclaimed. "I can't see or hear well through the ocean."

Zetsu could not spy as efficiently underwater or at beaches. Itachi filed the information for later use.

"Pain requests you meet at a cave on the eastern bank of Rido Lake, in the Land of Rivers, five days from today,' he said matter of factly.

Itachi and Kisame looked at each other.

Zetsu continued excitedly. "It's a doosie, the whole gang is invited! Well, I'll give you a hint. We're going on a Tailed Beast Hunt!"

Kisame raised an eyebrow. "Tailed Beast Hunt?"

"Yes! Don't be late! Five days, Rido Lake, at noon!"

The plant-ninja seeped back into the earth. Itachi always found Zetsu's rare locomotion an anomaly. But Itachi supposed even his own powers, logical to him, looked enviously strange from the outside.

"Know anything about tailed beasts?" Kisame asked.

"The Nine Tailed Fox attacked my village when I was five. It destroyed the Uchiha complex and killed the Hokage...They sealed it in a child."

"The Mist's Tailed Beast has been missing since the death of the Mizukage."

"Hm," Itachi said. The hunt must be no small feat if the other teams were enlisted for the same task. At least, according to Zetsu, they had some days for themselves before they needed to report. Itachi was mildly curious of the mission, but not enthusiastic.

"Do we need to do anything before then?" Kisame asked.

Like say goodbye to friends and family? With a silent glance at the eastern sun, Itachi discerned their orientation, and led them in the direction of the Land of Rivers, a several days' walk away.

"It would be faster if we cut across the gulf."

"I can neither run nor swim a gulf."

"I'm not convinced you can swim at all."

The two ninja traveled a quiet day through the small countries. It was the custom of outlaws to make their routes through the disorganized and impoverished ring of states outside the great nations. These strapped militias did not track killers so long as they wandered peaceably.

As they walked along a path, the bisected village was freshly burned. A miasma of death, fine as silt and equally pervasive, clogged the air. A battlefield passed them by, and narrow flags streamed from spear points embedded in earth and armor.

"Looks like a civil war."

"Or a blood feud."

Hopping crows scattered before the two rogues. Most of the corpses wore old fashioned layered armor and carried swords. Like the Uchiha and Senju, he thought. But he doubted any were above genin in this battle.

He turned one of the soldiers over. It rolled too light in its iron shell, a woman, or a boy. A boy. Itachi searched him, but found only copper, and he left it. He did this to three other corpses, but found no food, only money.

"You check for threats. I'll search for anything useful," Itachi said, and Kisame disappeared.

Itachi stole suspicious and warily into the hamlet, a habit he could not shake despite the lack of threat. The thatch from the houses was half burned, and the village's inhabitants were dead or fled. He pushed open a garden gate.

Twisted in old rebellion against the dry summer grasses, gnarled black tree trunks reached towards the sky. His eyes flitted hopefully through the ravaged orchard like a songbird. Too high for even the lightest village children, a few orange persimmon fruits dotted the canopy.

With a flighting leap he landed on a tree's fork, picked the ripest fruit, and with his watchful eyes flashing left and right, he sank his teeth into the water-soft flesh. Persimmons were sweet and fibrous and very healthy. Life with Kisame had him eating a lot of meat. A hooded crow alighted on a nearby branch to observe him. He considered offering the bird a slice, before realizing it had ample preferable options.

The hamlet appeared abandoned from his vantage, and Kisame had made himself invisible. Itachi continued to explore the hamlet, but found little in the way of life or clues. The little crow followed him. An emaciated pig lay dead in a nearby pen. Kisame would like that. The patient crow watched him open the carcass and a squawk summoned her friends.

He walked into the mostly-intact adjacent hut with the pork balanced gingerly between his hands. The abandoned one-room house displayed a traditional kitchen: a pile of coals inset in a square hole in the center of the tatami floor. He might not be better at catching fish than Kisame, -no he was still probably better at fishing than Kisame- but he was definitely a better cook. With the pork fillet, soy sauce, peppercorns and herbs he found around the property, he practiced his art over a dead family's hearth. Kisame stepped through the threshold some time later.

"No one is here but some corpse robbers, who are hiding from us about a quarter kilometer away."

"How respectful of them," Itachi noted.

Kisame grunted. Itachi gestured for Kisame to sit opposite him as he continued to cook. Kisame's eyes traced out the window at the carnage, and he released an abandoned laugh.

"Reminds me of my teenage years.

Itachi followed his gaze. "Indeed."

The oppressive silence of dead men blanketed them. As the coal-fire stoked, the hut they sat in was empty from any laughter it had days ago. The universe had conspired to put two ruthless killers into a village that now offered no one to kill. The Akatsuki had always killed and left. Now Itachi would see what he created.

No. He spared the Leaf from this.

"The Eye of the Moon will end this excess," Kisame said soberly from across the coals.

"We'll find no satisfaction in illusion."

Kisame twitched his lip in a tight smile, unexpected to have lured Itachi to finally spar.

"How can you be sure that your belief that reality is superior to fiction, is itself not false?" Kisame's posed.

"Because I weave fiction."

Itachi had authored his ideal life once, right before he killed his clan.

