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otterskin · 4 years ago

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Dumb Details From the Loki Trailer I noticed but then got too serious about

First - apparently it’s not a trailer, so I guess we’ll get ‘Trailer 1′ later? ‘Exclusive Clip’ hardly seems accurate, but hey, I’m not Disney’s marketing division. I wouldn’t live in a shoebox if I was.

Dumb detail no. 1:

Owen Wilson’s jacket is...weird. Look closely.

And another shot:

Yeah...his jacket has a ‘reversed collar’. It’s a cut-out rather than cloth folding on top. Huh. What a strange design choice. What could it mean?

I’ve no idea, but that I watched the trailer enough times to notice this should concern you.

Detail No. 2

In this scene, we see what we can presume to be President Loki’s ‘Throne’. Notice the candy-canes. This is a Santa Claus throne, presumably from some mall Santa. This whole place might be in a mall, judging by the stuff in it.

But the Loki in this shot is not President Loki. Notice that he’s wearing brown pants, a thin brown tie, and the beige shirt he’s seen wearing in other parts of the trailer after he's apparently joined the TVA. President Loki wears black pants, a green vest and a wide green tie with a golden clip that resembles Loki’s little chevron he always has (more on that later).

So it would seem that Loki might meet President Loki here. President Loki might even be addressing him at the end of the trailer. It’s possible that his minions turn on him because there’s two Lokis and they don’t know which is the ‘imposter’.

Speaking of, there’s a minion with bicycle handlebars grafted to a football helmet here, likely meant to resemble Loki. I dig it. There’s also cans of food scattered among the rubbish here. Makes sense that food production is non-existent since everyone has resorted to wearing license plates and spoons. Love how tattered the whole aesthetic is.

This reminds me of the opening Michael Waldron’s script ‘Worst Guy of All Time’, which featured a similar post-apocalyptic setting after the ‘worst guy’ ruins everything and makes himself king of the ashes. That’s likely what’s happened here, but I hope that Loki isn’t anything like Logan Paul, who was the inspiration for that title character.

Ah, the mysterious female character watching a meteor shower WAY TOO CLOSE UP. But my eyes are drawn to one thing...

What is that oblong object with a shiny handle? Could it be...

A sword? I do love swords. Did you know there’s a bunch of pictures of me in the stock photos for ‘Fencing?’ That’s my cred for loving swords.

I suspect that this female character will be an amalgamation of Amora (shudder) and Sylvie and an alternate Loki of some kind. This sword is currently in her possession, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it or another timeline version of it becomes the Loki Show’s Loki′s weapon.

Loki has lacked a ‘weapon of his own’ in the MCU for quite some time. I mean, yes, he has his little knives, but they are many and disposable and something he chose for himself, rather than the two legendary weapons wielded by Odin and Thor, Gungnir and Mjolnir. In fact, throughout his appearances, Loki has seemed to want such a thing of his own - he briefly had Gungnir, and then the Gungnir-like scepter, and even tried to lift Mjolnir.

One might ask why Odin would’ve overlooked such an obvious show of favouritism. Why give Thor a storied weapon and leave Loki empty-handed? Heck, even Hela had the Necroblade.

In Thor 1, we might’ve assumed that the Casket of Ancient Winters was perhaps intended one day to be given to Loki, as it is shown with Mjolnir in the Vault and thus connected to it and the children who would inherit it. But in the comics, Odin did have another weapon of storied history put away for his second son: Gram the Sword.

It was locked for eons by Odin in a special vault which required five keys to be opened, and it was meant to be for Loki if he be worthy.[2] The five keys were infused by Odin with the powers of "journeys", "endurance", "secrets", "new beginnings", and "brotherhood", respectively.[3]

The sword, like everything else in comics, has a complicated history full of take-backs and twists, but let’s just leave it at ‘it’s a representation of Loki’s worthiness and belonging in the trifecta with Odin and Thor as a King of Asgard’. It gives him ‘equality’.

In the original mythology, it’s wielded by Sigurd to kill the dragon Fafnir, and the only relation it has to Loki is that Loki is partially responsible for Fafnir existing in the first place (my username is nod to this myth by the by. Sorry Ottär.) But hey, maybe that means we’re getting a dragon? The Fafnir would be very cool.

Or it could just be a bit of rebar in this mining quarry.

Then again...it appears somewhere else...

It’s easier to see in motion, but that’s a sword swinging on this person’s back.

So the hooded figure is this lady...shall we call her Amylkie? Does that mean she’s the antagonist of this show? Well...maybe, but I suspect the true antagonist is foreshadowed here -

So, what’s going on here? A young girl (Young Amylkie? Some other TVA prisoner that the guard is watching over? An oracle, A Norn, or a kid who wandered off from the tour group in a basilica somewhere?) She’s giving Mobius M. Mobius a...piece of chocolate. Maybe he saw a Dementor, I dunno. I suspect it’ll be a MacGuffin of some kind later. He looks pretty concerned here, which contrasts with his ‘another day at the office’ blaséness when dealing with Loki. But of course this is the eye-catcher:

So, Norse Mythology. It’s been Christiannized. You can thank Snorri Sturluson for that, but you can google all about him later. Let’s just say that he made many Norse figures into equivalents for Christian ones. Baldur is Jesus, pure and a sacrificial lamb who dies for a greater good. And the devil is...Loki. Something the Marvel comics and the MCU have continued.

Here we have a devil, dressed in green and with a distinct shape on his chest:

Hmmm...wait...I know that weird horny shape...

Ah. I’d say that cinches it. This is meant to be Loki. If you look at the devil’s hair, it also resembles Loki’s, being shoulder-length and black.

So, what’s devil-Loki doing? Laying an egg? Trying out a foot massager? For a second I thought it was a moon, but we see the moon over his left shoulder, amongst the stars. Which means this is - probably the Earth.

...Dammit; I live there.

So Earth is barren and being devoured by flames, likely caused by this Loki sitting atop of it (in a throne, no less). Aw gee, things look pretty bad, don’t they?

But wait - what’s that? Under the Earth (and, possibly, under the earth)?

It’s a plant. A shoot, to be exact.

Back to Ragnarok for a second. Ragnarok isn’t the apocalypse (something we see a lot of in this trailer - all of it seems to be exploring the end of days). Ragnarok is the fire meant to wipe out the old and fertilize the ground for the new. And after the gods have died, what happens? Well, Baldur emerges from Hel, one of the only surviving gods (hmm, seems him dying worked out, didn’t it?). He’s joined by Líf and Lífþrasir, who are the new first man and woman, who’s names mean ‘Life’ and who are pictured, usually, with plants and new life. It is they who are tasked who growing a new Yggdrasil after the destruction of the old. The previous first man and woman are Ask and Embla, meaning Ash Tree and Vine/Elm tree, so there’s a theme there.

So a new sprout, possibly a tree, growing out of the destruction of the old.

This fits with Loki’s role as understood in mythology. He checks the arrogance of the gods, including when they tried to achieve immortality (sorry, Baldur, nothing personal), and that keeps the gods at their best. After Loki is imprisoned, the gods become weak, unhelpful and foolish, and Yggdrasil starts to rot. Eventually Loki escapes and returns along with Surtur (who also resembles this figure) to burn it all to the ground. This is also referenced in Thor:Ragnarok, with Loki releasing Surtur in the Vault, a place of thematic importance to Loki and one that represents the hidden secrets and sins of Asgard). You could say Ragnarok continued into Infinity War, where Loki played an important part in aiding Thanos’ destruction, giving up the stone to protect his brother and essentially dooming the rest of the universe - but also ultimately leading to its salvation, even if, like Myth Loki, he wasn’t around to see it.

So, we see Amylkie literally start a fire in the trailer -

- in fact, this whole trailer is awash in flame -

It’s fire, fire everywhere and she’s setting them!

It’s possible Amylkie’s our big bad, but I think there’s a chance she’s either a red herring, or, much like how Loki ‘worked’ with Thanos in The Avengers, she is the pawn of a greater foe -

- a Loki bent on destruction, for some reason or other. The TVA is obviously aware that this is the case, and it seems like they might be trying to ‘fight fire with fire’ by enlisting one Loki to combat another. The villain could be President Loki, since there's evidence of 2 Lokis in that scene - or maybe that's one of many Lokis, and the Big Bad Loki is being played by Hugh Grant as Old Loki. In any case, it would appear that Loki will be coming face-to-face with the worst versions of himself, and many of them. And, if I’m right about this scene:

...Loki will likely eventually discover that even his ‘good’ timeline ended in the destruction of his people and home, plus his own gruesome and torturous death. Although I think the TVA will keep that from him, and just show him the happy parts in an effort to inspire ‘good behaviour’. Until Loki inevitably discovers the rest of how that timeline played out and realize he’s been lied to. I don’t imagine he’ll take that very well...

Damn, even our ‘hero’ Loki is burning stuff down! Does this mean that Loki is doomed, always meant to be an avatar of death and toasty destruction?

Well...let’s go back to that stained glass.

Hmmm...wait...I know that weird horny shape...

And there’s something else...the bottom of the Earth is being lit up, and not by fire. Light appears to be coming off this little plant.

What colour is this plant again? That’s right, green. Green is the colour of new life and growth and change and...hang on, I’ve heard that before, too...

Hang on hang on HANG ON... let me have a look at the shape again.

That’s...a letter. An L? For Loki? Like in the title sequence?

Wait...no, a different letter. An older letter. After all, Loki is old Norse. How do you spell his name in that again?

ᛚᛟᚲ ᛁ -

And ENHANCE on that third letter!

This, my friends, is a Kenaz/Kaunaz, or what would become 'K' in our alphabet. It is also known as the 'Loki Rune' (and the Ulcer Rune, for some reason. I suspect Odin understands why). It’s used to spell his name, but is also used on his own to represent him. Heck, it's even his Superman 'S' in the comics:

Runes are more than letters - they are symbols for concepts. So what else does it mean?

Primarly, it means ‘torch’.

And also ‘knowledge’ (ken). As well as ‘growth, change, the search for truth, decay, arrogance, elitism, feminine, kinship and creativity.’

...Okay, that’s a lot, but you have to admit it fits.

More specifically, it means ‘Mastery of the Fire’. As in, someone who has learned to tame fire so that it is helpful, not harmful. To bring light and, symbolically, knowledge.

There’s another way Loki’s been associated with fire - in the Wagner Ring Cycle, Das Rheingold, the opera that inspired much the Thor films’ aesthetic and certainly their helmets, Loki is called ‘Loge’, which means ‘Fire’. He’s usually dressed to match, too -

Many trickster figures are associated with fire. They are usually called ‘Fire-bringers’ - See: Raven, Lucifer, Prometheus, etc. They are often complex figures with a foot in different worlds, but who nonetheless help mankind with the gift of ‘fire’ - although they usually pay for it, and tend to be self-destructive.

