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shans-writings · 3 years ago

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—–-- AU-GUST PROMPTS 2021 :

↳ Day 1 : Ancient Gods.

↳ Main Info :

BNHA / MHA short story.

All Might and Endeavor are ancient gods and Shigaraki Tomura is the new Death in town.

Non explicit violence content, no sexual content, no mention of dead.

Safe for minors.

“Tonight I will kill a god.”

The stranger slammed the glass on the table. His friend, who had laughed at such insolence as if it were a joke, put her hand to his chest, so that he would not stand up.

“You cannot kill a god,” the stranger's expression was fixed on the traveler in front of them, in the hollowed darkness under his hood, the type that didn't let his eyes be seen. “The gods do not die. This is not how the world works.”

Beside him, the stranger's friend pretended to be amused, though over his glass he was watching them warily.

He did not believe that he and the stranger were real friends. They were completely different, one like the heaven's, one like the underworld. Yet the stranger and his friend were about the same height and width, with the same bulging muscles under tight clothing, the same hard cuts on their faces. Their swords, the size of a dragon's fang, were tied behind their back by a golden band across their chests. Neither really needed them to inflict harm, much less to exercise their authority. But the bands had their ranks written on them and they matched the crowns on their heads, the rings on their biceps, the golden markings under their eyes… Those were their honor as warriors, which marked them and distinguished them from all the rest.

The traveler, who had not revealed a name, so the stranger's friend only thought of him as the traveler, made a strange noise that seemed to come out of his throat, leaning both elbows on the table. Was he laughing? The friendliest of warriors hastened to direct the conversation to safety, recounting all the times someone tried to kill a god and failed. He talked a lot, it wasn't easy to put him in a bad mood. Usually he left it to the stranger to make enemies, for he was so brutal that it was easier for him to force himself into situations, but not with words.

After a long time, the stranger and his friend heard the doorbell.

The rest of the tavern customers turned to look at the newcomers, keeping silent. The two bulky men kept staring in front of them, at the traveler, who had once again let out that chilling sound that was his laughter. In a hummingbird flutter, the traveler stretched out his hands and the golden bands of the strangers began to explode, first those of their chests, their heads, their arms, their eyes. Both bulky men rose to their feet, but it was clear that these bands were not decorative, which could not be hidden for much longer. Of those bands that had served to seal their colossal powers and pass them off as humans, only dust remained.

In the middle of the tavern, All Might, god of wind blows, and Endeavor, god of the flames of hell, had their skin and eyes alight with the light of their divine cores, so much so that half the tavern had to stumble out into the street, or close your eyes to avoid being momentarily blind.

Endeavor drew his sword from him, but All Might was still hesitant. He studied the dark robe the stranger wore, his lanky posture. A sense of dark terror washed over his chest, which he knew immediately because no god was used to fear. The longer he watched him, the more he felt there was something ancient there. He was frightened that the creature could reveal itself and be a copy of himself, a wandering mirror, distorted and new, spotless, so bright and flawless that it'd drive people him.

“What are you?” The god of the winds finally asked.

“The only thing that can truly end itself.”

The traveler removed the robe from him in one fluid motion. No, the god thought, the robe simply ceased to exist when touched to transform into something else, a kind of function between divine matter and organic matter of the human world.

Now he was finally beginning to understand what was happening.

A sharp knock told him that the tavern door had been fully opened. Slowly, as in a dream. The torch fire turned from orange to blue, shadows and men multiplying, compressing the air. It smelled of river, of blood, and the atmosphere thickened until both gods could only perceive each other by the brightness of their eyes, as well as their unearthly gazes.

One after another, disembodied hands turned to the lord of him, holding the parchment and feathers for him so that he could read without touching. From behind, the voices of everyone present began to speak in turn.

“Toshinori Yagi, All Might, god of wind blows and of peace among the tribes. Todoroki Enji, Endeavor, god of the flames of hell and the terror of the fallen. Meet our lord of decay, Shigaraki Tomura. "

Death.

Yagi wanted to fight. He knew Enji would do it, even if it was to taste his god blood.

"May I ask how you plan to kill a god, child?"

Oh, how the roles had changed. All Might heard someone hiss, not daring to turn around. Shigaraki perm He was calm, smiling. The more he looked at him, the more Yagi felt his spine bend toward the ground.

“Have you chosen his replacement yet?”

Nothing, none of the gods spoke. Shigaraki scratched his neck, floating hands signed the scroll and closed it, gently placing it in his hands. As a final gesture, his hands extended their bony fingers to the sky again and then, in a second, his form decomposed in mid-flight and Death's entire body enveloped the gods, until he materialized on the other side. .

In the hands of Death, two pearls had remained. One golden like the high summer wind, another red like the blood and sulfur bottoms meters and meters underground.

Toshinori was the first to collapse. His skin stuck to his bones, he was shrinking until he was no more than an old man on his knees. He couldn't stand up, no matter how much he wanted to.

Enji retained his physique, but there was no light in his eyes. Everything that made him a god was gone. He felt it as the greatest pain, he knew that his cores were intact, but with all his immortality it would take years of devotion to fill that void again.

Years they would not have.

They heard Shigaraki Tomura laugh one last time, as he went with his entourage into the great darkness beyond the door.

And the old gods, that night, learned how you can kill a god. They must replaced and sentenced to exile, until no one remembers them.

And finally... Nothing, oblivion.

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confusedgoldenflower · 3 years ago

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AU-gust 2021 Day One: Ancient Gods… a little to the left

What a Day to be Human!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34263547

Horus/Seth. Horus | Heru/Setekh | Seth. Set in any time really, but mainly Post-Contendings seeing as neither is immediately bloodthirsty. Unrelated to my “An Aftermath Etched into Souls” (I’m working on the next chapter, I swear, writer’s block hasn’t been kind to me!)

NOTES: I feel I should put this first. NONE of this is meant to dis any subculture whatsoever-- “Kero-Len” is just Viper bullshitting also, and I neither endorse nor discourage smoking at this point but please just be aware of what you’re getting yourself--and loved ones--into if you decide to start and that no, you cannot “just stop” when you want.

Anyway. An AU of one of my OTPs but… a tad to the left, in which ancient gods awaken very much not ancient gods and then discover marshmallows. I can’t quite explain that one lol, but I hope you enjoy!

Heru awoke with the sensation he had not been able to pull up from a dive… and as though he was very, extremely ill. But oh, was opening his eyes so much worse. Colors. And figures. Everywhere. And none of them correct.

He aggressively pushed himself to sit on the bed, taking in everything around him all at once and over and over again. The images were overwhelmed in themselves and utterly disconnected from one another, and somehow not even fully attached to the wall! Even the blankets, which were very welcomingly very soft, the only welcome things in this situation, bore such images. His blanket—actually multiple blankets of varying thickness, bore mainly faces. The internal ones, the ones he was closest to when lying in the bed, at least he thought it was still… a bed? were mainly white, red and black bearing at least four distinct faces like he had never seen before. The faces bore seemingly every emotion plausible. The outer, however, was just faces with open mouths and extended tongues. They looked mostly… pleased? He had the impression it was pleasure that the characters were experiencing.

He could not spare more thought to it, so he slowly rose fully from beneath those sheets, feeling insecure in how he could feel his skin move over bones. His gaze then turned a corner where there were multiple, mainly green containers discarded, some others stacked and nearby, open containers that he somehow knew contained food once.

The shendyt, or… bastardisation thereof was also new. But he needed to find out what was happening and how to make it stop. Still, red was not an unbecoming color on him.

He managed to open the door, also overlapped with images of mainly white-skinned and long haired beauties with features to make any spouse prouder than a lion to call theirs. The clothes, still, we’re strange.

“So, good morning,” hummed a deep voice. Heru gasped despite himself and swung his head to stare at a man near him, outside of another door and wearing dark, ripped clothes with poorly painted images and in a style different to anything else he’d seen in the room he’d awakened in. Only then did he realise that there was a noise in the air, a horrible, grating noise. And it was coming from the other man.

This could be detrimental. He had no idea who even he, apparently, was now. Nor how he or this man usually interacted. He had a feeling the two did not have a good relationship, however.

“Hm,” the man cracked a smirk from beneath hair hanging directly into his face as he pulled something away from his ears. The horrible noise got louder.

“Somehow, I’m glad to see I’m not the only one stuck like this. How long since you woke up?”

Heru gaped.

“Setekh?!—what did you do!”

“Wake up, same as you I assume. Had a bit of time and intuition to figure things out—only on this body and time, though. We can read now, have you figured that out? Dejuty can suck my ass!”

Somehow, some way, this was worse than how he had originally woken up.

“What language even is this?!” He demanded finally.