He had cast Tsukuyomi on his… what was she? Izumi. He wove them a fiction of their life together, of having children, growing old and dying. And he remembered, for a few seconds that lasted her seventy years, she was happy. But through the whole thing he'd felt the unimaginable sense of dread that came with knowing he was in a dream. A few seconds later, Izumi's flesh was as broken as her mind was. And Itachi was broken in a new way too.

"I can show you," Itachi said. He hadn't meant it to be a threat but maybe it sounded like one. "What the Tsukuyomi is like."

A pause. "Don't."

Itachi let the conversation end. Kisame seemed most purposed in his whole life serving the Akatsuki. But to Itachi, his hunted years spent under red clouds was no life. He remembered no moments in the last four years where he was not either fleeing, hungry, hurt, exhausted, or lonely.

Or maybe this was normal and just came with being his age. He read that people his age needed more food and sleep. He had no one to ask. He looked at Kisame, but he decided not to.

The sweet, peppery scent of shogayaki goaded his hunger. His eyes flickered to Kisame; it probably smelled even better to him. Quietly proud of his wartime creation, he began to serve Kisame a proportionally larger serving to his own.

Kisame's fingertips interrupted his offering. "You eat it."

Itachi narrowed his eyes. For two days now he had not seen Kisame eat, on their lifestyle which burned tens of thousands of calories daily.

"There is an entire boar, already dead," Itachi reiterated.

"You're scrawny and should eat more."

He had never been spoken to that way. Silent in his irritation, Itachi ate. Kisame was an adult and a soldier, and would not die by starving himself.

Itachi's annoyance soured the food, and he had prepared enough for two Kisames. It was impossible for a single person his size to consume, and Itachi never liked overeating, especially in hostile territory.

"I can't eat all of this."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Do as you like."

He heard a small exhale from Kisame.

"Pork, it tastes too much like…" Kisame shook his head.

Perhaps he should have expected this. Itachi was suddenly uneasy with Kisame's candidness, when Itachi had been willing to bury the other day's incident. He worried he had been rude. He set his knife on the wood and stood. "Come with me."

Hesitant, Kisame followed him. Itachi halted before the orchard, the black-barked and scarcely-leafed persimmon trees stretching like dead fingers to the sky.

"I didn't think you ate fruit." Itachi explained the omittance. It seemed a ridiculous assumption now.

Itachi watched his partner's back as he walked forward, lit by the pink ash-hazed sun. He tried to focus on Kisame, or on the sunset, for if his gaze wandered, he would see the distance was fecund with death.

"Yo!"

Their eyes locked on the noise. Like a monkey from a tree branch, Tobi hung upside down from a permission limb. He completed his flip and landed sprightly on the earth to trot towards the two men.

Itachi and Kisame had the senses of beasts. No human could sneak up on them while they were awake. It was like the man had materialized from ash and smoke.

"Hi Kisame! Itachi! I thought of you, you know, and I knew I had to find you! Come see, Tachi! I found this toad that totally looks like you!"

Tobi had taken Itachi's arm and started pulling him in some direction. Itachi looked back at Kisame for something, —-he didn't know— for explanation, for sympathy, for help.

Itachi felt himself being sucked in somewhere, transported somewhere dark, then moved again back to the human world. Kisame and the ash were gone. Itachi and the spiral-masked man faced each other in a grassy plain.

The red eye through the mask was narrow, the aura menacing.

"I let slide your insubordination at the brothel. But discrediting the Eye of the Moon to Kisame is a new level of idiocy."

Fear's icy brine chilled Itachi's veins. Lowering his act even slightly to Kisame had been a deadly mistake.

"Kisame is still in full support of the Eye of the Moon," Itachi said.

The lie to shield his partner flowed smooth as silk before Madara. But he realized then its plausibility. In mentioning the Eye of the Moon, Kisame had baited and strung Itachi as deftly as he would a catfish, and thrown him to an even bigger beast.

Madara made a dismissive, subvocal noise. "Do you remember our agreement from that long night?"

"You kill the Uchiha police force and don't harm the Leaf. I help you in the Akatsuki."

"It's a pact you'll only escape when one of us is dead. Too bad for you and the Leaf, you'll die first."

Itachi lit Amaterasu then. The inferno feasted on Madara's clothes, he smelled it roast his skin, and the elder Uchiha screamed and cursed, and he disappeared in a swirl. Itachi did not know what the retreat meant, but he did not think the incident was over, so he fled for the forest.

Moments later Madara appeared on a tree branch in front of him, unflamed. Itachi kept running. This was not Itachi's first dance with a teleporter— and he knew to deal with them better than most.

The bait untaken, Madara disappeared again.

Then Madara phased centimeters in front of him. Itachi should have crashed into him, but there was no collision, rather Itachi suddenly found himself cut around the waist by a chain. Madara viced it taught around him and smashed Itachi to a tree trunk.

"Pain was never the one you needed to worry about."

Terrified and adrenalized, Itachi zapped him again with the Amaterasu. Madara swore and disappeared. Exhausted and half blind, Itachi's trembling fingers started to untie himself.

Madara returned and kicked the chained man in the stomach. "That again?"

Itachi recovered and stared at him wrathfully. Madara's only eye was shadowed by the mask, and Itachi could not establish the contact he needed for Tsukuyomi.