(Side note. Lucifer means light-bringer, which is what luciferase is named after. Because it glows. Which is helpful in labs. In case someone needed to know that.)

Moving from a destructive fire-starter to a fire-bringer seems like a great character arc for Loki to take, especially given his rehabilitation in pop culture, the comics, and even wider culture. Loki has gone from being seen as an evil, deviant, destructive character to one who’s seen as a patron of the arts and creativity, of stories rather than lies. Heck, some scholars of Norse Mythology even posit that he’s the closet thing to a protagonist Norse Mythology has, so I guess that backfired, Snorri!). Being dressed in green and with the sprout clearly also being stylized after his Kaunaz, there’s foreshadowing that he’ll be capable of growing good things even out of ashes.

So, to sum up: Being ‘Satan’ sounds pretty bad, but with a little letter re-arranging like we see in the title sequence, you can be...

...practically a saint. Maybe even a saviour.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

#loki #trailer #details #meta #theories #theory #explanation #thor #tva #santa #devil #snorri sturluson whinging #christmas #fire #kaunaz #loki trailer

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willowgast · 3 years ago

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tag game time!

i was tagged by the lovely @contre-qui, with the aim of tagging nine people to learn about their interests - i'm unlikely to find that many people myself but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it! going under the cut because this is a pretty long(ish) one.

music!

fave genre a little bit of everything but right now especially medieval folk & pop rock

fave artist a strange mixture of måneskin, kraftklub, siames, cavetown, and rainbow kitten surprise

fave song hard choice, but probably 'brothers' by siames & eddy capparelli

most listened to song recently either 'coraline' by måneskin or 'king orfeo' from the child ballads

song currently stuck in your head 'happy pills' by weathers

five fave lyrics oh boy, this is gonna take some thought.

"called to the devil and the devil said / hey! why you been calling this late? / it's like 2a.m. and the bars all close at ten in hell, that's a rule i made / anyway, you say you're too busy saving everybody else to save yourself / and you don't want no help, oh well / that's the story to tell" ('it's called: freefall' by rainbow kitten surprise)

"today i coo, today i caw / i have a pistol party and i kill 'em all / i think i might be scared / of the man and the men with their hands inside / and the women, oh, the women all they do is cry / and i, well i lose my mind" ('little pistol' by mother mother)

"so did you pack your bag, or did somebody pack it for you? / take me to the sad, sad party that you're bound to / whether you're a 'have-not' or a 'have', i got a question / are you living dead, or is this some kind of possession?' ('blast doors' by everything everything)

"but what if i run out of fertiliser? / what if the clouds run out of rain? what if lemon boy won't grow no longer? what if beaches dry of sugar cane?" ('lemon boy' by cavetown)

"now they tell you that you're their muse / yeah, they're so inspired / but where were they when they called your name / and they lit the fire? / when the voices came, you cut your hair / but you're stilled confused" ('joan of arc' by arcade fire)

books!

fave book genre fantasy all the way

fave writer bernardine evaristo, leigh bardugo, madeline miller

fave book oh dear, here we go. 'circe' by madeline miller, 'six of crows' and 'crooked kingdom' by leigh bardugo, 'girl, woman, other' by bernardine evaristo, 'good omens' by neil gaiman & terry pratchett, 'the raven cycle' series by maggie stiefvater, 'oranges are not the only fruit' by jeanette winterson, and a whole lot of old norse literature of dubious authorship (but especially 'gisla saga' and 'hrafnkels saga freysgoða', and pretty much all of the eddic poems in the volsung cycle)

fave book series it's a tie between leigh bardugo's grishaverse novels and maggie stiefvater's 'the raven cycle'

comfort book 'the secret kingdom' by jenny nimmo

rainy day book any of my norse books, sagas or poetry

fave characters nina zenik in the grishaverse, ronan lynch in 'the raven cycle', gisli in 'gisla saga' (not sure if that counts as a character or historical figure, dependent on perspective...?), and circe in, y'know, 'circe'

five quotes from your fave books?

"i thought once that gods are the opposite of death, but i see now they are more dead than anything, for they are unchanging, and can hold nothing in their hands" ('circe' by madeline miller)

"'spreader of swords, it is your own sons' / corpse-bloody hearts you've chewed up with honey, / proud man, you've consumed dead men's meat, / eating it as ale-dainties, sending it to the high seat' [...] with the point of a blade she gave the bed a bloody drink, / with a hel-keen hand, and set the dogs free; / she woke the servants, and in front of the hall-door / she flung a burning brand: she paid them back for her brothers. / to the fire she gave everyone who was inside, / who'd come from myrkheim after murdering gunnar and his men; / the ancient timbers fell, the temples smoked, / the buildings burned of budli's kin, and the shield-maids inside; / their lives stemmed, sinking into hot flames." (gudrun avenges her brother in 'atlakviða', a poem in the old norse poetic and elder eddas)

"you aren't a flower, you're every blossom in the wood blooming at once. you are a tidal wave. you're a stampede. you are overwhelming." ('crooked kingdom' by leigh bardugo)

"from the passenger seat, ronan began to swear at adam. it was a long, involved swear, using every forbidden word possible, often in compound-word form. as adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about the ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry. it was far less hateful sounding than when he didn't swear." ('the raven cycle' by maggie stiefvater)

"but where was god now, with heaven full of astronauts, and the lord overthrown? i miss god. i miss the company of someone utterly loyal. i still don't think of god as my betrayer. the servants of god, yes, but servants by their very nature betray. i miss god who was my friend. i don't even know if god exists, but i do know that if god is your emotional role model, very few human relationships will match up to it. i have an idea that one day it might be possible, i thought once it had become possible, and that glimpse has set me wandering, trying to find the balance between earth and sky. if the servants hadn't rushed in and parted us, i might have been disappointed, might have snatched off the white samite to find a bowl of soup." ('oranges are not the only fruit' by jeanette winterson)

tv and movies!

fave tv/movie genre fantasy, travel/road trip & comedy

fave movie the secret life of walter mitty, supernova, any and all ghibli films, scott pilgrim vs. the world, lord of the rings, the how to train your dragon trilogy

comfort movie the lion king (original), how to train your dragon, from up on poppy hill, kiki's delivery service

movie you watch every year elf, howl's moving castle, love simon

fave tv show she-ra and the princesses of power, skam, bee and puppycat (i guess more of a web series than a tv show?), adventure time, the it crowd

comfort tv show adventure time

most rewatched tv show skam, every october without fail

five favourite characters catra (she-ra and the princesses of power), sana (skam original), marceline (adventure time), moss (the it crowd), inej (shadow and bone netflix adaptation)

tagging (absolutely no pressure, this is a pretty long one!): @crowcaves, @the-obsidian-soul, @natscbi, @somehowmags, @gabrilearnelle, @clockwords, @starsspace... and that's it, that's as close to nine as i'm getting, but if anyone else just feels like doing it then feel free to consider yourself tagged!

#tag game #long post #tysm for the tag!!!!

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follow-your-fire · 4 years ago

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In your tender hands

Rating: Explicit/NC-17

Pairing: Merlin/Arthur (Merlin)

Written for bottom Arthur fest 2020

@bottom-arthur

“You need to get that stick out of your ass. And you need to relax.”

Arthur bristles a little at the choice of words but holds himself back. “It’s a massage, not a holiday. How is that gonna relieve my stress?”

Freya gives him an incredulous look. “You’re an idiot. Have you never had a massage before?” she asks, and it’s obvious that the question is mostly rhetorical. Which is probably the main reason why her eyes grow twice their size at the lack of response. “Oh my God, Arthur! Seriously?!”

“You did what?” Arthur nearly spits out his coffee, glaring daggers at his assistant.

Freya only rolls her eyes at the dramatic response. “You heard me. I booked you in for one hour when you take your break.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” He rubs at his eyes in frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to squeeze a massage in? My break is one hour too, plus the commute, plus I want to have lunch.”

“You’re acting like I don’t know your schedule off the top of my head. How long have I been working for you?”

“Two years,” he replies automatically, taking a moment to appreciate the fact.

All in all, Freya is a wonderful assistant. Arthur knows she’s the only reason why he hasn’t had a mental breakdown yet. She’s punctual and diligent. Stubborn as hell and as ruthless as they come. It’s kind of a double-edged sword though. While she gets the job done - actually goes beyond her line of duty - she also takes great pleasure in bossing Arthur around. And of course, Arthur being the push-over he is, lets her get away with it.

So yeah, Freya is a godsent who saves Arthur from losing it on a daily basis. But she’s also the spawn of the Devil who loves to discover all the ways to drive him nuts.

“And four months,” she corrects. “So cut me some slack, Princess.”

Ignoring the jab - because really, Freya, it’s getting old - he comes back to his previous point of concern. “Then you should know that my schedule is fully packed today.”

“Not anymore,” she announces smugly, walking over to her desk to pick up the iPad before she returns to Arthur’s office. “I moved Masa to tomorrow at 11:15 and Cutforth to Friday at 2 pm, which gives you,” she does a quick count, “two hours and fifteen minutes for your break.” She closes the iPad, smiling victoriously. “Now, stop fretting and make sure you leave on time. I booked you for 12.:15. The commute is about fifteen minutes and you should be there at least five minutes in advance.” She grabs a pen and a post-it-note from his desk, scribbling quickly. “There,” she says, tearing the note off. “This is the address.”

“The enchanted cave,” he reads in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Shut up, Arthur. Merlin is the best there is. He put me back together after I lost my parents. He’s usually fully booked weeks in advance. You’re lucky that he has a soft spot for me and let me squeeze you in.”

Arthur turns more solemn at the mention of Freya’s parent’s untimely passing. It doesn’t make him any less confused, though.

“Sounds more like a shrink to me than a masseur,” he thinks out loud.

“He might as well be,” she laughs, affection evident in her voice, which softens Arthur’s irritation somewhat. “You need to get that stick out of your ass. And you need to relax.”

Arthur bristles a little at the choice of words but holds himself back. “It’s a massage, not a holiday. How is that gonna relieve my stress?”

“I don’t have time for self-pampering,” he grumbles defensively.

“That’s exactly why you have to make the time!”

“That’s quite an oxymoron.”

“Shush.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Really, Arthur. You need to unwind.”

“I don’t-”

“Arthur,” she groans impatiently. “Go. Get. The. Massage. I’m gonna make sure you leave on time and I will check with Merlin that you actually turned up.”