“English, I guess,” Setekh responded flippantly, flicking a wrist to move the overgrown bangs. The bangs fell back into place.

“What is on your face?!”

“What? Anime boy doesn’t like my razor blade liner? I promise I didn’t use one of your katanas… this time.” Setekh teased in return. The cosmetics actually did—somehow—look really good on him.

“Oh, and by the way, apparently we’re roommates that hate each other. Mostly because I keep you up with my angst and you keep me up with your—I mean my music and you with your anime things. You’ve apparently renamed yourself Kero-Len.”

“This isn’t funny, Viper!”

“Aww, you remembered. This has to be a first. I’m so honored!”

Heru swatted at him only to get teased about this “katana” thing. Then thunk. Viper gasped and looked at the floor where the device that had covered his ears then loosely hung around his head now lay.

“If you broke them again, I’m coming after your neko headphones!”

“I don’t even know what half of this shit is!” Heru retorted, gesturing wildly.

Viper regarded him again then just sighed and shook his head. Heru wanted to slap those heat ruined bangs if his off his stupid face.

“Call this part of Isfet then, I guess. I didn’t have a part in any of this—if I did, then why would I want to deal with any of it much else you? But I am a part of Isfet so I suppose your self-righteous, Ma’at-righteous ass is just extraordinary unwilling to… not be in control at all of any of this whatsoever.” Viper shrugged and dug his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans. Heru was not happy to hear it but he could always be angry later, but right now, he only had him with him in this mess.

“… The serpent then?”

“No,” Viper shut down nearly immediately, “already thought about that, and it’s not like it’s had any followers much less enough power to do something like this.”

“You are the greatest barrier to its goal.”

“I am not the only one and they’re not here.”

“How can you be sure?” If Sopdek or the rest of the Ennead had been put into the situation, it would be an unimaginable outcome.

“Well,” Viper began as if he was the smartest in the room. Heru ignored that he may as well be in that moment.

“It’s five pm and all of creation is still here, putting aside the many other religions. Us roommates conveniently have a group chat—which you’re usually useless in, by the way.” Viper snickered.

“This is all by way to tell me everyone else has been going on through the day as normal.”

Viper made a gesture that portended “well, duh.”

“Will you be trying to contact your mother or…?”

Heru glowered openly, “so I am to do everything then?”

The modelled brow uncovered by the bangs rose.

“I have, in since waking, compiled all of this information. We are—or at least I am only human here. I can’t feel or do anything like I’m usually accustomed to. I have tried. Nothing was accomplished. Unless they’re just being stuffy and being opposed to weed for some reason—I don’t suppose you got any incense in your room, hidden somewhere behind the little anime girls?”

Oh, that is what that feeling is, “I… am the same, and I don’t think I have anything like that.”

“I already basically ransacked the place. Nothing. Not even a spiritual roommate, go figure. Anyway. If she gets stuffy or whatever, tell me what she wants and I can ask Devon to grab it then send him a Venmo.”

A spike of anxiety shot through him. What if the others weren’t being “stuffy” at being contacted by once-Setekh-now-Viper, what if he just couldn’t reach them. Or they couldn’t listen. Or they weren’t there.

“You mentioned ‘other religions?’”

“It’s nothing new, Princey-Poo. Rise and fall. Live and die. Of course it would change over time. Monotheism has taken the lead currently but I feel like it’s gonna turn to atheism pretty soon.”

It was flippant like before but Viper’s tone held a comforting note.

“I even tried to contact myself but that didn’t work either. I was actually about to try a ‘blood sacrifice to Satan’ when I heard you woke up. Wasn’t expecting anything, so imagine my delight when you’d just looked at me like a poor little deer in headlights. Adorable. Shit, I coulda taken a picture.”

“I-ok, ok. Turn off that racket before I sacrifice you, then I’ll try. Mother shouldn’t ignore me for any reason. Dubious, I’m sure she’ll be but….” He couldn’t let his mind turn to the darkness.

Viper leaned down to snatch up his headphones, music stopping a moment thereafter.

“But I gotta stress, I am NOT entering that room. I don’t trust it.”

That got Heru’s attention enough for him to shoot a glower at the man near him. He angrily just agreed then followed a very smug Viper into the adjacent room. It was the opposite of the one he’d awoken in, as if a nightmare had been given physical form and disemboweled within the four walls. Black. Almost void looking. There were posters--the new word and concept seeming innate despite how foreign it was to him, of real people in similar clothes and makeup as Viper with large, gnarly letters spelling out the band names. Faux blood splatter on one wall, decorated more with skeletons. More band posters. A pair of pants hanging up that did not look washed in a while and tattered in a way only multiply-patched clothes can look. An electric guitar. Speakers. Chains. A lot of chains. Flowers, roses, here and there.

“Oh, you have to try these, I’ve been eating them all day!” A wrinkly bag was shoved into his chest. He looked despondently at Viper.

“You know,” Viper encouraged, “marshmallows!” He then left Heru to clutch the bag cluelessly as he settled on the airbed on the floor with one in his hand and a lighter in the other. The lighter was lit and the marshmallow held in the flame by lanky fingers.

“That’s fire,” was all he managed to say. Viper ignored him, continuing to maneuver the marshmallow and the flame. The thing caught on fire with a sizzling blackness. To his horror, Viper continued to rotate it until it was more charcoal than anything then, and only then, did he blow it out. Blew on it a couple more times. Then popped it into his mouth!

“Ah, jus’ like synonym used to make!” Viper mumbled and giggled. Heru understood it as a joke, though not one he ever understood well.

“Well?” Vipper aggressively patted the space next to him on the foot of his saggy bed. Heru sat down and almost dazedly pulled a white, squashed cylinder out of the bag and put it into his mouth. He liked the gowey-ness, not so much--oh, wait, that was good!

“Even better toasted!” Viper chirped.

Slowly, he offered the bag back to him. Viper quickly set to toasting another one.

“What’s this ‘katana’ shit you keep talking about?”

Viper visibly glitched, “bro!” He drawled and sat back in a distressed, disbelieving sort of display.

“You only have, like, ten. And named each one of ‘em too but hey, each to their own, right.”

“But with the eyeliner--,” then he somehow saw himself looking for, buying, unboxing and naming each eastern sword, “nevermind.”

“There it is!” Viper remarked, and handed over a crispy marshmallow, “it gets sticky easy too so be careful--in case you haven’t remembered that part yet.”

He glowered again but then didn’t exactly want to handle the thing… but it did smell so, so good over the scent of burning Viper flesh. Idiot probably lost all feeling in those two fingers by then. Dumbass.

Everything’s already so messed up so… “ah, fuck it.” He didn’t bother with his hands and just took it from Viper with his mouth. The other seemed as thrilled as he was by the choked sound that left him, but he couldn’t bring himself to notice because the crisp, warm, gowey-ness was so much better than just gowey-ness.

He looked back to the flame-wielder in expectation of more. For a moment they just stared at one another.

“Well, shit!” Viper mumbled as he snatched the back back. An almost empty bag.

“Please tell me there’s more.”

Viper’s shoulders sagged, “no and Devon refuses to stop just for marshmallows! The humanity of it all!” He lamented though not as dramatically as he probably would have if he wasn’t currently handling fire.

“What if I ask too?”

“Won’t help.”

“Oh, but Devon’ll go out for incense and his special fucking Jule? I see how it is.”

Viper snickered and quoted in a silly voice, “‘well, watermelon flavor is just superior, you know. I don’t know why I have to keep telling you.’”

Heru giggled, “oh, great Watermelon Lord, would’st thou’st bestow unto me, ye humble servant, but a scrap-nay a crumb, of thou’st’s good will!”

Viper laughed around the freshly singed marshmallow in his mouth as he fished around for another. He shoulder checked Heru which somehow only made him laugh harder. Neither laughing boy managed to finish cooking that one marshmallow.

I'm an outsider looking in on those two subcultures so if I got something wrong, please do correct. Again, none of it is meant to be derogatory.

Heru says none of the anime paraphernalia is "correct" because it's distinctly NOT what he's used to and so, therefore, incorrect in where (and when) he should be. If you woke up in a strange place and time, you'd be judgmental too. The spousal mention thing is because, well, just look at ancient Aphrodite artifacts, some features are and have been considered more fertile which was very important in the ancient world/beliefs. So it'd make sense he'd look at some of that and go, "fair... fair."--Not trying to open up an argument, just saying! I'm personally tired of all the sexualization in anime but, "hey, each to their own, right."

Meanwhile, Setekh was having a good time just blowing out his ear drums and chilling, mostly. Y'know, in between trying to talk to someone and figuring out what the hell had just happened to him (and as he later learns, them)--oh, yeah, and that nap he took at some point. But he's digging the aesthetic and the music. XD

Heru: oh my mother, where am I, what happened?! Meanwhile Setekh: *head-banging on the other side of the wall*

I just-- XD

Devon's got the LED TikTok lights in case anyone's wondering....