"Each user of the Mangekyou has one ability for each eye. Yours are the black flames, Amaterasu, and the nightmare realm, Tsukuyomi, right?"

"Take your mask off," Itachi breathed.

"I've been meaning to teach you something for a while. You buried the knowledge of Indra's clan when you killed them. They were weak, but the eldest Uchiha knew the old paths, even if they could not climb them. And orphaned, you now need instruction in using our highest gifts." Madara's voice had adopted a helpful tone.

"I want none of the knowledge that has poisoned you."

Itachi said it, but he wasn't sure he was so noble. Beneath his fear was the instinct to collect advantages. He had learned long ago to enact what sin justice demanded.

"There's a third ability that everyone with two mangekyou has. You have the eyes, but there's a nose. How's your knowledge of religion, Itachi?"

"Very well."

"Good. Then you know already what we call him."

Their eyes locked. A hypnotic heartbeat passed in synchrony.

The air cracked with chakra and the space around Madara hazed cobalt blue. Itachi's lips parted in disbelief. A huge skeleton formed around Madara, which lengthened as it became threaded with corded muscles, skin, and at last armor. A huge blue, astral samurai.

Madara spoke. "Amaterasu emerges through grief. Tsukuyomi through fear. Susanoo is a wrathful god, and his likeness is unlocked by hate."

Quick as a whip, the Susanoo lifted Itachi, its hand covered his eyes and twisted his neck like a bird, and the other crushed him until his ribs cracked. Itachi screamed, and his lungs filled with blood, and he felt his spine compressing, and he knew he would soon die. But above the pain, above it all, he hated the man before him. He wanted Madara dead. He wanted to flay the skin off him. He wanted to rend him full of nightmares, stab him through the tsukuyomi, and burn his corpse. Because if Madara didn't control the fox, he would not be in the Akatsuki, the scorned Uchiha would not have revolted, and everyone he had loved would be alive.

And at last Itachi's cracking ribs ceased. His body was wracked with pain, but he could breathe. The air tasted ozone and electric. He could just barely see that red bars of chakra, like a ribcage, had formed around his own body in protection. Madara's susanoo released him.

"I need you alive for something, for now. This ethical streak, however... I'll rub that out soon enough."

He dared the hateful glare of a man who could not stand at Madara. "I'll soak the earth with your guts."

A laugh. "Good progress."

The blur shaped like Madara admired the fallen Uchiha a moment more; in Itachi's imagination he was smug. Madara disappeared in a silent vortex from his right eye. Maybe Itachi had played into Madara's hands, but they both had what they wanted. Itachi had knowledge, and he was not dead. Itachi's fiery ribs extinguished with the threat, and he collapsed to bleed his life unto the ungrateful earth.

Author's Note:

Apologies for the wait on this one, folks. Thanks very much to beta SilverLion for her help!

See you next time,

Kelto

#campfires #celticfeather #itachi #Kisame #Kisaita #itakisa #akatsuki #fanfiction #keltodier

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spirit-of-the-void · 5 years

Text

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter One

Author notes: So...so. This might as well be a thing, yeah? This is gonna be a multi part fanfic. I took a creative liberty and based some of the plot devices on dishonored and the outsider, pay them no mind. I hope you guys enjoy!

Chapter One

The Void was so cold and cloying.

You awoke in its black embrace, wrapped in chill and embers. Breath settling in lungs like a heavy, heady fog. Your eyes opened, taking in the dull glow, the suspended debris, the lonely gaze of a whale carcass floating by. There was nothingness here in the Void, an empty feeling that expanded into the darkness. Here you were alone, yet one with everything. A single voice calling into nothingness, a part of the chorus crying into the night. Your hand reached upwards—or was it down—as a chilled gasp escaped your pent-up lungs.

Awaken, his voice did speak.

You wouldn’t have awoken if “He” didn’t have a task for you. The mouthpiece of the Void, the forsaken man you sold your soul to. All those years ago. You could scarcely remember any time that wasn’t now. You sat up, body stiff and blood coursing fast through waking veins. You look at your hands, seeing the tone of your skin return. Your nails didn’t grow since you saw them last, a scar remained on your palm from...when did you get that scar? It belonged there, you knew that, but why?

Shake the cobwebs from your frame.

You stood, a cold, chilling wind passing over naked flesh. You were used to this cold by now, you did not shiver. The cold reminded you that you are alive. Your pale colored hair settled in the air, eyes now fully open, clarity returning. You knew what it was you had to do, and who you served. As the wind rushed past, you felt clothing settling on your frame. A blouse, waist hugging shorts, thigh highs. You preferred it like this. A feeling of normalcy followed, arms stretched over your head until joints popped and muscles groaned. Awake now, fully.

Your soul is his to keep.

You rolled your eyes at the whispering of the Void, rubbing them in the nest instant as you walked forward out of the dark cloud that had cradled you. Debris formed underneath you with each step, creating your path. This place had a flare for the over dramatic. Then again, so did the being that made its home here. At the very thought of him, the air in front of you shimmered and cracked, shards of dark crystals swirling and taking shape. No matter how hard you tried, you could never recall his face when you weren’t looking straight at it.