“I think you’re confusing who’s the boss and who’s the subordinate here.”

“I think you’re full of shit and need to shut up and listen to someone smarter than you.” She turns on her heel and walks out of the office before Arthur has a chance to retort anything back. “Don’t be a prat, Arthur. For once in your life, do something nice for yourself.” And with that, she shuts the door behind her.

Arthur arrives at the place at 12:07, just in time to walk to the door as a woman walks out. He steps to the side, waiting for her to pass.

“Arthur?”

He snaps his head up from where he was blankly staring at the side-walk. “Oh. Hey, Mithian,” he greets when he recognizes one of his long-time friends.

“Don’t hey me and give me a proper hug hello,” she complains and doesn’t waste any time to rise on her tiptoes and wrap him in her arms. Arthur returns the hug with a smile on his face.

“How have you been?”

“I’ve been great but how have you been? I haven’t heard from you in ages,” she scolds him gently.

“Been busy.”

“Aren’t you always,” she scoffs, sympathetic. “Nice to see you’re finally doing something for yourself,” she says, getting a confused look. “You’re coming for a massage, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I am. My assistant made me.” Oh, shit. That shouldn’t have come out.

Predictably, Mithian bursts into giggles. “Figures.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, Arthur. Someone needs to look out for you if you don’t,” she explains, her eyes soft and a wave of affection washes over Arthur as he remembers his uni years and their brief but lovely time together as a couple.

Now that he thinks of it, Freya reminds him of Mithian a lot. It occurs to him he’s attracted to a certain type of person. Not necessarily in a romantic sense but more in general.

His sister is like that too. All fiery and strong-willed, calling Arthur names on a good day, but when it comes to it, she’s a protective mother-hen.

So is his best friend. Lance is usually calm and collected but doesn’t hesitate to call Arthur on his bullshit, in the most loving way, though. So does Gwen. Those two really rub off on each other.

What is it with him attracting people into his life who spend most of their time scolding or mothering him? He needs to look into it later.

“I still don’t see how this is supposed to help.” He shrugs indifferently.

“Oh, you’ll see. Just wait for it.” And good grief, she winks at him. “I need to get going. Let me know how it went. You have my number, right?” Arthur nods. “Great. Also, it wouldn’t kill you to get in touch here and there, you know?”

Sighing guiltily, he humors her. “I will.”

“You’d better. Okay, gotta go. Enjoy yourself!” She blows him a kiss and takes off.

He very much doubts he’s gonna enjoy himself but if he’s lucky, maybe he’ll get to nap while the guy gets handsy with him. He could use an extra hour of sleep. God knows the five hours he’s come to consider his routine are not cutting it anymore.

He sighs in relief as he walks through the door to find a rather unassuming lobby. Given the name of the business, he expected the place to live up to its cringeiness but thankfully there are no tacky lights, no magical crystals scattered around, no candles in every corner, nor every surface. The only thing that can be considered a bit spiritual or whatever is the incense perched on the counter, right next to the business cards and leaflets. Thankfully, the scent is very subtle and doesn’t trigger a headache.

“Good afternoon! You must be Arthur,” says a voice to his left and Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin. He didn’t even notice anyone in the room with him.

As he looks over in the direction the voice came from, he finds a man, presumably his masseur - Mark, Matt? - standing in the door leading to what Arthur guesses is the massage room.

“Oh. Hey. Yeah, that would be me.” He turns to face the man, straightening his back. He must look out of place, clad in his suit, still wearing his tie.

The man approaches him with a smile. “I’m Merlin. It’s nice to meet you, finally. Freya talks about you quite a bit.”

Arthur reaches to grasp his hand when Merlin offers it, giving it a firm shake. “Don’t believe anything the little minx lets out of her mouth.” He attempts a joke, hoping his discomfort at being told his assistant talks about him is not too obvious.

He must succeed because Merlin is throwing his head back with a laugh. “She said you would say that,” he teases. “That’s alright. I like to make up my own mind.”

Arthur withdraws his hand and gives him a stiff smile. Outside of work, he has no idea how to make a decent conversation. Not upon the first meeting anyway.

Tilting his head inquiringly, Merlin asks, “You seem quite tense. Is everything alright?”

“It’s just... Look. I know you’re busy, Freya said so. And I appreciate you making time for me. But,” he huffs, knowing he’s gonna sound like a jerk no matter how he phrases it, “I don’t really care for massage much but Freya insisted. She can be fucking scary sometimes. Don’t tell her that though! And I just... I feel really out of place, okay?”

He expects to see Merlin’s expression sour, thinking Arthur is just a pompous douche. He wouldn’t even blame him. But, to his bewilderment, the man’s face is nothing but open, not a single trace of judgement.

“I won’t, I promise,” he says with humor. “If you don’t mind me asking - have you had a bad experience in the past?”

“More like no experience at all.”

For the first time, Merlin looks caught off guard. “You never had a massage?”

“No. I just never saw the point. And anyway, I don’t really have time to spare. The only reason I’m here is that Freya did some magic with my schedule and cleared it up enough to give me two hours off today.”

“Oh.” Merlin suddenly perks up. “In that case, I’d like to show you some of my magic, if you let me.”

Arthur’s brain short-circuits for a moment. Did he just hear what he thinks he did? Or is he so tired he started hallucinating? Plus, his dry spell of six months is probably not helping either.

“Um... I... magic?”

“Yeah, you know...” Merlin sweeps his hand over the lobby. “The enchanted cave? Seems fitting?”

“Oh.” Arthur chokes out. “Right. Right...”

“Oh God, I just realized how cheesy that sounds,” Merlin reflects with a hint of embarrassment. “Anyway, I should stop talking. You didn’t come here for a chat, after all.” He steps to the side, gesturing towards the massage room. “I’d just finished setting it up before you came in, so it’s all ready for you.”

Arthur gets the hint and with a deep breath, he makes his way to the room. Unlike the lobby, it’s bathed in a soft yellow light and.... yup, those are candles alright. No crystals, though.

Merlin is right on his heels. “I’ll let you undress in private, to your level of comfort.You can hang your clothes here, or you can just fold them and put them on this chair.” He gestures to the chair in the corner. “After that, lie down on the massage table, on your stomach, this way around. You see the sheet over there? That’s for you to cover yourself with. I’ll be back in a few minutes when you’re ready. Do you have any questions? Requests?”

So many questions. He goes with the most concerning one. “Yeah, um, when you say my level of comfort...” He cuts himself off. Thankfully, Merlin picks up on it.

“Whatever works for you, really. I can even massage you with your clothes on, although...” He gives Arthur a quick once-over, “I can’t imagine it would be comfortable for you.”

Yeah, no. Definitely not. And he has to go back to work after and he’s sure that showing up in a wrinkled suit would earn him a few judgmental looks.

“But really, it’s up to you. You can keep your clothes on, or just your underwear. If you’d prefer to be completely naked, that works too.”

Arthur hopes the dim lighting of the room conceals his blush. There’s no reason why a man of 32 years should blush at the thought of being naked.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Merlin echoes with an encouraging smile. “Be back soon.”

Arthur releases a relieved breath when Merlin closes the door behind him. This whole thing is even more awkward than he expected. Merlin seems like an alright bloke, if a bit odd but Arthur supposes that comes with the job. He seems nice though, with all the reassurances and effort he put into making sure Arthur is comfortable.

He wonders how many male clients Merlin gets. So far, he knows that Freya and Mithian are swept away by him. Although it’s hard to tell if it’s because of his supposedly outstanding massage skills or his looks.

He groans internally and maybe even a bit out loud. Nope, don’t even go there. No hitting on your masseur. Yeah, that wouldn’t end well. Not with Merlin about to spend the next hour gliding his large hands over Arthur’s whole body.

A shiver runs down his spine and in an attempt to push his thoughts away, he begins undressing, starting with his tie. He hangs his jacket and shirt on the hanger by the door and the rest he puts on the chair, just as Merlin instructed. In no time, he’s standing there clad only in his underwear, debating whether to leave that on or not.

To hell with it. Merlin must have seen it all already.

He ends up ridding himself of his briefs too, face going aflame as he adds them to the pile on the chair and rushes to climb onto the table, settling on his stomach and doing his best to arrange the sheet Merlin provided for him so it covers him as much as possible.

A minute or two pass with him fidgeting in his position. Whether it’s from discomfort or nerves, he doesn’t know, but then Merlin is knocking gently on the door.

“Can I come in?”

“Y-yeah,” he calls hoarsely, grateful Merlin can’t see his face.

The door clicks open and Merlin walks into the room, speaking from somewhere to Arthur’s left. “You probably already figured but one hour allows for a full body massage. Is that alright with you? Or do you want me to forgo any areas? Or spend some more time on a specific one?”

Logically, Arthur knows these are all valid questions but they do nothing to help him relax. More like the opposite.

“Um, no, that’s... you can do whatever you want.”

“Alright. Any contraindications I should know about?”

“I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.” Oh God, what did I just say? Stop trying to be funny, Arthur!

It draws a boisterous laugh from Merlin, easing some of Arthur’s tension. “Thanks for clarifying,” he says, catching his breath. “Any injuries?”

“No. I twisted my ankle playing football, but that was years ago.”

“Okay, good.” There is some rustling and thumping, then Merlin speaks again. “Do you care for any specific scent? I’ve got a variety of essential oils, energizing or calming. I have a special blend for stress relief if you’d be interested.”

Arthur winces a little at the fact he’s so easy to read. “Um... sure. But maybe not too much? I still need to go back to work after this.”

“Duly noted,” Merlin promises and busies himself with what Arthur assumes is mixing the oils or something.

Thankfully, he doesn’t take long, preventing Arthur from driving himself into a frenzy. He doesn’t know why he’s so flustered about all of this. So he never had a massage, so what? People do it all the time.

It’s just then that he notices that music is playing but it’s so soft it could almost escape his hearing. He focuses on listening in hopes of distracting himself.

“Okay, I’m all set. I’ll start with dry massage, working my way down from your shoulders. That alright with you?”

Yeah, he never had a massage but he’s pretty sure that asking for affirmation every two minutes isn’t how this usually works. It occurs to him that Merlin is doing this only for him.

He’s equal parts irritated and touched by it.

“Yeah.”

Gently, Merlin places his hands on his shoulders over the sheet. It’s just a simple touch, not even on his bare skin, but Arthur swears he can feel the heat of Merlin’s hands seeping into his own body and spreading throughout. He suppresses a sigh.

“I’ll start with medium pressure. Let me know if it’s too much or if you’d like me to go harder.”

Arthur hopes the whimper that makes it past his lips is not very audible. He clears his throat to cover it up.