#AU-gust prompts 2021 #Day One: Ancient Gods #....But to the left #Horus/Seth #Horus | Heru/Setekh | Seth #fanfic #egypt fanfic #egyptian mythology fanfic #Heru/Setekh

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purpleqilinwrites · 3 years ago

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so it goes.

a/n: i was most excited to write this but my brain took so long to cooperate. in my mind, i had a vision of rough retelling of the story of eurydice and orpheus for this prompt from the first time i saw it. for day 1 of au-gust 2021. prompt: ancient gods.

fandom: black clover

character: nozel silva

genre: angst

info: heavily inspired by greek mythology but not quite greek mythology (eurydice and orpheus)

warnings: mentions of death

synopsis: he ventured into the realm for the dead, only for you.

word count: 3.6k

au-gust 2021 masterlist is here.

Nozel Silva

The Realm Below was cold.

Nozel has heard countless stories of it from the mouths and recollections of many, both mortal and divine alike, but the realm that he stepped into was completely different from what he gleaned from all his years as a member of an audience. The ground beneath his feet was solid, against his expectation. As he walked, there were sounds akin to gravel and sand shifting underneath his soles, and he felt the slightest bit – comforted? Relieved? – by the familiarity of it.

In all the retellings of the Realm Below that he had the pleasure of listening to, none of them had mentioned the strange mist that permeated the place.

The mist painted everything within his vision, and it was viscous. It felt like he was between wakefulness and the deepest part of a dream, and so he walked onward into the darkness with trepidation. It was likely that the mist that was made the Realm Below cold too.

Nozel could swear that the mist was damp, as mists should be, but it was a type of dampness that angered him. It seeped into his skin and down into his bones, entirely bypassing the layer of protection that was made up of his clothing. He ran a hand over his opposite forearm to feel for anything that would have made the Realm Below feel as real as it looked and sounded, and he did not find it.

When he exhaled, his breath condensed and formed a pale, skittish cloud, and he was glad for it. Finally, something about the realm where the dead found their rest fell in line with his knowledge of the world as one still living and breathing.

The mist shifted around Nozel as he advanced further in and deeper down from where the land of the living met the Realm Below. Shadows pursued the mist hotly, shaping themselves around it as if to make themselves a concealed thing in comparison to it. Other than the crunch of the pleasantly tangible ground under his sandals, the place was silent. He could hardly make out even the sound of his own breathing in the darkness that seemed to grow more and more hollow.

Eventually, he came to a door larger than any door he has ever seen. The closer he went, the larger the door seemed, looming over him.

He raised his fist to the door and knocked, three sharp raps that echoed into the seemingly endless darkness, and he waited. When there was no response from the other side, Nozel raised his hand once more, his knuckles striking the rough surface of the door three times. He would have thought to grab onto the ridges carved into the door – an adornment of sorts, he supposed – but a long, lazy creak stopped him.

The sound bounced all around him, and the darkness stretched on.

The ridges on the surface of the door moved at an agonisingly slow pace, and Nozel found himself feeling impatient despite having not seen anything like this before. It was magic that moved them. Despite his keen interest in all manner of knowledge and secrets divine, this was one such moment where he did not have the time to satisfy curiosity.

After all, he had a purpose for intruding on a realm that was rightfully beyond him and the years that he has lived.

The ridges trudged along the uneven surface of the door, a pace that moved like snails on a particularly torrid summer. Though he might perceive the dillydallying nature of the magic that worked on the door as lateness, he could not do anything to fix it.

The gods had their personal clocks to account for the times, just as he had his.

The door began to spiral, shrinking in on itself as it rose to the lintel where the ridges had settled. When the door had receded enough for him to pass under it, Nozel walked. When his feet first land over the threshold, a grey light that was more mist than light gathered from the nothingness around it and hovered within an arm’s length of him.

His name was called by a voice that was not of a mortal, and he knew that his presence in the Realm Below had been duly noted by its sovereign.

Good.

It was not a name that he used any longer. That his intrusion was not an affront to the king of the Realm Below assured him that it was his name and his claim to his mother’s divinity that swayed the god to give him some time in this place where he did not belong.

The wisp of light started moving into the darkness ahead of it, and Nozel followed. It seemed to know where he wanted to go, choosing to veer left instead of right and choosing this route over the alternatives at several junctions where there was more than one way to go.

The further into the Realm Beyond he ventured, the colder he felt. His lungs were more laboured on this slow walk he took than on any training session or any battle he fought. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if the mist was siphoning his life force from him as he unflinchingly carried on.

Nozel reached under the collar of his shirt and grabbed onto the pendant hanging from the chain around his neck. He had a purpose for being here before his time, after all.

The imperfection of the walls around him and the ground below him righted themselves as he walked, the walls starting to become smooth and brandish décor while the ground ceased its crunching under the soles of his sandals. There were ornaments and sculptures lined up along the walls at the end of his vision. The wisp of light gave a trill suddenly, a signal to him that he was due to arrive.

The throne room of a god was before him.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a step into the room at the end of the hallway. The wisp trilled again, and then dissipated into nothing the same way it came into being, languid, as time was of no object when the object was death.

Nozel followed what appeared to be a carpet of furs with his eyes, going straight ahead of him and travelling up a steep set of stairs to an ornate throne that was disappointingly bare. Grasping the pendant around his neck once more and then letting go, he recited the lengthy speech he had written down in preparation for when the sovereign who belonged to the throne would appear.

The mist thickened around him, and he felt his breath catch in his too-dry throat.

The king of the Realm Below was here.

In a moment of daring, he lifted his eyes from the foot of the throne to meet the face of the one who had emerged from the shapeless darkness to take their seat.

“You are no king,” he said, finding his voice as though it had been lost.

The one who had a form like a woman seated on the throne high above where he stood moved to cross her legs, and she laughed. It was a sound of no substance, much like the life-stealing mist that surrounded the realm and much like the formless darkness that spanned eternities.

“Mortal child, I am the king,” the throne-claimer said, stretching out on the seat that was much too wide for her like a domesticated feline would lounge in a patch of sun.

Nozel kept his mouth shut for fear of offending this so-called king a second time.

The king leaned forward to rest her cheek in her palm, scrutinising him. He remained a statue as time marched on, though he did not know how time moved in this place. Only the flutter of his lashes was his movement. On his chest, the pendant seemed to grow colder with the caress of the mist.

“It has been a while since I had the pleasure to witness the audacity of man,” the king said.

She righted her posture, uncrossed her legs with leisure. It was as though he were a jester who was summoned to the throne room to amuse her. At this thought, Nozel’s anger flared, but he painstakingly kept his fists loose and his jaw relaxed.

“Come, child. I have decided that I am pleased with you.”

The king gestured for him to approach the throne with the flick of a finger. Before he could move his feet, the mist solidified to his limbs and whisked him over the long carpet and up the stairs to stand at a distance from the throne that was too intimate for his liking. Even his mortal father who has a throne did not permit him this close, and he was the firstborn son.

If the king of the Realm Below is pleased with him, then he ought to speak his mind before she had the opportunity to change hers.

“I do not come to plead. And I do not come to make demands,” he said.

The king laughed, and it was the same empty sound from earlier. Her laughter was loud, but the darkness was louder, ravenously swallowing it as soon as it left her lips.

Nozel stood, still, quiet. He would have liked to put his hand around the pendant hanging from his neck, but it would not do if he lost it to the whims of a god, so he decided against it.

“Then what did you come for, son of Acier? Do you burn with the desire to dance for the one who presides over the dead? To regale a king with song? To speak poetry and attempt to convince a god that your mortal words are divine?” the king asked, and within the crevice that was a smile on her face, he caught a glimpse of rows and rows of teeth like sharpened blades.

His hand betrayed him and found the pendant in spite of his effort to do otherwise. Pushing that aside for now, Nozel said, “None of that. I come to make a deal.”

The king’s eyes were pulled to his right hand like a moth to a flame, and he inwardly cursed. He slowly opened the fist he had formed around the pendant and let his arm come back to his side.

To his relief, the king did not breathe a word about his show of vulnerability. Instead, she said, “Name your prize. And your consequence.”

“My prize is the life of my beloved,” he said.

Immediately, the king’s eyes lit up, though the darkness and the mist and the impending weakness in his bones made it difficult to ascertain it. The curl to her lips was more prominent than ever, but he steeled his resolve: “I leave my consequence in your hands.”

The silence devoured the entire room in one bite. Nozel’s ears felt as though they have been clogged with water. In the lack of verbal response from the king, he exhaled slowly, and the air that left him was tinged with something akin to regret.