He is of all things, songs whispered to cradles and bones gnawed by teeth.

You sighed, staring at the one thing on him you remembered. His gaze, swallowed whole by darkness. Black eyes stared back from cold skin, and the man smiled.

“You look well rested, Y/N,” He said in a smooth purr, walking in a slow circle around you.

It was in your nature to wait until he prompted you to speak, hands clasped behind your back. You can't remember a time he ever laid his hands on you, always a few steps away. A distance, a reminder. He was a celestial being, something unknown and mysterious. More than the world and humanity itself. And you, born of mortal flesh and bone, made more by the Void’s whispering. You knew your place and your duties. You were just impatient to get to them.

“How do you feel?” He hummed when your silence persisted, head tilted to the side. The Void rustled his hair—what color was it again?

You shrugged, letting out a quiet yawn before replying.

“I feel fine enough,” You felt no pain, just a little lethargic, “A bit hungry. Will the place you send me have places to eat?”

He smiled—at least you think he did? And clasped his hands behind his back, “Aren’t you at least a slight bit curious of where you are going? And why?” He sounded amused at least.

“I assumed you were going to inform me,” Was your dry reply, “As you always do.”

He chuckled; the sound carried on soft blowing winds. His laughter seemed to echo into eternity, finally sending a chill up your spine. You were reluctant to admit you were eager to set out—tasks meant time away from the Void, in sunlight and warmth, fresh air and food. With people not consumed by an ever-present torment. You had no idea how long you had slept, but then again time had no meaning here and each dimension visited traveled at its own pace.

But you were sure he already knew that.

His feet tapped on stone, and it appeared he was doing laps around you again. You stifled a sigh, impatience building but mouth unable to say anything. Let him go at his own pace, patience will be rewarded right? You tried to tell yourself as much. With each passing second your mind began to buzz anew at the prospect of seeing new faces, learning new things. A warm shower, the feeling of lather in your hair. You never realized how important the little things were until spending time in the Void—despite the time you spent sleeping, it still left its mark on you. You couldn’t wait to do simple things. A sip of tea, the warmth of a hug. Would you be able to hug people there?

“I see you are as eager as ever,” The being before you hummed, his voice passing from one ear to another, “Perhaps I shouldn’t take up too much of your time?”

You bit your tongue, remembering he could know everything as you knew it. Pushing down the buzzing energy, you replied as neutral as you could, "Being in your presence is always a gift, Master. Do not rush on my account.”

He chuckled again, turning into a cloud of black crystal shards and shimmering back to your view. Taking form once more, he leveled his gaze on you. You saw his expression shift from amused to serious, at least from what you could recognize from him. All the years serving him had taught you well enough to notice his shifts in mood. How many years had it been again, since you took your first breath of cold air, since your soul was claimed in his name? The thought settled in your stomach like lead weights, a reminder of who you were. The taste of ice and metal settling on your tongue the more you inhaled the chilled air, each moment wasted could have been another moment free.

The Void was both comfort and a curse, pain and relief. Claws on your spine and balm on your soul. You straightened your back, gaze meeting his as the its whispers settled around you. Duty first, fun later right?

“You should know by now your duties and what it is I expect of you,” His tone was both flat and melodic, mingling together like nails on a chalkboard and wind-chimes. This was an order, and your body tensed immediately as you felt his energy seize you, “Something has tipped the balance, and it is your job to fix it. A blight, an impurity, a taint. It has tipped the scales of a dimension so far it threatens others.”

If he is a mouthpiece, you are a puppet.

He stepped closer to you, toe to toe now and just close enough you felt the chill of his breath. He smelled of salt and the ocean, of something dark and ancient and forbidden. You felt the black of your eyes swallow the irises, until your own eyes mimicked his. You were given an order to follow, it was now written in obsidian. The wind in the Void howled, louder and louder, until it was whipping against you like a hurricane. You felt as if you were beginning to fall, sight slipping away as the whispers and cries around you grew louder and louder, from all directions. Yet still above the chaos and noise you could feel his gaze, fixed on you. His voice was loud in your ear, yet still a whisper.