Merlin doesn’t say anything. Instead, he presses his hands into the tense muscles of Arthur’s upper back, finding all the right spots from the get go.

A guttural groan escapes Arthur before he knows it.

“Too much?” Merlin asks, stilling his movement.

“N-no. No, it’s... it’s good. Just didn’t... expect it.”

“Good. Let me know if it changes.”

He stays on that area for a few minutes, lingering when he finds a sensitive spot, working out the kink. It’s a curious combination of pain-pleasure and Arthur is not sure if that’s what it’s supposed to feel like, but he knows it leaves him all pliant and floaty, so it’s probably alright.

Merlin makes his way down the spine, to his lower back, then goes back up and pays the same attention to his arms and hands.

He walks around the table and starts working on the legs.

Arthur releases a shuddering breath. He just had a leg-day in the gym yesterday and damn, can he feel it. Merlin’s touch is like a balm on his sore muscles and he exhales as pain gives way to relief.

It’s not long before Merlin comes back to the head of the table, hands grasping at the sheet.

“I’ll move onto the oil part now, yeah?”

“Okay.” At this point, Arthur will take anything. Why has he never done this before?

Merlin pulls the sheet down to his lower back, folding it over and leaving his back and arms exposed. The air of the room is not chilly by any means but Arthur shudders all the same.

There is a slick sound as Merlin covers his hands with oil before bringing them to Arthur’s shoulders again, spreading the oil over the whole expanse of his back and arms. Although the pressure is not as hard now, with the oil easing the way, Arthur finds this part even more intense, Merlin’s touch nearly searing without any barrier between them.

He glides his palms, fingers and forearms over Arthur’s back with long, confident strokes, then switches to short, firmer ones, alternating between the two.

Arthur’s vaguely aware he’s all but melting on the spot, feeling almost detached from his body despite every nerve ending being on fire.

At some point as Merlin rubs at the tense muscles of his neck, he slides his hands into Arthur’s hair, at the base of his skull, rubbing in circular motions.

This time, it’s definitely a whimper that Arthur lets out, blushing furiously.

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Arthur,” Merlin instructs in a gentle voice. “You carry a lot of tension here. Plenty of people do but you even more so. Just let go.”

Against his better judgment, he does just that. As Merlin’s hands continue their ministrations, he lets out a series of little huffs and whimpers, unable to stop himself when he starts.

“That’s it. Just let go,” Merlin repeats and puts more force behind his touch, making Arthur’s noises grow in volume.

He both welcomes and mourns the loss when Merlin’s hands leave him in order to grab a hot towel and wipe the remaining layer of oil from his back before covering him with the sheet again.

“I’ll move to your legs now, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

He’s surprised when Merlin touches his shoulder, prompting him to lift his head. “Since I’m finished with your back, you can have a pillow if you want. It might be more comfortable for you.”

Arthur doesn’t object in the slightest, taking the pillow Merlin’s holding and resting his right cheek on it, sliding his hands underneath. Yeah, much more comfortable.

“Thanks,” he mumbles almost sleepily and hears Merlin chuckle.

“You’re very welcome.”

Then, Merlin is exposing his left leg, tucking the sheet in the space between his legs and over his hip, revealing his left butt-cheek in the process. He doesn’t even have the strength to feel embarrassed.

Merlin doesn’t waste time before coating his hands with oil again and bringing them to Arthur’s leg. He starts with his feet, then moves to his calf, then thigh until he’s worked all the way to his bum.

Arthur nearly jack-knives from the table as Merlin’s thumb presses into the middle of his cheek.

“Sorry! Was it too much?”

Arthur presses his face into the pillow to hide his flush. “I... ugh... I just... didn’t expect... that.”

“Oh,” Merlin quips. “I can skip that part.”

Jesus, Arthur, stop being such a sissy. It’s just a massage. A professional massage.

“It’s fine. You just... surprised me.”

“Sorry about that,” he says genuinely and resumes the massage, albeit more tentative than before.

Now that the initial shock is over, Arthur begins to appreciate the attention Merlin’s paying to that particular part of his body. He never knew how tense he was in... well.... there.

He whines a little when Merlin presses his thumb into a tender spot.

“Shit. I would’ve thought that going to the gym four times a week would make up for sitting on my ass several hours every day,” he grumbles more to himself.

“I think you’re doing an excellent job at the gym,” Merlin replies with humor, then promptly freezes, Arthur following suit. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. That was... very inappropriate. I swear, I didn’t mean anything by it. Not that you don’t have a nice ass. I mean... oh shit,” he starts panicking, removing his hands from Arthur’s body. Funny enough, witnessing Merlin freak out makes Arthur strangely relaxed.

He responds with a huff. “Take it easy, Merlin. I appreciate the compliment. You can continue.”

“Are you... are you sure?” Merlin asks tentatively.

“I’m sure. You like my ass, so what? I’ve been working hard on it.”

Merlin laughs, a bit nervous, a bit relieved, and eventually listens, resuming the massage on the other leg, starting from his foot again.

Maybe the whole exchange should make everything weird but strangely enough, Arthur is even more relaxed than he was before. The realization that Merlin is only human, with no filter it seems, making it easier.

Merlin hesitates when he works his way up to Arthur’s bum again, but with no complaint in sight, he repeats what he did on the other leg.

When he’s done, he steps to the side of the table and lifts the sheet off of Arthur, holding it in front of himself like a screen. “Can you turn over, Arthur?”

Arthur gathers all his strength to prop on his forearms with the intention to do just that, but stills momentarily.

“Arthur?” Merlin questions when nothing happens.

“I... um....” Well, shit. How did I not notice I was sporting a semi?!

“What’s wrong?”

“I... might have a... situation,” he admits, face burning.

At first, Merlin is silent, then the realization dawns on him. “Oh. I see. That’s fine, Arthur. It happens more often than not,” he reassures but it doesn’t help much.

“But I... God, this is embarrassing,” he hides his face in his hands.

“I understand why you would think that, but I promise it’s alright. It doesn’t mean anything; it’s just a natural reaction.”

It takes some more prompting but eventually, Arthur flips onto his back and closes his eyes as Merlin drapes the sheet over him again, the outline of his half-hard dick painfully visible.

“I can fetch you a blanket if it makes you feel better?”

“If you don’t mind,” he squeezes out without opening his eyes, only doing so when Merlin hands him the blanket and he rushes to throw it over his lower half. “Thanks. Sorry about that.”

He dares a look at Merlin and finds him smiling in empathy. “Not at all. It’s no big deal, Arthur.” He reaches for a bottle of oil and puts his hands on Arthur’s arm. “Just lie back and relax.”

Arthur does his best to do just that while Merlin massages his arm and hand before switching to the other one.

By the time he’s finished with them, Arthur’s calmed down considerably and, thank fuck for that, the embarrassment was enough to have killed any interest his dick might have taken in the situation.

He expects Merlin to announce the massage has come to an end when he finishes wiping his arms with a hot towel, but to his surprise, Merlin slides a chair behind him, sitting himself down, hands coming to cradle Arthur’s head. Arthur lifts it automatically, assuming that’s what Merlin wants him to do.

“You just relax, Arthur. Don’t help me by holding your head up. I’ll manage.”

It’s not an easy thing to trust someone not to drop your head but Merlin is nothing but cautious as he maneuvers it around to get to the spot he’s aiming for and Arthur finds himself giving up control completely. Head massage doesn’t sound like anything special but to his bewilderment, it’s the most relaxing thing ever. At some point, he even starts dozing off. At least he thinks he does because he nearly jumps out of his skin when Merlin says his name.

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?” he snaps his eyes open, looking up at Merlin upside down, seeing the other man smiling fondly.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“N-no?” he stutters, cheeks growing pink.

“Of course,” Merlin says in the way that screams he doesn’t believe him but humors him anyway. “Well, I’m all done here. How are you feeling?”

“Weirdly disconnected from my body,” he says with a grunt, attempting to sit up. “Shit, I don’t know how I’ll get any work done for the rest of the day.”

“What time do you finish?”

“Officially? Around five. Actually? Seven. Sometimes eight.”

“God, that’s disgusting.”

“You have no idea.”

“Thankfully, I don’t,” he agrees. “I’ll let you get dressed. Meet me in the lobby when you’re ready, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s with sloth speed that Arthur puts his clothes on. In the back of his mind, he’s aware of Merlin’s busy schedule and can only hope he’s not stalling.

He squints at the bright light of the lobby when he emerges from the massage room. When his eyes adjust, he spots Merlin walking towards him with a glass of water. “Here, have some water.”

“Thanks,” he accepts without objection, just because he’s barely standing. He doesn’t know what Merlin’s done to him but it feels like his body doesn’t even belong to him. He has no idea how he’s gonna drive back to work without driving himself into a street-lamp.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks when he’s chugged down the whole glass, reaching for his wallet.

“Oh. It’s already paid for. Freya used your credit card when she booked you in.”

Arthur blinks at him blankly. How dare Freya pay for something that Arthur hadn’t even agreed to yet?!

Yeah, as if she would ever take a no for an answer.

He sighs, pulling out a twenty pound bill regardless. “She would, wouldn’t she. That little shit,” he grumbles under his breath. “At least let me tip you,” he holds a hand with the bill to Merlin.

“Actually, she included the tip, too,” he says sheepishly, giving Arthur a crooked smile.

“Bloody hell,” he huffs indignantly, then takes a deep breath. “Whatever. Just take it.”

“But-”

“Merlin. Take. It. You’ve done a great job,” he insists, holding eye contact.

Merlin still hesitates at first but resigns eventually. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Okay. Thank you, Arthur,” he smiles appreciatively as he accepts the money. He bites his lip, seemingly in thought, then turns around and plucks one business card from the pile on the desk, grabs a pen and writes something down. “Here,” he turns to Arthur, holding the card to him. “If you ever feel like coming back for another massage.”

Arthur takes the card, noticing that Merlin wrote another number on in besides the one already printed. “Thanks but... I’m sure Freya has the number.”

“This is my personal number,” Merlin explains and Arthur’s brows shoot up in surprise. “I’m not always able to pick up the phone here but if you text me on my personal number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Oh. Okay. Thanks, that’s very... um... I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Merlin mumbles, fidgety. Arthur finds it both amusing and confusing.

“Well, I should get going. Thank you again.”

“Oh! Of course, don’t let me keep you,” he rushes to say. “See you next time?”

“Yeah.” As non-committal as he sounds, he finds he means it. Something’s telling him he’ll be back sooner or later. Probably sooner.

“Take care of yourself, Arthur,” Merlin calls as Arthur opens the door on his way out and his heart skips a beat at the genuine tone.