The king reclined into the backrest of the throne, and she put a finger to her chin in a pose that told him she might be deep in thought. Her lips were crooked still and her eyes alight, and Nozel knew she was mocking him.

It was either that she was mocking him, or that she was trying his patience. Neither of the two possibilities appealed to him, and he swallowed the emptiness in his mouth to avoid saying anything that might offend the king.

Eventually, the king spoke. “Very well. I, however, have a condition.”

At the back of his mind, he could hear his mother’s counsel – and her warnings. That gods were fickle and difficult. That he should not trust them over what he could with his own hands and strength. After all, she knew the nature of the divine better than he did, being numbered as one among them while he was not.

Louder than the gentle voice of his mother were the bards who sang at your funeral and the mourners who cried. In yet another moment of weakness – and of recklessness – that he could not stop before it claimed him, Nozel took the bait that the king of the Realm Below was offering him.

“Name it,” he said, desperate but wishing that it did not come across as such.

He would know, in time, if the bait was rotten.

The king laughed, but the sound was fuller this time. Raucous it was to his ears. A grating sound like that would normally have irritated him. However, the king’s laughter seemed to drain the breath from his lungs, and he attempted to remedy it by breathing in and then breathing out.

In the midst of this unsettling bout of laughter, the king said, “Turn and walk back the way you came, son of Acier. Your prize awaits you beyond the reach of my domain.”

The king’s condition was a bold-faced attempt at deceit. To leave now would be to utterly fail. He had come to a realm where he was not welcome and where he was not needed to have you back from the death that swooped in to grab you too early. Failure at a critical junction such as this was simply not an option.

“There is more,” he said, tempting the god of the realm of the dead to speak.

The king merely laughed again, and it was the hollow sound that he had become accustomed to. “Son of Acier, your task is simple: walk back to the land of the living. Walk. Without turning your head to the left or the right. Without looking back. Without doubting.”

Nozel opened his mouth to speak. A panic seized him when he felt that he could not draw in breath to give shape to his words. Knowingly, the king extended her hand in his direction with her palm facing up.

With one final laugh, she summoned a grey wisp in the centre of her palm with the instruction: “Now, go.”

When he came to – when did he fall asleep? How could he afford to sleep when he still had not accomplished the one thing he had set out for? – he was at the door that was adorned with the ridges. Nozel placed his hand on the door to steady himself as he rose from the ground, dusting himself off though he did not feel the grittiness of it sticking to his clothing.

The grey wisp of light was hovering near his head, and it opened what looked to be a mouth to repeat the words of the king. “From here forth, walk,” said the voice. “Walk without turning your head to the left or the right. Without looking behind you and casting your eyes where I am or where you came from. Walk without doubting. Walk without fear. Your beloved is but three paces behind you.”

Once the message had been delivered, the grey wisp fell prey to the starving, damp darkness. Choosing to hope, Nozel did as he was bidden.

With the door to the home of the king of the realm behind him – and you, too – he walked. The grind of the soles of his sandals against the almost familiarly rough ground comforted him as he returned the way he came.

He tried calling your name so that it would be easier for you to walk with him – did you know where he was going? Did you know to fall in step with him? – but the syllables of your name were broken when he spoke them.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Y/N. Please–”

He wanted to remind you to match his pace. He wanted to tell you to be careful on this irregular and dusty ground. He wanted to make sure you heard him.

None of those things formed on his tongue.

Instead, he was recounting how hateful your funeral was for him, and that despite the lengths he went to ensure that it would be an event to your liking if you could approve. How the food was worse than mediocre and that he was surely unbiased simply because your preferences differed greatly from his. How the bards had sung themselves hoarse and the mourners too, even beyond the hours they were salaried because the wine was free.

His nose was stuffy by the time he was babbling about better times. Before you were taken by a young and arrogant and hot-blooded god who coveted your virtue and your beauty for their own.

Nozel stopped speaking as his own description of the god who stole you from the living dawned on him. ‘Young and arrogant and hot-blooded’, he had said. And he laughed and laughed and laughed, pretending that you were joining in with a chorus of your own making.

Once upon a time, you would have used the same words to describe him.

“My love, it has been too long,” he said, rubbing at the sticky trails left in the wake of his tears. “I have missed you so very terribly.”

The things that were like gravel and sand continued to be ground under his sandals. This was this sound that he tuned his ears to when he had to pause to mentally grasp for words to fill in the unsettling quiet. It was more difficult than he anticipated, already accustomed to you covering this particular weakness of his, though he did not admit to anyone.

Nozel would have given everything he had to hear your sweet voice amidst the mist and the looming darkness.

The winding spiral of stairs that bridged the realm of the living from the realm of the dead came into view, splotches of sun coming in earnestly and being eaten up by the shadows that waited.

“Please be careful when you walk, Y/N. This set of stairs comes without any safety implements.”

He advanced up the stairs with a patience that he would have considered sluggishness in any other situation. Stopping at every third step, he waited for you and listened. For the sound of gravel as you walked. For the sound of breath being drawn into lungs that were alive and functioning and well. For anything that might assure him the god of the Realm Below had not swindled him.

There was no such sound.

In spite of it, he continued, still waiting and still hoping, but growing less trusting. Still waiting and still hoping, but feeling his bones start to well up with the bitterness of fear.

The blots of sunlight wove together as he approached the realm of the living. When a full ray of sun hit him in the eye, he was blind for a moment, crying out nothing other than your name. His vision was restored to him without haste, and he blinked several times to confirm the fact before he said, “My love, the light might be too harsh for you. If you would–”

There was a sound from behind him.

Nozel instantly lunged three steps below to where you stood, and he threw his arms around to keep you from falling.

“Silly me,” you said, smiling the way he remembered but it did not reach your eyes. He did not have any words to express the utter relief that coursed through him to have you in his arms once again, so he pressed his lips shut tightly, securely. Saying nothing was better than saying the wrong thing, or crying.

He did not want the first time you could lay your eyes on him again to show an image of him red in the face and sticky with tears.

“It’s good that you’re here to catch me, Nozel,” you said, and he could feel every fibre of his being come alive under the dearly missed warmth of your hands on his back. “I’m so happy to see you again.”

“Y/N, let’s go home,” he said, more desperate than ever.

As soon as he spoke, he could feel your weight in his arms dissipating. You were smiling still but there was a telltale glimmer of tears in your eyes, and he knew you could feel it also. The colour of your skin quickly became infected with the kiss of death. His only appropriate act of service for you now was to watch you and to hold you tight so that you would not be alone the second time you died.

Nozel buried his face into your cheek and whispered his apologies, over and over.

It was his fault that you had to die again.

Your hands on his back were still present and still warm, and so he repeated his offering of remorse into your ears as a prayer to which you were the only one with the answer. He refused to cry, but his tears fell hotly down his face regardless of how he willed them away.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, your voice starting to get lost within the darkness. In his arms, you began to resemble this hateful mist, wispy and weightless.

“I was the one who failed, my love. It is my fault–”

“No, it’s the fault of the god who tested you,” you said, and to his ears, you were drowning and he could not do anything to pull you out of the deep water. “Go, live long and be happy. I’ll meet you again when the time is right–”

#black clover #black clover scenarios #black clover x reader #nozel silva #nozel silva x reader #fic #angst #event: au-gust 2021 #kaija writes #kaija writes: black clover #happy new year!#celebrate with some angst maybe #this was the prompt that i was most excited about #and i agonised about this piece for ages #but here it is

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cowandcalf · 3 years ago

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Summary: At this moment, Steve realizes the change of scenery around the stained can of gun oil. A few twigs with lovey, creamy blossoms from a Plumeria have been placed in a water glass next to the old metal can. It's arranged like a still life on a painting. It shows caring, protectiveness even. The sight ups Steve's heartbeat. He turns around. There's too much happening in the pit of his stomach he can't process.

Flowers. Christmas. Sitting around with a booboo. And now this.

#h50 #mcdanno #fic rec #mcdanno fic rec #prompt fill #au gust 2021 #i‘m late but i‘ll write it anyway #multi chapter #wip #not finished yet but the pressure helps to keep going #cowandcalf writes #picture from the internet #my artwork

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septimusheapevents · 3 years ago

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AU-Gust 2021 Prompts

The prompts for 2021 AU-Gust are complete! Thank you to the one person who submitted a prompt.

Remember, these prompts can be interpreted in any way, and you can create anything, from a doodle on a sticky note to a 30k fic. You are not required to participate in all of the days, nor are you required to post in any particular order.

Please tag all posts with #AU-Gust 2021 and mention @septimusheapevents in order to have your post reblogged. Please DO NOT submit anything before the 1st of August, but after that you can post at any time. However, no posts will be reblogged after August 31st.