“You will travel to Redgrave city, and you will fix what disaster they have wrought. Do not disappoint me."

~~~

Upon waking, nausea was your first companion.

Disorientation and dizziness were close seconds. You were facing the sky, sounds around you muffled liked they were under water. Everything was like that at first, as if a haze of water was shielding your senses. Slowly, they began to rise as you blinked several times. You saw your hand, shielding your eyes from the sun, clouds drifting in and out of focus. It clicked with you a moment later—The sun! How long had it been since you felt its warmth, felt warmth at all? It had felt like ages despite you having no conception of the time you spent sleeping. Your senses returned, one by one as you sat up quickly—too quickly. Your stomach lurched a second later, a gag quickly swallowed and leaving an unpleasant taste in your mouth.

Ugh, traveling from the Void to new locations was either a breeze or a nightmare. In this instance? A nightmare.

You groaned aloud, rubbing both hands down your face as you put your head between your knees, willing the world to stop tilting. Physicality sucked sometimes. Though you found yourself enjoying what you could register through the discomfort of your settling body. The air? Comfortable. Back? Warmed from the sun. Ground hard and breeze so forgiving and...what was the hell was that smell? On that breeze was a stench that sent your stomach rolling again. You gagged a few more times, lifting your head with a heavy cough and wiping your mouth. What the hell was that? You registered sulfur, ash, rot, and burning rubber. A cacophony of unpleasant things and very bad signals. Ash and sulfur usually meant demons, as did rot. As for burning rubber... you got your answer upon finally looking around.

You were on a concrete roof of what used to be an office building, or at least you assumed. Upon shakily coming to your feet you were able to see it was half submerged in water...along with dozens upon dozens of other broken, shattered buildings. Debris, everywhere. It looked like parts of the Earth’s crust had been displaced, jutting up from the ground with buildings still attached in the distance. What in the name of the Void had happened here? Mass destruction met your every glance. You could see smoke billowing up in several locations, ash floating on a gentle breeze that seemed a bit strange in the chaos. You could hear what sounded like a car alarm in the distance, and you found yourself seeing a lot of...spiky brambles? Big spiky brambles. Huge vines, weaving in between the buildings and chaos and...

What the fuck was that?

You found your eyes hovering on a towering behemoth in the sky. What in the freshest of hells were you looking at? It reached into the clouds, tall as a skyscraper. Swirling tendrils curled into a ball into the sky, almost like the branches of a tree, glowing red in place and dusting the land in light clouds of ash. A mixture of brambles and thorn, it painted a strange picture among all the chaos. You put your hands to your face again, blinking over and over as you tried to get your bearings. There was so much to unpack her. Strange monster tree, strange monster brambles, mass destruction. This was clearly the cause of the imbalance, but you knew virtually no information at that moment to form a plan of any kind. The first step was to figure out what those things were, why they were there, and how to get rid of them. If you were lucky.

“Fuck.” You muttered, disappointment filling you, “I somehow think I won't be getting a shower anytime soon.”

Luckily there was zero people around to hear you mumbling to yourself. You had to get your bearings on being a normal person again. You tapped your feet on the ground, stretching your arms and testing your body. Felt strong enough, felt sturdy enough. Everything was in the right places. You let out a slow breath, concentrating on activating the energy of the Void your body possessed. Instantly, a burning sensation slithered along your palms, glowing light blue marks traveling through your veins like glowing whale oil. The ground beneath you crackled to life, tendrils of energy emerging and swirling in a deadly dance around your feet. You quickly deactivated the energy, feeling it settle back inside with a low hum of power. Everything in its place and all things as they should be.

You were still sad about that shower though.

Stifling the disappointment, you stretched again, brain racing as you eyed the big, scary-looking tree in the distance. Most times you popped into a situation it was before everything had gone to hell. Whatever had happened to this place, “Redgrave city” was without foresight. You were put there with purpose, clearly there was something you were meant to find in this time, in this moment. Or maybe it was just the Deity playing his games. The thought had you sighing again, something you felt you would be doing a lot for this task. There was a lot of ground to cover, and you were unsure of where to start amongst all the bullshit.

That was until you heard the sound of loud, deep snarls in the distance, mingled with the sound of a building collapsing.

You immediately darted to the other side of the roof, griping a flag pole as your gaze searched the horizon. Almost immediately you saw something big, scary, and ugly in the distance. Oh, that was most certainly a demon. You could make out spikes and sharp teeth, horns and...a mouth on its stomach. This might as well be a thing, right? You made a visible face of disgust, watching its mighty jaws move and speak, but unable to see who it was speaking to, or make out what it was saying. That was a perfect place to start. You saw it jump down, out of view, and immediately pressed forward.

The Void gave you the speed and agility you needed to grip the pole, using it for leverage to springboard off the side of the building over the water. The Void power activated immediately, blue tendrils shooting out to grip the next building before you could land, sending you forward faster with each bound. A smile spread across your face, elation filling you now that the nausea and disorientation were gone. The air felt so warm, rushing past your body with each leap—like soaring. The impact of your feet was dulled by magic, the sensation of running so satisfying after not doing so for a long time. You connected to the next building, tilting back and arching your body down to graze your fingers along the water's surface. It felt cool, so real under your fingertips. It was real. You let out a light laugh, turning into a shout of delight as the momentum took you skyward again.