He turns around to give the man one last smile before the door shuts behind him.

“So? How was it?” Freya advances on him as soon as he comes back. He slumps into his chair, sitting upright when Freya places a box of takeout in front of him.

“Fine.” Freya is not impressed. “It was good, okay?” he adds, opening the box to reveal his all-time favorite pad thai and all but inhales the food.

“Told you,” she says smugly, ignoring Arthur’s glare. “Gonna go again?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, that’s convincing.”

“Shut it, Freya,” he shoots back. “I got his business card. I’ll give him a call when I feel like it.”

“I can do that for you.”

“Nope, thanks. I’m sure I can manage to make a phone-call myself, even without an intervention of my obnoxious assistant.”

Freya throws a balled-up napkin at him. “Ungrateful prat,” she retorts and stomps out of his office.

“I heard that!”

Arthur lasts exactly four days and two hours before giving in and taking Merlin up on his offer to text him on his personal number to book another appointment. He didn’t expect to snap so quickly but after waking up the next day after his massage, refreshed and chirpy, feeling as though he had a brand new body - who could blame him, really.

Hey, Merlin. It’s Arthur. I was wondering if you had a slot available this week?

There, simple and straight to the point. Freya said that Merlin is usually booked out weeks in advance but asking never hurt anybody.

His phone chimes with an incoming message about ten minutes later.

Hi, Arthur! Nice to hear from you again. :)

Sure thing. Did you have a specific day and time in mind?

Nope, he didn’t. He was willing to adjust his schedule just to squeeze in an hour.

Not really. Freya implied that you’re usually fully booked so I thought I’d leave that up to you.

She’s over-exaggerating ;) I can make time.

Oh, God, he’s one of those people. Emojis and shit.

Oh. Okay, then. Thursday work for you?

It does :) What time?

This is... unexpectedly easy. He should have never let Freya bullshit him. But that’s what she does. She’d do anything to get her way and make Arthur do whatever she wants. No Christmas bonus for her this year!

Is 6pm too late?

As a matter of fact, he never finishes before six. Hell, he never finishes before seven. But maybe his friends are right. Maybe he should make time for himself once in a while. It won’t kill him, will it?

Thought you didn’t finish work until ungodly hour :D

He’s already typing out a reply but Merlin beats him to it with another message.

And it’s not too late. I’ll write you down for 6, then ;)

Oh. That easy, huh?

Thank you, he sends first, then rushes to add an explanation. I can make an exception once in a while. He hesitates with the next part but decides to throw caution to the wind, just this time. It’s worth it.

He regrets it as soon as he hits send, but doesn’t get a chance to wallow in it for too long before Merlin’s reply comes.

Oh no, now there are expectations I need to live up to :O

Jk. Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself last time. See you Thursday ;)

Red to the tips of his ears, he types out a quick see you before pocketing his phone, busying himself with the remaining paperwork in hopes it will calm down his racing heart.

He’s not that lucky.

On Thursday, he wraps up his work just before 5:30, hoping it’s enough time to get through the traffic.

It is, as it turns out.Though he’s cutting it close, parking the car just two minutes before six.

“Sorry, I underestimated the traffic,” he rushes to apologize when he bursts through the door, finding Merlin lounging peacefully on the sofa, swiping through his phone.

As soon as Merlin lifts his eyes to meet Arthur’s, his whole face lights up with a wide smile. “Hey! No problem at all. You’re my last massage for today, so no rush.”

“Thanks but it’s already late. I don’t wanna keep you any more than needed.”

Merlin dismisses his worries with a wave of a hand. “Nonsense. It’s no trouble. Come on in,” he smiles encouragingly and Arthur dutifully follows him to the massage room. It looks exactly the same but Arthur feels much more at ease than last time, now that he’s familiar with it.

“Thank you again for finding time for me,” he says gratefully because it feels like he hasn’t said it enough.

It earns him an indulgent smile. “I was happy to do it. It’s no trouble, really,” Merlin repeats and Arthur takes the hint.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes. “You know the drill by now, right? I’ll be back in a few.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Merlin nods his head in acknowledgement, leaving the room to give Arthur privacy.

Similarly to last time, Arthur hangs his suit and shirt and folds the rest of his clothes, laying face down on the table and covering himself with the sheet. As promised, Merlin knocks on the door a couple minutes later, entering when Arthur gives him a go-ahead.

“Any requests today?”

He suppresses the urge to crack an inappropriate joke. “Not really. Same as last time is good.”

“Alright,” says Merlin and he starts the massage exactly in the same way he did last time, humming appreciatively when he rubs at Arthur’s shoulders.

“You’re not nearly as tense as before. Both literally and figuratively,” he points out.

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees. “I felt really good when I woke up the next day. All loose and relaxed.” He clears his throat, cringing at his wording. “And I was just nervous because it was my first time, I guess. Now that I know the ropes, it’s easy to just...”

“Let go?” Merlin finishes for him and... is that smugness he hears?

“Y-yeah,” he replies, feeling silly all of sudden.

“I’m glad to hear that. Glad I could help.”

“Me too.”

They remain silent after that. While Merlin doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary - or rather, anything that would be different to last time - Arthur can sense a shift in the energy in the room. In Merlin. In himself. He might be imagining it but he would swear that Merlin’s hands... linger - which is kinda a stupid thing to say, this is a massage after all, touch is a crucial component here - but... yeah... that’s what it feels like.

Every touch of Merlin’s hands on his body feels amplified, Arthur nearly vibrating in response to... he has no idea what he’s responding to. He only knows it feels good.

It feels right.

When Merlin asks him to flip onto his back, he’s relieved to find that the humiliating experience from last time is not gonna be repeated - no awkward boners today, ladies and gentlemen!

He hisses through his teeth when Merlin presses into a tender spot of his arm.

Merlin’s immediately apologetic. “Sorry! I didn’t expect you to be so sensitive here.”

“ ‘s fine,” he mumbles drowsily. “I might have overdone it in the gym today.”

“When did you have time to go to the gym?”

“Before work. Around five.”

“God, that’s disgusting. Why would you do that?” Merlin sounds truly appalled which only amuses Arthur.

“I’m too tired by the time I finish work. At least this way, I get a bit of a boost in the morning.”

“I’m still not convinced.”

“Shut up, Merlin. Without the gym, I wouldn’t have the ass you like so much.”

He snaps his eyes open in panic and finds Merlin gaping at him in shock.

“I... I did not... ugh...”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that, I swear! I’m just really tired, basically falling asleep. I just talk shit when I’m like that.”

Forget the boner. This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him.

Funnily enough, his stammering helps Merlin fight through his shock and now he’s more entertained than anything.

“No filter, huh? I can relate,” he brushes the whole thing off and resumes massaging over Arthur’s arm, softer this time and Arthur would moan appreciatively at the soothing effect the touch has on his sore muscles but given his previous faux pas, he doesn’t think it’s the right time for it.

Merlin works his way down to his hand, paying special attention to the spot at the base of his thumb that is always so stiff after spending hours and hours every day typing on his laptop.

A weird thing happens after that. Same as the last time, Merlin slides his fingers in between Arthur’s, squeezing and pulling until he hears a cracking sound of the joints. That is all well and good but instead of pulling away, he remains with their fingers interlaced. It almost feels... almost feels like they are holding hands.

Arthur opens his eyes again to give Merlin a questioning look but Merlin is staring at their joined hands instead, an expression on his face that Arthur can’t really decipher but if he were to guess, he would almost call it... longing.

Merlin must realize what he’s doing because his eyes widen as they lock onto Arthur’s, panicked and so blue.

“Sorry!” he blurts out, pulling away and ducking his head as he makes his way to the other side to repeat the process on the other hand.

Arthur feels the air around them grow thicker. He doesn’t know what happened exactly and doesn’t dare ask.

He can tell Merlin keeps himself in check as he finishes with his other side and it’s not long before he moves to the head massage.

After all of that, it’s really hard for Arthur to relax but he does his best as to not make things even more awkward.

He’s equally relieved and disappointed when Merlin’s hands disappear, signaling that their session has come to an end.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby when you’re ready, okay?” Merlin asks stiffly.

“Okay,” Arthur agrees, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’s been holding when Merlin shuts the door behind him.

Since he knows he doesn’t have to rush because he was the last client today, he takes his time putting the clothes on and mentally prepares himself for facing Merlin in a few moments.

It takes all of his courage to maintain eye contact when he leaves the room, coming to the desk where Merlin’s already waiting for him with a glass of water.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t finish the whole glass, his stomach too unsettled for that and pulls out his wallet.

“I know for sure Freya didn’t pay in advance since I booked the massage myself this time,” he comments in what he hopes is a light-hearted tone. It works because it draws a chuckle from Merlin.

“You’re not wrong,” he agrees, going quiet again but shaking himself off at Arthur’s expectant look. “Oh! Sorry, it’s seventy pounds.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow in surprise. While he wouldn’t know anything about the regular massage price, it doesn’t seem too much considering how popular Merlin is. According to Freya, anyway.

He plucks out two fifty dollar bills and hands them over. Merlin blinks at him in confusion. “Um... that’s a bit--”

“Just take it. You deserve it. You’re good and you went far and beyond to make time for me even at the late hour.”

“It was no tr--”

“Merlin, will you shut up and take the bloody money?” he nearly whines at the man’s stubbornness, relieved when Merlin eventually gives in.

“You’re so bossy,” he shakes his head almost fondly.

“Goes with the territory. I’m the CEO after all.”

“In that case, that was a lousy tip for a CEO.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

And just like that, the tension has disappeared and they are back to their easy banter.

“I’m just teasing,” Merlin reassures unnecessarily, a dopey smile still in place. “Let me know if you wanna do this again, yeah?” He sounds unsure, although why, Arthur has no idea.

“Actually, if you really don’t mind, could we make it a weekly thing?”

“Oh,” Merlin says with surprise. “Sure. Thursday again? Or do you want a different day?”

“Thursday is good. Six o’clock?”

“Yeah. Yeah, works for me.”

“Brilliant,” Arthur smiles back. “I’ll see you next week, then?”

“Looking forward to it.” The way Merlin’s face softens further shouldn’t make Arthur’s stomach do flip-flops but for some reason, it does.

Oh, no. Abort, abort!

“Yeah. See you,” he mumbles and all but runs to his car.

Arthur lets out a girly squeal when Freya slams a pile of papers onto his desk.

“Why haven’t you gone see Merlin again?” she asks accusingly and... wait, what?

“Excuse me?”

“I thought you liked the massage. That you felt better after. I thought you’d go back.”