And most importantly, have fun!! All questions can be directed to our ask box.

#AU-Gust #AU-Gust 2021 #septimus heap #todhunter moon #septimus heap events #fandom events #prompts

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sevensistersofsussex · 3 years ago

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The Many Shadows of a Woman

31 One-Shots based on the 2021 AU-gust Prompt List

Pairings include: Klaus x Elena, Elijah x Elena, Kol x Elena, Finn x Elena, Rebekah x Elena, Tyler x Elena, and Bonnie x Elena

Read here or here

#Klaus Mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #finn mikaelson #kol mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #tyler lockwood #bonnie bennett #elena gilbert #elena centric #tvd fanfiction #one-shots #au gust 2021 #writing prompts #exhausted #now I'll go sleep

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pepperf · 3 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (TV) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Diego Hargreeves/Lila Pitts Characters: Diego Hargreeves, Lila Pitts Additional Tags: AU-gust 2021, prompt no 14: chefs Summary:

In another life, Diego thinks he might have put his knife skills to a different use. Circus act, maybe. Assassin. TV survivalist guru. But he likes to think that, in this life, he's chosen the best one of all: chef.

#diego hargreeves #lila pitts #diego/lila #dielila #tua #the umbrella academy #fic by pepper #tua fanfic #au-gust 2021 #prompt no 14: chefs

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augustwritingchallenge · 3 years ago

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And we are back! The 2021 AU-gust prompt list is here! Go on and spread the word!

What is AU-gust? It stands for Alternate Universe August, and it is a creative challenge for everyone. Writers, artists, fans, anyone can join! Be sure to check out our FAQ for more answers! Join us on Twitter, AO3 and under the tags #AU_gust and #AU_gust_2021.

Special thanks to fishrains for the beautiful graphics!

[Image ID: 31 days challenge prompt list as follows: 1 Ancient Gods, 2 Exotic Vacation, 3 Hipsters, 4 Dancing, 5 Science Fiction, 6 Gaming, 7 Beekeeper, 8 Character Swap, 9 Roommates, 10 Utopia, 11 Summer Camp, 12 Fairy Tale, 13 Bad Horror Movie, 14 Chefs, 15 Crossover, 16 Hippies, 17 Wings, 18 Pirate, 19 Daemons, 20 Dystopia, 21 Soulmates, 22 Theatre, 23 Historical Fantasy, 24 Gangs, 25 Time Travel, 26 School of Magic, 27 Royalty, 28 Werewolf, 29 Pretend Relationship, 30 The Day the World Died, 31 Any two of the above. You have three Jokers: Norse Mythology, Fantasy, Arranged Marriage]

#fanfiction #fandom #writing #writing challenge #au #alternate universe #fan events #AU_gust_2021 #AU_gust

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lathalea · 3 years ago

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Day 2: Warm

Here's another fic for the Writer’s Month 2021 challenge (see @writersmonth for more info). How about some fluffy Bardfur with a pinch of Metal AU?

I wrote this fic for @theresonlyzuul. If you want to know where I got my inspiration for the Metal AU, check out their art account @geetimesthree while you’re at it, you'll find lots of amazing art there, including Metal Bofur wearing pink Doc Martens 💕 Enjoy!

Today's prompt: word: cold | setting: coffeeshop AU

Fandom: The Hobbit Relationships: Bard x Bofur Warnings: some fluff and tons of delicious apple pie As usual, you can read this fic here and on AO3. * * *

Day 2: Warm

Bard was cold. Scratch that, he was freezing, and he had a feeling that his nose was just about to freeze off his face. That awful icy rain accompanied by chilling gusts of wind made him recall why late November was definitely not his favourite time of the year. In retrospect, sailing out to the lake on a day like this was not the cleverest of his ideas, but Sigrid was so excited about that new fish stew recipe she’d found somewhere on the Internet, he couldn’t say no to her. Unfortunately, the fish were equally fond of the weather as he was, and so Bard gave up in the early hours of the afternoon and docked at the pier empty-handed.

With a groan, he turned the collar of his jacket up against the wind and let his feet carry him to the place he’d usually stop by after a day at the lake. The sign above the entrance said Bombur’s Coffee Shop, but the truth was the place looked as if a heavy metal pub and a roadside diner had a love child. The owner baked mean apple pies though, and his cousin, Bifur, was an excellent barista. But that was not the reason, or at least not the main reason, why Bard would visit that place so often.

The interior was dimly lit, creating a cozy atmosphere. The mouth-watering smell of cinnamon and freshly baked pastries filled Bard’s nostrils as soon as he entered.

“Ahoy there!” a friendly voice called out from behind the bar.

“Hi, Bofur, what’s on the menu today?” Bard spoke, and then, as usual, cursed himself inwardly. That was it. The longest sentence he was able to speak to that brown-eyed man in his signature hat without awkwardly stumbling over the words.

“It seems like a proper slice of our apple pie straight from the oven with a generous dollop of whipped cream is what you are needin’ right now,” Bofur smiled widely, sending him a friendly wink. For Bard, on a day like this, that smile was like condensed sunshine, even though with that floppy-eared hat of his, tattoos, and a mandatory black t-shirt with a metal band logo Bofur looked more like a motorcycle gang member than a friendly neighborhood bartender.

“Sounds great,” Bard nodded and sat down at his usual place at the bar, earning a thumbs up from the aforementioned friendly neighborhood bartender who not only sported the most playful moustache in town, but also proudly wore the pinkest pair of Doc Martens he had ever seen. That was Bofur in a nutshell: like rum chocolate with raisins and nuts, each little chunk completely surprising. A much-needed spark of cheerful chaos in Bard’s orderly life. He grinned, but, yet again, there was no clever retort he could offer.

“We’ll have you warmed up in no time!” Bofur assured him and entered the kitchen door, “Oy! Bif! Come on here, Bard is in dire need of yer coffee!”

Bard sighed. He was a successful businessman, a father raising his three teenage kids on his own, a city council member used to public speaking, and yet, somehow, around that man, his words failed him every single time. But he would still return to Bombur’s again and again. It felt homely. Friendly. What's more, Bofur was there too, always grinning cheerfully, always offering him just the right thing: food, drink, or a conversation. And with time, the thin line between a bartender and a friend started becoming more and more blurry.

“Here ye go!” a plate with a generous slice of pie along with a large cup of coffee materialized in front of him.

Bard muttered a “thank you” and tried to focus on the food and not on Bofur’s broad hands, nor on his calloused, steady fingers, not on the wide black ring he wore. He tried not to wonder why one of the bartender’s nails was broken, and why all of them were covered with black nail polish. It all suited him somehow. The fingers of Bard’s left hand danced on the polished surface of the bar, dangerously close to the place where Bofur’s hand had been just moments ago.

The apple pie tasted good, and it pleasantly warmed Bard’s belly as he listened to Bofur’s usual talk; this time he was speaking of his friend’s teenage nephews and their failed attempts at ice skating on the thin ice that slowly started covering the lake. Bard chuckled in all the right moments and shook his head when the story got a bit more serious only to burst out in laughter at the end.

“Ye are laughin’ with your mouth only,” Bofur pointed at him with a towel he was drying the coffee cups with.

“What?” Bard frowned.

“Yer eyes aren’t laughing, Bard. What’s eatin’ ye?”

“Ah, nothing,” he tried to dismiss it, but Bofur wouldn’t have any of it.

“That has to be a big nothing since you’ve never said anything about the pie!”

“What about it?” Bard frowned, realizing that his plate was almost empty.

“New recipe! There are lingonberries in it! Yer favourite!” At this point, Bofur sounded almost offended.

“I have a lot on my mind,” he mumbled apologetically, eyeing the lonely red berry on his plate.

“Work? Kids?” Bofur leaned on the bar, while his eyes searched Bard’s face with unmistakable concern.

“Both. Don’t mind me,” Bard admitted, trying to avoid Bofur’s gaze. “I guess I’m just tired.”

“Well,” Bofur scratched his head, tilting his hat in the process. “I can’t do much about those two first things, but the last one… how ‘bout a fishing trip first thing tomorrow morning?”

“Excuse me?” Bard gasped. He was working on finding an opportunity to spend some time with this kind-eyed guy for months now, somewhere where they could just be themselves, not a councilman and a bartender, but Bard and Bofur, getting to know each other better, trying to figure out whether there was something more to it, and what exactly that “it” was, and there it happened, just like that, completely out of the blue.

“Fish bite best in the morning, y’know, and it’s goin’ to be a lovely November day. Ye need to relax, Bard, even a blind man could see it! Ye are as tense as a nun in a brothel!” Bofur punctuated each of his sentences producing a loud clank of yet another clean coffee cup placed firmly on a tray.