To be alive was a true gift, one you would not take for granted.

With each movement energy sizzled through your limbs, electrifying and slightly painful. Pain was welcome, a reminder. As you moved you kept your eyes on the cathedral you saw the creature standing on earlier. The closer you got, the more its voice became clear. Guttural, warped, demonic. It was cursing at someone, the sounds immediately followed by the rumble of a crumbling building. You skidded to a halt along the edge of a closer piece of debris, suspended by tendrils as your eyes searched for the creature again. Near enough to make out what it was saying now, filled with frustration and rage. Upon further focus, you saw it again—it was inside the cathedral now. What was he swatting at? Zipping white hair, bursts of energy and metal scraping on metal...

That looked like a human. It was.

Or at least, they looked it, you didn’t want to assume. A humanoid figure, fighting with the demon much to your shock and immense relief. Thank the gods and their glory, you wouldn’t just be interacting with just monsters for this task. Whoever this guy was, he sure was zipping around fast. Fighting the demon, you could make out just that much. You heard his light laughter in the chaos, mingled with...taunting. He was taunting the creature, making it more and more mad as it destroyed yet another wall of the building. Fascination and excitement filled you, along with a pleasant sense of watching an action scene play out like a movie. You were impressed—The little human guy seemed to be holding his own quite well. He was fast, wielding what looked to be a sword and slashing the creature over and over as they tumbled out into a courtyard.

You quickly and quietly leapt to the next building you could get attached to, peeking over the edge at the fight below with elated interest. You didn’t know what species this world had, but you were getting the feeling it was more than your garden variety humans. You were close now, hidden from sight but close enough to see the fight below with clarity. The man had short white hair, a cocky facial expression on a chiseled face. But more importantly, he had what looked to be a glowing metal arm on the right half of his body. He was using it to level this attack on the demon—who was a thousand times uglier up close. You ached for popcorn, watching the fight was certainly entertaining. The unfamiliar man grabbed the demon that must have been ten times bigger than he, whipping it around by its tail over and over before flinging it into a nearby building with a shout of elation.

Well. This was definitely the place to start.

Heart beating with excitement and fear, you slid down the side of the debris, unseen by the two fighting creatures. Your tendrils formed almost feathery paths on the water for you to walk on, taking you up so you could duck behind a nearby pile of broken concrete to quietly watch. The problem now was not getting attacked. Or at least seeing if this man was friendly. You lost count of how many times you had been attacked by those you were supposed to help—people jumped to conclusions a lot. Humans especially. You touched your hand to the concrete, peeking out lightly and pushing your hair over one shoulder. This fight was coming to an end, it would seem. You watched the creature fall into a building, sending it crumbling as wheezed and groaned.

“I must not be defeated...in a place like this...!” He rasped, pulling himself slowly up again, “The fruit...is mine...! I will rule the Underworld, not him...!”

Underworld? Him? You frowned, feeling like you were getting puzzle pieces, but all in the wrong order and zero clue to what the puzzle would form.

You saw the white haired man raise a gun, pointing it at the creature to more than likely provide the killing blow. But something stopped him. A rush of air, and the sound of flapping wings. You gaze darted up to see a dark blue, demonic bird swoop down to the demon, flying around it tauntingly as it tried to swat the bird away. It was a beautiful creature, despite the demonic edge it had. Deep, dark blue feathers flapping powerfully as it dodged the demon’s swiping claws, cackling all the while.

Then, from your right, a voice spoke out.

“I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,” The deep, smooth purr of a voice mused as a new face walked himself on the tattered courtyard, idly twirling a silver cane with each step, “That made my love so high and me, so low.”

This felt like the punchline to a very odd joke. A demon, a twink, and a goth walked into a bar—You had to bite your lip to stop a snort. All that time in the Void was making you insane. This new man was different from the other, another pretty boy all the same but carrying a very different vibe. Head down, black hair waving in the breeze and looking vaguely like he stepped out of a hot topic catalog. Did hot topics exist here? You shook your head to clear the thought, watching in curiosity as the newcomer approached. You recognized that poem he had quoted—it was by William Blake. Some things did cross dimensions it would seem. And what an odd thing, to stroll into a scene with your head down, reading poetry from a small leather-bound book.

The white-haired boy seemed to recognize the newcomer, lowering his gun as he approached the demon. The pale man’s back was now to you, and you found yourself fascinated with all you saw. He was covered in tattoos as well, ones that writhed as he rose his cane, pointing it at the distracted demon. You saw from its tip a burst of black energy, then a panther was bounding toward the demon. Before you could see what happened, the bird swooped near you, causing you to duck behind the debris just as the sound of blades rang out. You pressed to the concrete surface, hoping the demonic creature didn’t see you. Why were you so nervous? Probably because you always were when there was so much you didn’t understand.

A couple blue feathers fell near you, slowly falling to the ground as you heard more voices behind you.

“Why...why are you...?” The demon rasped weakly after you heard his body hit the ground hard, his voice carried on the light breeze around you.

“Little wander,” The voice of the man, the one with ebony hair. You slide down, back to the debris as you tried to keep as quiet as possible.