Well, not that it’s any of her business but...

“I’ve been like four more times since,” he argues back, watching Freya’s furious expression turn confused.

“No, you haven’t. There’s no way you could have altered your schedule yourself without me noticing.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, annoyed that he, the fucking CEO, has to explain himself to his assistant. “Yes, I have. I’m going today, actually. I go every Thursday after work. Well, I finish early, so I can be there at six. Which, by the way, you could have done the first time around. I truly don’t understand why you’d rather mess with my appointments to get me a rushed massage on my break instead of simply booking one in the evening.”

If anything, Freya grows even more confused. “You’re lying.”

Arthur positively bristles at the insult. “I’m not!”

“You so are. Merlin doesn’t work evenings. And he doesn’t work weekends. His last bookings are for 4 o’clock. Hence why I had to book you for your break.”

He’s already preparing a come-back to defend himself when the words finally sink in. He snaps his mouth shut.

Then why... why did Merlin agree to Thursday evenings? That doesn’t make any sense.

“Are you sure you’ve got that right?” he asks instead because... because if it’s true, it puts many things into perspective.

Like the fact that Merlin literally beams every time Arthur shows up.

Or the fact that his touch seems to linger, seems to grow more and more intense with every visit. Like he’s enjoying touching Arthur.

At first, Arthur thought it was just his imagination, but upon checking the time when he got to his car only to find Merlin had extended the massage by at least ten or fifteen minutes, it was obvious that he wasn’t making it up.

Most importantly, it would explain why Merlin started texting Arthur randomly, usually on Fridays to ask how he was doing, if he felt alright and so on.

It would even explain why he would sometimes text on the weekend too.

It did not explain why Arthur indulged in the texting.

It did not explain why it was the highlight of his days.

“I’m sure,” Freya replies, confirming his growing suspicion. When he doesn’t react, she turns concerned. “Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitates. “You’re not lying.” A statement, not a question, but he still answers it.

“No.”

“Oh,” she breathes, out of words.

“Do you...” He clears his throat. “Do you know why Merlin would make an exception for me?”

The glint in her eyes suggests that she might have a good idea about that, but doesn’t say so. “I think you should ask Merlin that.”

Yeah. Yeah, he should.

He will.

“You seem very... serious today. What happened?”

“Why did you agree on 6pm Thursdays?” he asks directly before he loses the nerve.

“Huh?” Merlin blinks at him.

“Freya told me you don’t do evenings. Why would you let me impose on your time?” God, he feels so stupid.

“Oh,” says Merlin. “Well, first of all, you’re not imposing.”

“But-”

“Second, working for yourself has a lot of perks. Like that I can do with my time as I see fit.”

“So you decided to spend it on me.”

“More like spend it with you.”

Spend it with-- oh. Oh.

“What? Why?”

Unexpectedly, Merlin snorts. “You don’t know?”

No. No he doesn’t.

“No.”

“Oh, my, you’re a right dumbass.”

“Excuse you?!”

“Arthur,” Merlin says, apparently running out of patience. “I simply like you, okay? At first, I agreed because you seemed like you could use some relaxation. Quite a bit of it, really.”

Arthur bites his lip, hesitating with the next question. “And then?”

Merlin sighs, shoulders sagging almost in defeat. “And then I just liked seeing you.”

Arthur takes in a shaky breath, both startled and excited by the admission. “Why didn’t you just ask me out, then?”

Merlin laughs, but there’s very little humor in it. “That’s hardly professional, Arthur.”

“That’s what worried you?”

“Of course it did! It does! Jesus, Arthur, you have no idea,” he shakes his head, “no idea how much I have to hold myself back when I have my hands all over you.”

Arthur swallows audibly, noticing for the first time how dry his throat has gotten. Well, here goes nothing.

”What if... what if I don’t want you to hold back?”

Merlin stares at him with his mouth hanging open, his gaze roaming over Arthur’s face in search of something. Probably a confirmation.

“Arthur, that’s not--”

“It’s 6:02,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“It’s two minutes past six. You should have started with the massage by now.”

Initially, Merlin doesn’t respond, looking as though Arthur’s talking in a different language. When Arthur holds his eyes, hoping to prove his point, he resigns on any further arguments.

“Come on in then,” he instructs tiredly and Arthur follows him to the room. He’s shedding his jacket even before they get there. He hangs it and starts taking off his tie just as Merlin turns around to face him.

“Okay, I’ll let you--” He cuts himself off when Arthur pulls the tie over his head, throwing it on the chair and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Don’t bother,” he says, too pleased with himself when Merlin stays rooted to the spot, openly staring.

“Uh...” Is all he manages when Arthur gets rid of the shirt, exposing his chest (which - it’s not like Merlin’s never seen it before anyway) and begins working his belt and trousers open. Soon, he’s pulling them down together with his briefs, stepping out of his shoes in the meantime.

As he straightens up, completely naked, he takes a few seconds to appreciate the way Merlin looks at him, his jaw practically hitting the floor. Lips twisting into a smug smile, he turns to the table to climb on it, settling on his stomach as he does every time, except now he doesn’t bother covering himself up with a sheet.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he calls with barely concealed amusement when Merlin doesn’t move an inch.

“Uh... yeah. Yeah, let me just...” he stutters, reaching for the sheet.

“Leave it.”

“W-what?”

“No point.”

“But--”

“Merlin,” Arthur says darkly, “leave it.”

Thank fuck, Merlin actually listens and abandons the sheet in favor of grabbing a bottle of oil, pouring some in his hands with trembling fingers.

“Arthur...” he tries one more time, hesitant.

“Merlin,” Arthur returns. “Shut up.”

He hears Merlin exhale shakily and then, the familiar sensation of oil-slicked hands takes over all of his senses. He sighs in relief when the touch causes his body to go completely lax as it always does.

Merlin’s hands are unusually tentative, like he’s still not sure he’s got Arthur’s permission to touch him - like this - after what he admitted to him. It’s for that reason that Arthur starts making deliberate noises of pleasure, humming softly, or outright groaning and moaning when Merlin arrives to a particularly sensitive spot.

Above him, Merlin begins making noises of his own, but he sounds more pained than anything. Out of curiosity, Arthur turns his head to the side to peer at Merlin, just to be able to see what expression is on his face right now.

He doesn’t get that far because all of his attention is stolen by the very visible, very prominent bulge pressing against the front of Merlin’s trousers.

“Shit,” he utters before he can stop himself, feeling his dick twitch helplessly where it’s almost squashed between his body and the table.

Immediately, Merlin freezes on the spot, his breath hitching.

“I... Arthur...”

Arthur lets out another moan at witnessing Merlin’s obvious desire for him and returns his head to the previous position.

“You can do my legs now,” he says suggestively, but it sounds more like an order. For a moment, nothing happens. Merlin doesn’t withdraw his hands but he doesn’t move either. Arthur is about to impatiently prompt him to action but in the end, Merlin goes willingly, moving around the table until he’s standing at Arthur’s feet.

He covers his left leg with oil and proceeds to massage it from the foot up, almost as if nothing unusual is happening.

It’s not until he makes his way past the knee, to the hamstrings and inner thigh, that Arthur feels him falter, the pressure letting off and in a desperate attempt to urge Merlin on, he spreads his legs further apart.

Behind him, Merlin makes a choked off sound, his grip on Arthur’s thigh tightening.

“A-Arthur,” he says like a prayer and Arthur feels himself grow harder the lower Merlin’s voice drops.

“Go on,” he orders and this time, Merlin recovers faster, sparing barely a few seconds before he starts rubbing his thigh in circular motion, slowly working his way up, up, all the way to his ass - his very exposed ass.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, barely audible, but Arthur hears him all the same. He knows what he’s asking and in lieu of an answer, he digs his knees into the table to push his hip up and back, groaning when the movement provides friction to his now fully erect cock.

“Do it,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please.”

Merlin makes an indescribable sound and then his slick fingers are dipping tentatively between his cheeks, brushing against his entrance.

Arthur feels his pulse quicken, heat spreading throughout his whole body at the single touch.

“Gods, Arthur, the sounds you make...” Merlin praises, rubbing at his opening in tiny circles.

“Merlin,” he returns, attempting to spread his legs further apart. Merlin all but growls at the display and then he’s bending over to pepper kisses over Arthur’s naked shoulders, even as his fingers press against him more insistently.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Arthur,” he mumbles into his skin and Arthur trembles at the soft-spoken words.

“Fuck me,” he moans, hitching his hips up. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Shit, Arthur, you can’t just.... can’t just say stuff like that.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just hurry up and get on with it,” he tries to sound irritated but it falls flat when a whine is torn out of his throat as Merlin enters him with one finger.

“Shit. Shit...”

“Payback,” Merlin laughs, kissing just behind his ear.

“Merlin, I swear to God...”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” he retorts with fondness and starts pumping the finger in and out.

Satisfied when Merlin actually listens, Arthur is able to relax again, offering himself to Merlin’s skilled hands.

He is nothing but gentle as he works Arthur open, adding more oil before a second finger joins the first, then a third one.

Under him, Arthur’s rolling his hips against the table, seeking as much friction as he can because Merlin’s taking too bloody long, checking on him every two fucking minutes. Just as he’s about to call him out, the fingers brush against his prostate, successfully stealing all the words out of his mouth, together with his breath.

“Fuck,” he grips at the edge of the table, struggling to breathe.

Merlin chuckles at his reaction. “You like that?” he asks smugly, totally unhelpful and unnecessary and hits that spot again.

“Would l-like it better if you f-finally got your dick in m-me,” he trips over his tongue, panting.

“Impatient,” Merlin clicks his tongue but before Arthur can tell him where he can stick it (pun intended), Merlin’s fingers leave him.

His breath hitches at the sudden emptiness and in hopes of speeding up the process, he gathers his strength to hitch himself up until he’s on all fours. He expects Merlin to climb up behind him but instead, there’s a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to twist to the side.

“Not like that,” Merlin explains, nudging him until he’s turned over completely, facing him. “I want to see you.”

Arthur wants to crack a joke, call Merlin sappy and whatnot, but he can only blush.

“Oh.”

“Can you sit on the edge?” Merlin instructs, helping him to get into position. He manages just fine by himself, sitting on the side of the table with his legs hanging off. He watches, mesmerized, as Merlin rids himself of his T-shirt and trousers in under ten seconds, feeling accomplished at seeing him so impatient himself even though he chastised Arthur for it only minutes ago.

“Eager, are we?” he teases, hearing the blood rush in his ears. Merlin gives him a dark look, clearly disapproving of his tone, and takes the final step until he’s standing between his open thighs, grabbing him by the hips and pulling forward.