“Oh, well, I…” Tomorrow. Fishing. With Bofur. Bard desperately needed words, the right words, but his mind protested.

“Okay, okay, I get it, no worries,” Bofur waved his hands dismissively,

“Ye have probably more interesting things to do on a Saturday than listening to my prattling all day long.”

“No! It’s not like that!” Bard protested, quickly getting up from his stool. “I’d love to! Let us take my boat, I can show you my favourite fishing spots, and then you can tell me all about Fili and Kili’s latest mischief!”

Words. He had finally found them. And he wasn’t planning on losing them again.

“Are ye sure?” Bofur eyed him intently.

“Take some of that apple pie with you and be at the pier at 6:00 am,” Bard decided, leaving several bills on the bar and putting on his coat.

“Aye aye, capt’n!” Bofur made a mock salute. “I’ll be there! And I’ll bring a thermos of Bifur’s best coffee, too!”

Bard left the coffee shop with a grin and a large piece of apple pie for his kids. Even though the freezing rain attacked his face without mercy, he didn’t care. For the first time in ages, Bard was no longer cold. * * * Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it!

Fell like reading more? Here is my masterlist for the Writer's Month 2021 event. Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @amelia307 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @justfollowtheroad @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @tschrist1 @nelleedraws @beenovel @vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry

#writersmonth2021 #bofur #bard #bardfur #bofur x bard #coffee shop au #metal au #bofur wears doc martens and it's canon #the hobbit #the hobbit fic #bofur fic #bard the bowman #fanfic #fanfiction #modern au #middle earth fanfic #doc martens

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pinkoptics · 3 years ago

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AU-gust 2021 Prompts

2. Exotic Vacation

@augustwritingchallenge

Cherik. Modern AU. Still have powers. Mutant Husbands on vacation. Silliness. This is pure silliness. I don’t even know guys. 🤷🏼‍♀️

892 words

“It’s staring at me.”

“It’s not staring at you.”

“It’s staring at me.”

“It’s not staring at you.”

“It is. It’s staring at me.”

Charles put down his book and looked directly, for the first time, at the ‘starer’ in question. Then, he looked sideways at the ‘staree’. “Erik, it’s not staring at you.” He picked his book back up, eyes searching for the line he’d left off on.

“You’re not taking this seriously. It’s plotting. It’s plotting our demise right at this very moment.”

Charles sighed, internally, and placed his bookmark securely in the crease, abandoning the adventures of wizards and elves for another time.

Erik was still talking. “It’s four beady little eyes are boring into my soul. It’s waiting for us to go to sleep. Then we will meet our venomous ends.” He was dead serious.

“More likely eight.”

“What?”

“More likely eight eyes. Most spiders have eight.”

This time it was Erik who looked sideways at him, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you for that, Professor Xavier. How does this help us?”

“I’m a geneticist, not an arachnologist.”

“Only you would know that word.”

“Entomologist, then?”

“Only you would know that word too.”

“Bug scientist?”

“Better.”

“Regardless of my qualifications or lack thereof, I hardly know what you expect me to do about it.”

Erik’s brow creased more deeply than it already was. Clearly, he didn’t know either. The spider in question was large, at least the size of his palm, fuzzy. The sort you’d never find in the continental United States. Only tropical places, like this one, and maybe Australia. Not one you could easily smoosh under your shoe or place a cup over and release back into the wild.

“Besides, it means us no harm.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “You never think anyone means us any harm no matter how many times humans prove otherwise.”

Charles thought about taking the bait. A political argument was likely to distract his husband from the spider idly hanging out in the top corner of the room. However… he’d also just learned that the famed agitator and rebel with a cause, otherwise known as Magneto, was afraid of spiders. There was no way he wasn’t going to have fun with that. He adopted his most obnoxiously arrogant, professorial tone. “I know for a fact it means us no harm.”

“Enlighten me.”

Charles sighed deeply, as if being put upon by someone deeply stupid. “My mutation is…”

“Telep— no, no. You are not suggesting that you can read that spider’s mind.”

“That’s precisely what I’m suggesting.”

“I would think, in all the years we’ve known each other, that I would have noticed if you could read animal minds.”

“Arachnid minds— .”

Erik growled.

“ —Also, he’s rather wondering why it is you’re staring so intently at him, if you must know.”

Erik pounced. On Charles, not the spider. His copy of Fellowship of the Ring skidded off the bed and onto the floor. Despite the loud bang it produced, the spider remained nonplussed and unmoving.

“You’re not serious.”

“While you’ve been falsely accusing him of murderous thoughts, he’s been contemplating a making a meal of the large frogs that have been hopping in and out of here anytime we open the door.”

The look of sheer horror on Erik’s face was a thing of beauty. “You take that back.”

“A scientific fact?”

“I don’t accept it. I will not be able to sleep tonight if I accept it. I will not be able to fuck you senseless in this bed tonight if I accept it.”

It was Charles’ turn to look horrified.

“Well then. It’s docile, it spins pretty webs to catch nothing larger than teeny flies and wishes us a very, very pleasant evening.”

Erik dropped his head and groaned. “If there is anything I do know it’s that this spider does not care about our sex life, this is the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever had, and if you could read it’s mind, you could convince it to go away.”

The spider, who had not moved even one of its eight legs for more than 30 minutes, began scuttling in the direction of the door that opened to the ocean vista behind it.

“Shall I let the little fellow out?”

Erik moved his head from where it was buried in Charles’ shoulder and looked back.

“Oh no. No no no. This is a coincidence. This is a fucking coincidence. You are absolutely not controlling that spider.”

Charles grinned, kissed Erik’s cheek, gently shoved him off and made his way to the door. He slid it open with a slight flourish and the spider skittered out. Charles stuck his head into the evening air and gave a little wave. “Goodbye Arnold.”

“I hate you.”

Charles closed the door behind him. “There, darling, you’re safe now. No more big, scary spiders.”

“I really hate you.” Erik flopped back and buried his head under a pillow.

“Is that so?”

Charles slid back into the bed and proceeded to prove, in several different ways, why Erik did not hate him, not even a little.

At least, not until months later, vacation long over and securely back home in New York City, when a photo of a spider who looked very much like Arnold the Arachnid somehow found its way into Erik’s sock drawer.

#cherik #cherik fan fic #cherik fanfic #augustwritingchallenge #au_gust #pinkoptics fic

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gerec · 3 years ago

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AU-gust 2021 Prompts

1. Ancient Gods AU - Part 3 of 5

Part 1 Part 2

Greek mythology au; inspired by the myth of Medusa. No warnings in this part.

-----

Erik watched as the man half-walked, half-stumbled his way into his home, before he managed to grab hold of the cavern wall and let out a sigh of relief. The man was handsome and quite young – as young as Erik had been before the change; before the White Queen had transformed him from man to monster. It had been fifty years and Erik had not aged a single day, though it was mortal blood that yet ran through his veins. And he had not seen or spoken to another since that fateful day at the temple, for all who sought him meant to kill him, and Erik was only too eager to repay them in kind.

He slithered closer – slithered, for the bottom half of his body now resembled that of a giant serpent, matching the snakes that sprung as hair from his head. And yet it was not these features which truly made him monstrous to behold, for they did nothing more than elicit fear from the intruders who came calling. No, it was his eyes which held the power of death, for all he gazed upon would turn entirely to stone.

It was a pity, that yet another had chosen such an ignominious fate.

As the man drew closer, Erik could see that a blindfold covered his eyes, and almost smiled at the cleverness that had so eluded the others. He was not afraid, for his gaze was not his only weapon; Erik’s aim with the bow could easily pierce his heart from a hundred paces. But he was curious that the stranger seemed to carry no sword or dagger; how then could he have hoped to best Erik and win?

“Hello? Is anyone there?” the man said, before he walked into an outstretched arm and nearly stumbled to the ground. He managed to right himself, grabbing hold of the stone limb, and recognizing its shape, proceeded to map the outline of the figure with his fingers.

“A statue?” he murmured under his breath, and then he pitched his voice louder and took another step. “I apologize for intruding, and for any damage I might have caused to your sculpture, friend.”

Erik laughed and the man immediately stilled, turning in his direction, though he made no move to attack or to hide himself in fear. He knew that his voice mirrored the susurrus song of the snakes on his head, and marveled at the stranger’s seeming courage in the face of certain danger. “It is no statue, but all that remains of a foolish man.” Then he added, “And you are not my friend.”

The stranger hesitated when he realized the meaning of Erik’s words – and the true nature of the stone ‘statue’ – and yet he still offered a rueful smile. “Not a friend then, but not an enemy either,” the man said, raising his hands in supplication as he took another step forward. “I seek your council, and your help, for I have been given a task that I am loathe to complete.”