“Hie thee home...!” His voice was somehow...pleasant, melodic and smooth, even as you heard him grunt and the sound of his cane cutting through flesh. The demon released a pained cry, blood spurting on concrete hard to miss as he disintegrated. Or at least you thought so. You were too afraid to pop out yet. Your Void sense was tingling, your foresight warning you that something had already changed from your presence. Which wasn’t a good sign, considering you were hiding at that moment. But now the demon was dead, and you had no idea how to make yourself known or approach people. Dread curled in your gut, anxiety mingling with all the time you had missed in your slumber. The Void always left you messed up afterwards, yet also making you whole again.

The boy spoke now, his voice sounding pleasantly surprised as his footsteps moved toward the other man, “Thought I was gonna have to pick you out of his...uh...tummy teeth,” He grunted.

You twisted one of the feathers in your fingers, swallowing as the bird swooped overhead again.

“Pardon my delay,” Came the smooth, light toned reply, “I was catching up on some reading.”

“Yeah,” The white-haired boy replied, sounding pretty disinterested. You wished you could look and check but the sound of something crumbling made you hesitate, “Looks like a real page-turner.”

The men kept talking for a few moments, and you caught the name “Dante” and mention of an unfamiliar term. “Qliphoth” and “Qlipoth pollen”. You also learned immediately that your suspicions were correct—the thing in the sky was in fact a tree, a tree that grew in the underworld as the black-haired man told it. He was saying a lot of things you needed to hear, thank the lord. A blood sucking demon tree, that’s exactly the thing you weren’t hoping for. Not that specifically, but close enough right?

“If Dante is alive, we save him,” The boy huffed as he took in the information as well, his footsteps starting up again, “If not, we don’t.”

“Wait.” His footsteps were halted by the other man. That word alone sent a worried thrill up your spine. You felt like a kid playing hide and seek, right about to be caught.

“First we need to exterminate some...Qliphoth roots,” The man suggested, his tone lilting and smooth. You closed your eyes—goth man definitely had the voice for poetry. You remember a lecture in class once from a literature major, he used to read poetry all the time in a voice far less pleasant. The memory sent a twinge of pain through your skull, hand coming up to press the source as you winced. Remembering the past always lead to pain, you needed to remember that. Eyes always forward, not back. Besides, you had more important things to focus on. You debated following these men from a distance, observing them as best you could without being caught. Stealth was always an option.

You heard the feet start moving again, only to be halted by the one sentence you didn’t want to hear. Right above your head.

“So sorry, gentleman,” A grating voice said in an amused tone, causing your head to jerk up to see the bird staring down at you with glowing eyes, "We seem to have an audience...!”

Shit.

Your foresight suddenly flared, marking that you had altered the situation. Your presence was very known now, there was no doubting that. You gasped, lurching back in shock as the bird cackled lightly at your reaction. You weren’t fast enough. Sharp talons grasped you by the shoulders in the next instant, digging into skin as you were pulled into the air with ease. How could you have been such an idiot?! That time in the Void had definitely screwed with your focus. The bird was apparently strong, pulling your squirming form up over the debris and depositing you not too gracefully onto the ground right in front of the two men—the white haired man had his gun raised again, the other holding his cane pointed at you. Gaze lifted, you found yourself face to face with a snarling panther, eyes burning a vicious red as it took a step toward you.

You didn’t dare activate your powers, not yet. Not till you had a better grasp on the situation.

“A human survivor?” The white-haired boy said in surprise when you lifted your head, now seeing your face in the light. He was definitely a looker up close, they both were. You felt very small despite the level of power you knew you had. Anxiety never seemed to fade, you felt like you were in trouble. He still had his gun raised at you, and you definitely didn’t want to appear threatening.

You leaned back, a worried expression on your face as you whispered, “Um...please don’t shoot me?” It sounded like a question, even though you were sure you were not asking one.

Both men stared down at you, then at each other.

The black-haired man frowned, turning his gaze to you again and tilting his cane. He pressed the flat handle to your throat, tilting your chin up so they could closer inspect you.

“Human survivors are heavily unlikely,” He replied to an unasked question, lips curving into a wry smile, “So I highly doubt that’s the case. Though I’d also imagine if she meant to attack, she would have already, yes? Although,” Despite his smooth, gentle tone, the cane pressed a little harder, a warning of sorts as he continued, “Eavesdropping is...very rude, little miss.”

This man had very nice eyebrows, a strong nose, and full lips. You tried to focus on that instead of that growing fear you might fail your mission. Fighting the one lead you had was out of the question, and the Deity would not be happy. You gulped, trying to slow your heartbeat.

“I...wasn’t trying to...” You replied as calmly as you could manage with cold metal on your throat, “And I am human. I...i mean, not a normal human, sure, but I am a human.”

You were stuttering, you couldn’t help it. And technically you weren’t lying either. You were human in origin, made better by the energy of the Void. Half truths were better than outright lies.

The black haired man hummed, seeming to weigh your words as the twink asked, “What do you mean by ‘not a normal human’?” He pushed the cane away from your face, putting his gun in its holder and shooting the goth man a look that clearly said “back off”. He complied, a smirk on his lips as he retracted the cane and took a step back. You released a heavy, relieved breath you didn’t know you were holding, glad you no longer had the looming threat of a bullet and a poetry major of your head.

“I was born...gifted,” You replied hesitantly, accepted a hand when white-haired boy offered it to you and coming to your feet, “I have abilities, almost like magic. They are what helped me survive until now.” Again, not a lie.

Both men exchanged another glace, silence stretching for a few moments as they both thought over what you said. You looked at the panther still circling you, low growls coming from its chest. It was beautiful as well, black with swirling red glowing patterns in its fur. Your hand twitched, and you quickly stifling the urge to touch anything before you lost a hand. What the hell was wrong with you? Impulse control had never been a strong suit it would seem, though your brain at least knew well enough not to follow through. Especially not when these two men still didn’t seem to know how to handle you.