The movement is so sudden that it sends Arthur flat onto his back, hips hanging off the table. Merlin nudges him to wrap his legs around him and braces himself against the edge with his hands.

“You’re such a bloody tease,” he chides with a shake of his head.

“Shut up, Mer-- fuuuck,” he nearly chokes as Merlin’s cock breaches him without a warning, sliding in fully with one push. “Shit.”

“Okay?” Merlin checks with a quake in his voice, proving he’s not as collected as he makes himself to be.

“Y-yeah. Just move already.”

Merlin chuckles. “So bossy.” Then proceeds to do just that. He pulls back almost completely before pushing back in, again, and one more time until he’s settling into a rhythm.

It takes Arthur a couple more minutes to catch his breath but when he does, he focuses on meeting Merlin halfway, although the position barely allows it.

“M-Merlin.”

Merlin snaps his hips almost violently at hearing his name tumble from Arthur’s lips in that tone and Arthur moans loudly when he drives directly into his prostate.

“Fuck! Fuck, Merlin. R-right there.”

“God, Arthur. It‘s so good. You’re so good.”

Arthur keens at the praise, urging Merlin to go faster.

Instead, Merlin halts all the movement, earning a desperate whine from Arthur. He chuckles at the reaction and leans forward to slide his hands underneath him to pull him up until he’s sitting up, their chests close enough to touch.

“Arthur,” he whispers in the space between them before there’s none because suddenly, Merlin’s crashing their lips together, unexpected and so good. He swallows the surprised sound from Arthur’s lips, licking into his mouth.

Arthur moans in agreement, wrapping him in his arms and deepening the kiss.

Merlin grabs him by the hips again and starts a new rhythm, his thrust shorter but harder.

Arthur whimpers against his lips, squeezing Merlin between his thighs. He gives up any effort to help Merlin out and decides to kiss the living hell out of him while Merlin plows his ass.

It works just fine and it’s not long before Merlin’s thrusts grow erratic and uncoordinated.

“A-Arthur,” he chokes out between kisses. “I’m gonna...”

Instead of replying, Arthur takes his lips in another kiss and clenches around his cock, drawing a hiss from him.

“Arthur!”

“Yeah, come on,” he encourages and clenches his ass again.

Merlin manages two, three, four more thrusts before he stills, buried to the hilt and spills himself inside Arthur. He presses his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck, panting against the sweaty skin while his hips continue their subtle grinding motion.

Arthur presses a kiss to his temple, sliding his fingers through the dark locks, marveling at the silkiness.

Merlin lifts his head to peer at him from under his lashes. His pupils are blown wide, overtaking all the blue of his irises. There’s a lovely flush to his cheeks and the way his fringe sticks to his sweaty forehead is almost endearing.

Arthur’s never seen him like this and he wants to appreciate the view but doesn’t get much time because then, Merlin is untangling his legs from around him and slides to his knees in front of Arthur. He gives him a little smirk before opening his mouth wide and swallowing his cock.

“Nngh!” Arthur yelps with surprise, throwing his head back in unexpected pleasure.

“Shit, Merlin.”

Merlin hums around his cock and starts sucking him in earnest. It feels so good he can’t even feel embarrassed when he feels Merlin’s come leaking out of him and to his shock, he also feels Merlin’s fingers slide into him again, hitting his prostate with deadly precision. “Merlin!”

It barely takes another half a minute before Arthur’s screaming himself hoarse as his orgasm overtakes him and he comes in Merlin’s mouth. Still, Merlin’s mouth doesn’t leave him, working him through his release instead until he’s whimpering from over-sensitivity and pulling at his hair to pry him off.

Merlin releases his cock with an obscene sound that echoes in the small room, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stands up between Arthur’s open legs.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks and Arthur can’t help but laugh.

“Are you for real?” Merlin just blinks at him. “We should have done that ages ago, instead of the massage.”

Merlin groans in annoyance. “That’s not the nature of my business, Arthur!”

His irritation only amuses Arthur further. “You could make an exception for me,” he teases, pulling Merlin closer and Merlin goes willingly, although the scowl is still on his face.

“That depends on how much you’ll tip me,” he shoots back.

“Oh, I’ll tip you all you want, Merlin.”

Merlin slaps the back of his head gently. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Hmm. But I think you like it,” he says smugly, pulling him into another kiss, letting out a moan when he tastes himself on his lips.

“You’re awfully confident for someone who just got fucked on a massage table.”

“You mean for someone who just talked his masseur into fucking him on a massage table.”

“I think manipulated is better-fitting.”

“Or seduced.”

Merlin scoffs. “You did not seduce me.”

“Oh, really?” he teases. “I’d say you gave it up pretty easy after seeing me in my birthday suit.”

“I did not!”

“You did, though.”

“Your mind is misleading you.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur concludes dismissively, then gives Merlin a wicked grin. “Next time, you’re gonna lie down on this table and I’m gonna ride you.”

Unsursprisingly, Merlin all but chokes on thin air. “That... uh... sounds... agreeable.”

“I’ll say.”

“You’re so annoyingly confident.”

“Just because you make it so easy.”

“Arthur.”

“Merlin,” he huffs. “Shut up. And kiss me again.”

And for once, without a single protest, Merlin does just that.

OMFG, Merlin! You DIDN'T!

Huh?

Don't "huh" me! You know bloody well!

Apparently not.

You fucked my boss!

!!! JFC, I can't believe he told you! :O

I sent him your way so he got that stick out of his ass. Not for you to replace it with your dick!

He didn't. His limp did, jsyk.

He could have hurt his leg or something...

And he brought me coffee. He'd never brought me coffee before! I've never seen him in such a good mood!

Your welcome :-*

*You're

That's disgusting. I'm never getting a massage from you ever again!

Oh, well... it was worth it :-p

*Freya has left the chat*

#bottom!arthur #merthur #top!merlin #massage #bottom arthur fest

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writingwhimsey · 3 years ago

Text

The Tiger and the Oda Princess Ch. 11

Chapter 11

The next day, Shingen made a visit to the dungeon. He sat in front of Kennyo's cell. "I was beginning to think you'd finally given up on me." Kennyo said from his cell. "You haven't come in a while."

"I've been busy." Shingen replied. "I was away for a bit."

Kennyo looked at him. "You look like you have something to say."

"I do." Shingen answered. "About a month ago now, Ava was kidnapped. She was taken to Oda territory in an effort to start a war again."

"By the way you're speaking, that didn't happen?"

"No." Shingen answered. "I had to work with the Oda to rescue her."

Kennyo glared at Shingen. "It would seem the siren's song is strong."

"It's not like I enjoyed it." Shingen snapped. "But we had to stay in Azuchi a while, before Ava could come home."

"You've formed an alliance with the devil." Kennyo stated.

"Yes." Shingen answered anyway.

"You should just kill me then."

"Why?"

"Because I can never forgive him for what he did. He was ruthless...so many innocents were lost."

Shingen sighed. "I will never deny you your grief."

"No, but you will deny me my revenge, when you've had yours." Kennyo replied. "Well, are continuing yours when you think of it."

"What are you talking about?" Shingen asked.

"You fought him, took your land back, and took his woman, made her your wife, and now she carries your child." Kennyo replied. "I can't imagine anything more shameful for that devil. And now that you're forming an alliance, he will be reminded every time he sees her with her pregnant belly."

"Ava isn't part of my revenge." Shingen countered.

Kennyo smiled. "Maybe not intentionally, but...that siren is yours now."

Shingen returned Kennyo's smile with a glare. "Don't talk about Ava like that."

"Her song is so sweet you don't even realize it." Kennyo replied.

"You speak as if I am being led to my doom." Shingen said. "When she is the one who saved me from death."

"And yet you now work with the devil."

"I know it is not the most ideal thing...but it's the fastest path to peace. And while you keep referring to my wife as a siren, maybe she is. But instead of leading anyone to their doom, she is leading us all to peace." Shingen said. "While we were in Azuchi, I had the chance to speak with that devil far more than I ever wanted...and for once I saw that he does carry the weight of what he has done."

Shingen was then getting up and walking away. He had other things he had to attend to. He had just exited the dungeons when Kenshin found him. "There you are, you bastard!" Kenshin shouted at him.

Shingen sighed. "I take it you rode through the night to get here?"

"After I got that disappointing letter from you, yes." Kenshin answered.

Sasuke was running up next to Kenshin. "I'm sorry Lord Shingen. I couldn't stop him."

"It's alright, Sasuke." Shingen replied. He then turned back to Kenshin. "What is it you want? You knew I was in talks with the Oda to form an alliance after they assisted in Ava's rescue."

"Yes, but...I didn't expect an agreement to come this soon." Kenshin answered. "And if you want me to join this alliance as well...you're going to have to fight me!"

"Kenshin..."

"No, you will not protest! If you don't fight me I will leave here as your enemy once more and we will fight to the death!"

"Lord Kenshin..." Sasuke tried to interject, but Shingen held up his hand.

"It's alright, Sasuke. Kenshin, if this is what it will take to get you to join this alliance, I will fight you. Let's go to the training hall."

Ava...

I finished with the embroidery of the Takeda crest on the baby blanket I had been working on. I held it up and smiled at my work. I then looked down at my swollen belly. "I can't wait to have you here and wrap you up in this blanket." I spoke to our unborn child and placed a hand on my belly.

I felt a kick then, right where my hand was. Almost as if the baby were responding. "Oh, are you excited?" I spoke again and then felt a few more kicks. I smiled and laughed. "You're getting quite active in there."

It was then that my stomach was letting out a growl. "Oh, must be lunch time...or maybe snack time, who knows at this point." I said aloud. Then I looked back down to my belly. "You're growing and making me eat so much more."

I was then folding up the blanket and setting it aside. I awkwardly pushed myself up into a standing position. It was starting to take more effort to move around my growing bump. I made my way to the kitchen and the staff excitedly put together a plate of snacks for me. I decided that I wanted to find Shingen and share the food...but maybe only a little of it. That and we hadn't really had the chance to spend much time together lately and I missed him.

I was wandering around looking for him and munching on my snacks as I did so, when I ran into Yoshimoto. "Oh, hey Yoshimoto." I greeted him with a smile.

He returned my smile with a beautiful one of his own. "Hello Ava." He replied. "Where are you headed?"

"I was just looking for Shingen. I picked up some snacks and was wanting to share with him. I figured he could probably use a break at this point."

"Well, I am sure he could use a break." Yoshimoto agreed. "Though I don't think a snack break will be enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Kenshin showed up and challenged him to a fight."

"Whatever for?" I asked, only half surprised.