“There is only ever one task, for those who seek this lair,” Erik hissed. “You have come for my head.”

“Please.” The stranger’s voice did not waver, though Erik could smell his fear and clearly see the tension in his shoulders. “I want only to save my mother from an unwanted suitor. He is a powerful and brutal man, the King of Seriphus, and will not leave her be unless I deliver his stated recompense.”

Since that night at the temple, Erik’s heart knew only bitterness and anger, for all that he was – his humanity, and his capacity for love – had been burned away by loneliness and pain. And so, he was surprised by the new emotions stirring in his heart; pity for the stranger’s mother, and great sadness for them both. It was cruel injustice, in an unjust world, that the powerful should be allowed to prey on the weak, and the weak made to suffer.

Perhaps, Erik could do something to alter their fate, the way he wished his own had been changed.

“Did your King ask that you bring him only the Gorgon’s head? Did he dictate that the head must be cleaved from the body?”

The man frowned. “He gave no conditions, for he believed that I would die on the journey here.”

Erik snorted. “Indeed. It’s a surprise you’ve made it this far, with nary a shield upon your back. Are you so eager to die, stranger? That you readily agreed to such a foolhardy mission?”

“No.” The man’s voice was gentle and warm, filled with none of the heat and bravado of the so called ‘heroes’ who had perished in Erik’s wake. Up close, he could discern no scars on the stranger’s body or callouses on his hands; he seemed to Erik more akin to a scholar than a fighter.

“Not eager, though I am not afraid of death. My mother saved me as an infant when I might have perished in the sea, and has loved me every day hence. I would do anything – sacrifice everything – to ensure her happiness.”

“Then I will help you,” Erik answered, though he interjected before the man could stammer his thanks. “I will journey with you to Seriphus, and bring my own head to your King so that you may fulfill your promise. In return…you will willingly look upon my face, stranger, and join me here for eternity, in undeath. What say you?”

Erik expected the man to refuse, to beg for mercy or offer gold and other riches to try and sway him from his demand. But yet again the stranger surprised him with merely a sad smile. “My name is Charles,” he said, “and I accept your offer.”

#gerec writes #cherik #ancient gods au #medusa au #au-gust 2021 #greek mythology au #part 3

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written-by-ariddletobesolved · 3 years ago

Text

conceal, but feel.

Rated G

Hans and Elsa partnered up in Strictly Come Dancing. Based on an AU-gust prompt for day 3: Dance. Could easily pass as a submission for Helsa Week 2021 day 2: Soulmate. Sorry if it seems rushed. The soulmate prompt: warm when near, cold when apart.

—

Conceal, don't feel.

She repeats the mantra over and over inside her head. It has become her new routine ever since she joined this talent show. Performing in front of people hasn't really been a huge problem for her, being a West End star and all, but when there's a certain someone who slowly but surely gets under her skin? Goodness, she would need all the luck she could get.

They might get off on the wrong foot when they first met, but it isn't the reason why she can't get him out of her head. It's another side of him she didn't know existed. That and, what her sister Anna likes to point out every time she drops her off to the studio, the tension (complete with stars emojis if we want to properly quote the younger sister).

But the past few days, she begins to notice a slight change in their dynamics, and not just them as dancing partners. The usual annoyance for him slightly recedes after he got sick, and after learning that he lives on his own, Anna suggested that she should probably pay him a visit. Seeing the vulnerable side of him makes her realise something. She actually enjoys his company more than she likes to admit, and that they both struggle with a similar thing.

However, when he placed his hand on her waist, or earlier when he subtly pressed a kiss on the exposed skin of her neck when they were practicing (they did a Rumba that week)—good Lord, were his lips really touching her?—those gestures are enough to make her stomach flutter with something like an excitement.

What was that? She wonders.

Conceal, don't feel.

The close proximity, every time they're around each other, sparks some heat, and she feels like burning. But the moment they walk away from each other, the heat slowly leaves her body and the familiar cold resides.

Does this mean—no, she quickly stops, it's just a silly story mother told us. Or is it?

"Elsa?"

At the mention of her name, she stops packing and turns to her dancing partner. He looks so dashing in his dark blue jacket, this Elsa has to admit, and his emerald eyes are gazing at her with comfort. The look on his face is nothing like on the first day when they got partnered up. He doesn't look so smug or full of himself. Instead, he looks so relaxed and calm, something she has seen more frequently now.

"Yes?"

He takes a step closer, hands inside his pockets. Their height differences seem visible now, especially since she has traded her heeled shoes for a more comfortable pair of loafers, as she is ready to go home.

"I," he pauses, and Elsa tilts her head to the side. It's not everyday she finds him this nervous. If anything, this man seems to always know what to do all the time. But she remains silent. Maybe it's not the right time for a banter.

"You know, there's a good coffee shop near the dance studio that I think you might like. Maybe we can, or you can go there and grab some coffee before the rehearsal."

Conceal, don't feel.

But before she can reply, he quickly adds, "Or I can grab some coffee for you. Not that I was telling you to go grab some for us. I know that's more like my job,"

She finds his rambling amusing, and the fact that he is trying to hide it still actually helps her to loosen up. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Besides, if things don't work out, she can pretend nothing happened, just like she usually does. She is good at pretending.

Conceal, but feel.

"Sure."

He stops for a second, raising his eyebrow in something like disbelief. He seems trying to hide his excitement, as he nods and says, "Great! Does tomorrow at ten sound good?"

"Yes," she replies, and when is about to turn back, she calls, "and Hans?"

"Ja?"

"Try not to spill some, this time."

"Look, if it's about your mother's Gucci bag."

Elsa grins, taking him by surprise. "It's not, don't worry. Just relax, Hans, I'll see you tomorrow."

He breathes in relief. Composing himself, he flashes her a smile. "See you."

If she wants to be honest, she is not really sure about his intentions, but without denying the chemistry between them, Elsa is willing to give him a chance. Who knows, maybe something good will come out of it.

#helsa #helsa fanfiction #elsa x hans #iceburns #queen elsa #prince hans #frozen #ariddletobesolved #mary's writing

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purpleqilinwrites · 3 years ago

Text

this shade of blue.

a/n: semi is the lead singer of a band here and i leave it to you to imagine his genre (just don’t imagine country), and you’re an actor because reasons. for day 29 of au-gust 2021. prompt: pretend relationship.

fandom: haikyuu!!

character: semi eita

genre: fluff

info: post-time skip; canon-divergent; semi is a musician; you're an actor; fake dating

warnings: -

synopsis: he likes the blue of his concert tee on you a little too much.

word count: 2.5k

au-gust 2021 masterlist is here.

Semi Eita

Semi was on set again, even if he didn’t have any scenes to film.

The staff acknowledged his presence as per the norm, handing him a folding chair and ushering him to a corner where he could watch you work your magic without being a bother. He bowed slightly to the staff who had apparently been tasked to be a handler of sorts for him for the day, and the staff only smiled as he walked with him.

“You know you don’t have to be here all the time, right?” was the response that Semi received when he thanked the member of staff for the chair.

Semi smoothly set up his chair and sat, and he said, “I know. I just want to support Y/N.”

There was something ambiguous in the smile of the other man that hadn’t been there earlier on. Semi decided right then that he didn’t see it since he couldn’t name it, choosing instead to wish the staff well for the hours of filming ahead of him and then shifting his focus to you.

In his corner of the set, Semi tried not to think about the fact that this folding chair the staff kept around for him already had his name written on a sheet of paper taped to the back. He was here to support you, and not to marvel at the chicken scratch you called handwriting.

(It was nice of you to remember his favourite colour and write his name in blue, even if it did bad things to his heart.)

It was hardly eleven in the morning, but Semi already wanted to scream himself hoarse.

He turned his face to catch a glimpse of the expression on your face (not out of habit, no), and he could feel himself breathe easier when he found you smiling. You squeezed his hand when you noticed him looking at you out of the corner of your eye, your smile growing.

Semi smiled back, reciprocating the squeeze and then giving your hand three long squeezes extra for the fun of it.

When the two of you managed to outrun and slip away from the group of Semi’s fans who had been hotly pursuing you, you came to a stop and slumped against the rolling shutter doors behind you, the thin sheet of metal screeching in protest. Semi came and stood by you, leaning against the shutters too, and laughed at the way you were heaving.

You slapped your hand onto your knee as you bent over to catch your breath. Your posture was lopsided and bad for your back, and he was quick to point it out.

“Don’t,” he said, becoming a little more aware of how unfamiliar he had become with physical exertion – or how he had physically aged since the last time he had run so hard. “Stand up straight.”

You let go of his hand to push yourself off your knees and stand upright, and Semi silently – secretly – mourned the loss of your hand in his, even if your hand was sweaty.