Before they could speak to you again, the screech of tires quickly approached. All three of you turned to see a giant van skidding harshly in your direction. You quickly leapt back with the men, but were flattered when the twink still stepped in front of you to protect you and goth boy grabbed your arm to pull you out of the way. Both looked at you when your agility registered, and all you could muster was a shrug.

A woman popped out of the window of the van, dark hair messy over a cute face with freckles over her nose and cheeks.

“I know I know I’m late. Shut it!” She quipped in a southern drawl, pointing at the two, “The roads were all clogged...!”

You heard the twink sigh lightly, pressing a hand to his head as he relaxed a bit. The girl in the van blinked, taking in the situation in a brief pass of her gaze.

“Uh... I know you must be V,” She pointed at the goth—his name was V obviously—before pointing one cutely painted nail at you, “Who’s the new girl? You didn’t mention ‘nuther person, Nero.”

V and Nero. Awesome, you now knew both names.

It took a second for you to realize that V was still griping your arm. Only when he released it did it click, the man taking a step back and tilting his head in observance of you. Nero let out another sigh, you turning in enough time to see him shrug.

“We don’t exactly know her,” He replied, leaning against the van with his metal arm, "Says she has powers though—what's your name, kid?”

You blinked, raising a brow at the word “kid”. You were young in appearance but you were pretty sure you were twenty when you sold your soul. And you looked twenty. Average height too, whereas Mr. Twink didn’t look a day over eighteen. His actual age was a mystery to you, but that didn’t matter at the moment.

“Y/N,” You replied, offering a small, but slightly annoyed smile, “And I’m not a kid. I turned twenty this year.” Big lie, but they didn’t need to know that.

Nero smirked cockily, shrugging as he pushed off from the van, “Noted. Can you fight?”

You nodded simply.

He grunted in reply, “Can you fight demons?”

You nodded again, “I can.” Not a lie. Demons were child's play.

The woman replied before Nero, smacking a hand on the side of the van as she hollered impatiently, “She’s in then! Now hurry it up, I don’t got all day!” She looked at you and pointed at herself, “My name is Nico, you come to me if you need shit, got that?”

You nodded again, offering a timid smile. Agreeing to everything seemed the best course of action. Nico seemed pleased, pulling back into the van—or maybe it was a variation of mobile home—with a chuckle. You looked over the vehicle with a mix of confusion and fascination. Bright neon letters lit up the side, “Devil May Cry” a hard thing to miss. It was on the tires as well. A brand? You wanted to ask, but that familiar flapping sounded overhead, and you turned in enough time to see V put out his arm. The bird swooped down to land on the provided appendage, rustling his feathers and leveling you with a sharp gaze. You immediately straightened your back, staring at him with a mixture of unease and awe.

“Simple as that huh? Just like that, the pretty little princess is a part of the gang!” The bird commented in a sharp tone, following it with a light cackle, “Just gonna take her word for it! Nero you are a genius!”

Everyone was just full of nicknames for you it would seem. You felt like someone else had called you “Princess” before. Only last time you were fairly certain it was an enemy and you broke its nose. You also decided in that moment that you didn’t like the nicknames, a frown settling on your lips as the bird met your challenging gaze with one of his own—beautiful bird, made of absolute bastard it would seem. You had dealt with things like that before.

“We can take all the help we can get,” Nero said in a tone heavily implying violence against this bird, pointing at him with his metal arm threateningly, “If you have any issues with my decision making I’ll be happy to discuss it with you.”

Seemed like there was little room for discussion.

“Oh boy, let’s all gang up on the bird for being the realistic one!” He cackled, but with less steam now, “If she ends up dead weight, just know i did warn you!”

You saw a muscle twitch under Nero’s eye, whatever he said making the boy very, very ticked. The bird leaned his head back, seeming to click right away with the realization of he said something wrong. You had zero idea of what line was crossed, but you wanted to ease the tension somehow.

“I assure you, I’ll be plenty useful,” You shrugged, easily drawing everyone’s attention to you again, “Though I’ll gladly recline the nickname ‘princess’ if you don’t mind.”

The bird seemed surprised you spoke, so you continued.

“How long were you sitting on that zinger, ten piece?” You kept your tone neutral, smiling again when his feathers puffed up in annoyance, “My name is Y/N, by the way. Just in case you couldn’t hear it over your own squawking.”

Much to your shock, your reply made mister goth smile. You saw just the back end of an amused smirk as he turned his head away to hide it, holding this bird up as it made an indignant series of noises at you. Nero relaxed a little, shaking his shoulders a little as he let the tension drop and turned away.

“Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?” V suggested, brushing past you lightly with a light hum, “There are plans to be made, and Qliphoth roots to be destroyed.”

Nero nodded and lead the charge as they headed to enter the van. You hesitated for a moment, watching the panther slink along behind its master and flicking its tail. You weren’t sure that you were meant to follow until Nico poked her head out again, making a motion to you and mouthing ‘can you pick that up?’ as she pointed to a demon horn on the ground. You paused, grabbed it, then looked up again to see her give a thumbs up, motioning eagerly for you to follow behind V inside. You let out a slightly relieved sigh, and made quick work of catching up to the man, observing him curiously all the while.

This is all you had for now, but you had a good feeling about this.

Read this on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136193/chapters/42881951

#devil may cry v #devil may cry #dmc v #dmc5 #dmcv #V #V dmc #V x reader #vxreader #self insert #v self insert #fanfic #this might as well be my new hyper fixation lmao #Ebony and Ivory #ebony and ivory chapter 1 #chapter 1

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