There were so many things that he could’ve followed up with, but his mouth was empty and his tongue was dumb. He opted instead to lean his head back and shove his hands into his pants pockets, keeping his eyes on you.

There was a scene in the drama the two of you were in that played out just like this. The main difference was that you had been running with your love interest, and not him.

Why not him? He was playing the part of a professional athlete, for crying out loud. Something about him having played volleyball for most of his school life. On the other hand, your love interest was your senpai at your magazine job where the guy sat on his ass most of the time he was on the screen.

It didn’t make sense when Semi first looked over your shoulder at your script while you were memorising your lines together. It made less sense now.

You made less sense now.

“Hey, Ei-Eita-kun,” you said, and he coughed to mask how your voice startled him. Semi was listening for what you were going to say next, but instead of words, laughter tumbled out of your lips.

This was what you sounded like when you were laughing for real.

The realisation made something in his chest stutter uncontrollably, as though he had been chugging some shitty cocktail his bandmates mixed up for him and he had choked on it before spitting all of it out. It was a messy feeling, but he didn’t hate it.

Not when your lips were tinted a little bit blue and a little purple from the suspicious mocktail you had at the café, and he wanted to taste it.

(Maybe it was your laugh he wanted to taste, after all.)

“Semisemi, you’re so gross–”

The decorative pillow that Semi had been taking care not to lean on suddenly materialised in his grip and then on the trajectory to the face of an old friend. Tendou let out an overdone groan of pain, and Semi scoffed, knowing that he had missed in his haste so the other guy was definitely not in pain.

Not yet, maybe.

“Shut up,” he said, scooting further into the corner of the couch now that it was vacant of the too-big decorative pillow and using his feet to idly push his friend away. “It’s not gross.”

Tendou swatted at Semi’s feet weakly, the action more for show than anything else, and he rolled his eyes at Semi who was too occupied with his phone than doing any actual catching up.

“What’s not gross?” Tendou asked, a hand on his chin as he struck an exaggerated thinker’s pose. “I didn’t say anything was gross. I was talking about you, Semisemi. You’re gross.”

Semi frowned, looking up from his phone properly for the first time since he arrived at Tendou’s hotel room to visit. Tendou pointed at him with both hands, stretching his arms out far as they could go in Semi’s direction to make a point. Semi didn’t know what point he was trying to make, and his frown deepened considerably when Tendou started chanting “Semisemi, so gross” in a singsong voice.

“Shut up,” Semi said, when Tendou took a break from reaching across the couch to relentlessly prod at his shoulder and upper arm in tune with his new and very annoying mantra.

“Since you’re too gross to ask me what I mean, I’m just going to say it outright and tell you that you’re so gross when you’re in love, Semisemi,” Tendou said, after taking a long and dramatic swig of hotel-brand bottled water. “I won’t say it doesn’t suit you because it does suit you very well, but you could stand to be less gross– Oi, oi, put that down!”

Semi kept the decorative pillow he picked up from the floor in his hand, opting instead to lower it to his side rather than raise it threateningly at Tendou.

“I’m not done talking yet, okay? All I’m saying is that you’re gross because you’ve been refreshing Y/N’s socials since you got here. And you’ve been here maybe half an hour already. That’s so gross and so creepy of you! I just think you should–”

Semi pocketed his phone and leaned over Tendou to steal the decorative pillow on his side of the couch from behind him. Tendou quickly flung himself to the armrest to keep Semi from taking the other pillow, already knowing that his friend was going to use it as ammunition against him.

“Get. Off,” Semi said, tugging at the corner of the decorative pillow crumpling and getting squished under Tendou’s weight.

As abruptly as Tendou had safeguarded his corner of the couch and decorative pillow that sat there, he slid to the middle of the couch with the same speed and shoved at Semi in the hip with the heels of his palms. Semi stumbled with a pillow in one hand, but he let go of the other to steady himself by planting his now free hand firmly on the armrest.

“There we go,” Tendou said, the smug smile on his face evident in his voice. “I liked Y/N’s new picture for you.”

Semi didn’t know if he never hated or appreciated Tendou more than ever before in that moment.

“Y/N looks really good in blue. Much better than you do, Semisemi!”

(Semi knew that already, but it was good to hear it anyway.)

You had always been somewhat of a saint throughout this entire pretend dating thing, but right now, Semi was sure you were definitely one.

His bandmates had seen fit to make kissy noises at you starting from when you peered into the practice room to make your presence known. That was the first shit thing they did. They grew worse as they began cooing at you when you stepped into the room proper and handed the coffee you brought for them, calling each of the guys by name and telling them that you had their drink made just the way they liked it.

Semi was sure he wanted the ground to sprout a mouth and chew on him when the guys started spitting out weird things about your relationship with him that they’ve seen on Twitter. This the guys did despite fully knowing that it was a meticulously constructed public relations stunt meant to benefit both him and the band as well as you and your career.

If only they were this proactive when it was their turn to interact with fans and the general online public using the band’s official social media accounts. He wouldn’t have to work so hard to remind them to get their daily interactions in, as required by the managers and the people from the label who were higher up the ladder than them.

“And for you, Eita-kun,” you said, and the scent of caramel wafting from the opening in the sippy lid on the cup wasn’t enough to take his attention from you. “If you’re not feeling like caramel, I got a houjicha latte for myself but we can swap if you want.”

The sudden force of a hand making contact with Semi’s back sent him tumbling onto the floor, narrowly dodging you and the two cups still in your hands. He managed to avoid making a mess with what was left of his quick reaction time from playing volleyball in school. In a tangle of limbs on the cold tiles, Semi heard an eruption of guffaws punctuated with snorts from all around him and he was glad for the fact that you hadn’t joined in.

The guys left you to set the two drinks on a nearby chair and pick him up from the floor, and he was torn between getting angry at them or reluctantly thanking them for their antics later.

“Sorry about them,” he said, scratching at the back of his head when he removed his arm from around your shoulder. “They seem childish, but they’re not always that bad.”

You nodded, pulling the scattered chairs together and gesturing for Semi to take a seat. “Most people are like that. I’m sure you thought the same about me the first time we met.”

He let his hand pause midway to the cup clearly marked ‘caramel latte’ when your words registered on him.

You seemed to pick on the question he wanted to ask, and said, “I spilled my coffee on you? And then I dumped some of it on myself after because your resting bitch face scared me?”

Something clicked in his mind, and the incident you described came flooding in, colours and words and sounds and all. Semi bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound that was more like a shriek than a bout of laughter, but the way he was feeling escaped him regardless.

He wasn’t on set, and neither were you. He wasn’t in public for everyone to come and scrutinise him, and neither were you.

“You–! I always kind of knew I’m down bad with resting bitch face, but really, you’re the only one spooked enough to pour coffee on themselves because I was looking at them,” he said, his words slipping out between his chuckles that he didn’t bother hiding behind a polite hand or the cup in his other hand.

You slapped his knee playfully, with no real weight behind the blow, laughing along with him. “You’re really frowny! I panicked and just– It seemed fair and not such a bad idea at that time, alright? My hand moved before I was done… Weighing my options,” you said.

Semi put the cup to his lips but set it back down on his knee when an attempt to drink was thwarted by the remnants of his laughter leaving his body.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking your free hand in his without thinking about it.

You shook your head, curling your fingers around his hand. “I got a free concert tee out of it, so it wasn’t such a bad deal. And I got to talk to you again because of the shirt too, so who’s the real winner here?”

Right.

The press had caught sight of you in a shirt that obviously belonged to someone else that they wanted some dirt on, and they had a field day chasing you after midnight on your way home from a pilot shoot because of it. His manager had come up with the idea of pretending to be romantically involved with each other because of it. His manager pitched this wild but not entirely unheard-of idea to your manager because of it. You, among all the people from his label and from your agency, had agreed to the ruse of dating him because of it.

As you said, he had gotten many chances to get to know you and be close to you because of it.

Never mind the fact that the drama the two of you were in was your first leading role and he was most likely collateral damage as your secondary love interest from being the frontman in an up-and-coming band. Never mind the fact that you would’ve seen him around anyway, with the pretend dating thing in place or not because of filming some scenes with him for the drama.

It was like whatever was going on between you and him was a drama too.

“I normally don’t wear blue because I think it makes me look pale as a zombie, but your concert tee’s just the right blue!”

If this was a drama, Semi wanted to be your main love interest, with you as the leading role.

(It could be that because you liked that shade of blue, all the concert tees he’ll wear in the future will be that exact blue, just so you could steal it from him again.)

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu!! scenarios #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader #semi eita #semi eita x reader #fic #fluff #event: au-gust 2021 #kaija writes #kaija writes: haikyuu!!#i like the setters a lot it seems

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