"He says it's the only way he'll join the alliance with the Oda forces." Yoshimoto answered.

"I see." I replied. "That sounds like Kenshin."

"Indeed." Yoshimoto replied. "They are in the training hall right now. I was headed there to watch the performance. Shall I escort you?"

"Sure." I replied.

Yoshimoto and I walked to the training hall together and I continued to eat my snacks. By the time we reached the training hall, I had eaten every bite. "Well, looks like I won't be sharing."

Yoshimoto laughed. "I don't think he'll mind."

"Probably not." I agreed. Shingen actually seemed to be enjoying feeding me since I had become pregnant. He was almost as bad as Masamune actually.

We entered the training hall, where many people were gathered to watch Shingen and Kenshin face off. I could already hear the clash and clang of steal. Wait...they're not using practice swords? I thought to myself. Well, I'm sure Kenshin wouldn't have been satisfied with anything other than his real blade.

"Ava, Yoshimoto, over here."

Yoshimoto and I turned at the familiar voice calling to us. Sasuke stood over to one side, Yukimura beside him. I was also surprised when I saw Asuna there as well. "I'm surprised you came, Ava." Asuna said, looking at me.

"Well, I was looking for Shingen when I ran into Yoshimoto and he explained to me what was going on." I answered. I then looked over at Sasuke. "So, Kenshin wouldn't take no for an answer?"

"Does he ever?" Sasuke remarked. "I couldn't even get him to calm down with sake, pickled plums, and a banquet."

I nodded.

"I'm really surprised to see you here, Yoshimoto." Yukimura said.

"And miss the chance to witness the Tiger of Kai and the God of War, legendary rivals, face each other?" Yoshimoto replied. "Besides, Kenshin's blade is a piece of art. Seeing it in action is the only way to truly appreciate such a master-piece of a sword."

We were all then turning our attention to Shingen and Kenshin. When I looked at them fighting, I was reminded of the first time I ever saw Shingen in a fight, from the back of Nobunaga's horse. I smiled as I remembered how even though he had been the enemy commander at the time, how I couldn't take my eyes off of him...and how he had flirted with me even in the midst of battle.

The memory brought a smile to my face as I recalled the way he had winked at me. And just as then, now I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I watched as he used both hands to grip his great sword and swing it powerfully. I could see the beads of sweat forming on his brow. I could see his powerful muscles even beneath his clothes and armor.

I felt my breath catch in my throat and my heart picking up its pace. The intense look on his face, the way he fought, the way he moved, the strength I saw...Damn...is it hot in here or is it just me? I thought to myself.

"Ava, would you like to borrow my fan?" Yoshimoto's voice reached me.

I felt my face turn red with embarrassment. "Well...uhm...yes...that would be nice... thank you." I said as I took the offered fan from him and opened it.

"I don't think that fan is going to be enough." Asuna said. "I think I might need to go get a bucket of cold water to dump on her."

"That's enough." I replied, though I couldn't look at any of them. I could only keep my eyes on Shingen. Oh God, this is torture! I thought as I watched him. He's so...just woah...and Asuna still hasn't lifted her ban on sexy time!

Shingen and Kenshin's blades were locked. Shingen turned his head slightly, his eyes instantly found me. He smiled at me and gave me a wink just as he had in that first fight. I couldn't help the giggle that escaped me, which only made his smile widen.

Shingen then pushed Kenshin back with everything he had. The fight continued, neither of them making any win against the other. It went on for what felt like forever and I swear the room continued to get hotter. Asuna sighed as she went over and got in the middle of the fight, stopping it.

"I think that's enough. If this goes on any longer, you're both going to wear yourselves out and I think poor Ava might just combust." She declared.

I was furiously fanning myself by this point. "What? It's just...hot in here...plus pregnant women are prone to hot flashes." I remarked as I continued to use the borrowed fan.

Asuna looked at me. "Please, you started heating up the moment you looked at Lord Shingen."

My face began to turn red and so I hid behind the fan. Shingen just smiled.

"If Ava is getting too hot, perhaps she should just leave and let me finish this fight." Kenshin remarked looking at me.

"You know, last I checked I lived here and this is my home. You're the guest." I remarked.

Shingen's smile widened. He was then turning to Kenshin. "I gave you your fight, Kenshin."

Kenshin let out a huff. "Alright, but you'd better have some good sake and pickled plums."

"I already sent out for some after you walked in." Yukimura said. "It should be in the banquet hall right now."

"See, Yuki's on top of things." Shingen remarked.

Kenshin huffed. "Fine, I'll join your stupid alliance with the Oda."

Everyone began to file out of the training hall then. I turned to Yoshimoto to return his fan. "Thanks for letting me borrow this."

He held up a hand and shook his head. "No, I think you should keep that. I have plenty...besides I think you may need it more than I." He was then gracefully walking out of the room.

Shingen was walking over to me, taking my hand in his and bringing it to his lips. His eyes were on mine, warm and whispering seduction. "Had I known I would be showing off in front of my goddess, I would have tried harder." He said, his tone playful and flirtatious.

I suddenly had to start furiously fanning myself again.

"Do I need to dump cold water on both of you?" Asuna said, from behind Shingen.

I started having forgotten that she was even there.

"You dump it on Ava and I'll take care of Lord Shingen." Yukimura said from beside her.

"Are you suggesting we can't control ourselves?" Shingen asked.

"It just might be easier." Asuna replied.

I sighed. "It's been a month. I'm fine. The baby is fine. I keep getting a foot or something in my ribs." I said. "I've been taking it easy and following all of your instructions...can't you loosen up on this?"

"Ava..." Asuna began.

"Come on, you've been looking after me very closely since it happened. I've had no cramps, no bleeding. Everything is just fine. I feel fine."

Asuna let out a sigh. "Fine, but on the condition you guys take it slow and gentle. And if you even feel the slightest discomfort or anything, you stop."

"I would never be rough with my goddess." Shingen replied.

"What if your goddess asked?" I replied, unable to help myself.

Shingen smiled at me. "Well..."

"Yeah, well even if you do want to ask you can't tonight." Asuna said. "Gentle and slow. Got it you two?"

Shingen and I nodded. "Yes."

"I'm guessing you two won't be joining us for the impromptu banquet then?" Yukimura asked.

"No...and let everyone know to not disturb us for the rest of the day." Shingen answered. He was then scooping me up into his arms. "Shall we my princess?" He asked me, his voice pure seduction.

Despite the fact that we weren't alone, I found that I didn't care. I smiled up at him as I wrapped my arms around his neck. "To our room?"

Shingen grinned at me and gave me a gentle kiss on the lips. "As you wish." He was then carrying me out.

As we exited the training hall, I could hear Yukimura and Asuna. "I should probably warn everyone that they're going to want to stay away from that part of the palace."

"Probably not just for tonight but for the next few days." Asuna agreed.

Shingen carried me all the way to our room. Giving me light kisses on my forehead, lips, cheeks, and neck as we went. I returned his kisses with kisses and touches of my own, kissing his cheek, the side of his neck, the notch at the base of his throat, and the exposed part of his chest.

I could feel him shiver delightfully at the touch of my lips. "You've no idea what that does to me." He whispered in my ear.

When we finally made it to our room, Shingen shifted my weight so that he now held me with one arm. He used the other to slide the door closed behind us. I had to admit, him holding me with one arm was impressive, especially considering my increased weight from pregnancy. It was also a major turn on, adding fuel to the fire already burning within me.

Shingen took notice of this and lifted his free hand to gently stroke my cheek. Once again, even that gentle touch trailing heat over my skin and sending desire pooling low within me. "Are you enjoying this, my princess?" He asked me.

"You're the expert at reading people. What does my face say right now?" I replied.

Shingen smiled. "Your face says that you want me as badly as I want you." He answered.

"That would be a good read." I replied.

He carried me over to the futon and sat down. He then lowered me into his lap. "I promise, I will be gentle and take this slow." He told me, his fingers tracing along my jaw before coming to rest beneath my chin.

"I know." I replied, relishing in the feel of his touch.

"If anything feels off or you feel uncomfortable in any way, tell me my love." He spoke now, the love and concern in his eyes.

"I promise." I replied. "But I don't think anything is going to feel off...nothing feels more right than being with you."

Fire burned in Shingen's eyes as he gazed at me. He slowly drew in closer. "When you say things like that...it really tests my restraint." He replied, his warm breath washing over my lips as his hovered just millimeters away.

I couldn't wait any longer. I closed the short distance, pressing my lips to his. He smiled into the kiss as his arms wound around my waist. I flicked my tongue out over his lips until he parted his lips and welcomed my tongue inside and meeting it with his.

While we had shared many kisses and embraces since my rescue, there had been restraint there. The kisses hadn't been this passionate and I hadn't realized just how starved for Shingen I was until I finally had him. We parted after an immeasurable moment, both of us panting.

"I have missed kissing you like that." Shingen said to me, echoing my own thoughts.

"You're reading me once again. I was thinking the same thing." I replied. I was then turning in his lap so that I completely faced him, my legs wrapping around his waist.

Our lips met in another hungry kiss. He pulled back after a few moments only to bring his lips to my neck, trailing sweet and sensual kisses as he went. His hands found my sash and undid the knot, pulling it away. I pulled my kimono open for him, eagerly wanting his hands on my bare skin.

He pulled back from my neck and smiled at me, as he traced a finger along my collarbone. "I thought we were supposed to be taking things slowly, my angel." He teased.

"It's been too long." I replied. "I need your skin on mine." I was then reaching to undo his kimono.

Shingen chuckled warmly, his laughter washing over me like waves on the ocean. He didn't fight me as I undressed him. "It has indeed been too long." He agreed, pulling me back for another kiss once we were both bared.

The feeling of his flesh against mine, his hands roaming over my body, lavishing my curves with tender affection. His lips moved down my neck and to my breasts, where he tenderly nipped at the hard buds. I was so hot and already wet. "Shin...gen...please..." I moaned.

"Mmm...as you wish my love." He told me, as he gripped my hips. He guided me onto him.

A cry escaped my lips at the feeling of him inside of me after so long. He continued to lavish me in kisses as I bounced up and down on him. We both moaned as our pleasure continued to build.

In the next moments, Shingen had moved us so that I was now lying back on the futon. He was then thrusting into me. My hand sought his and we laced our fingers together as he continued to sweetly love me. Each thrust was long and deep. I could feel every last inch of him as he moved.

"Ah...mm...yes! Shingen...yes!" I cried out.

"Ava...my angel..." He called back.

We continued on for a while before finally cresting that last wave together. The pleasure was so intense, I was still twitching afterwards as we lay in the futon holding each other. Shingen kissed my forehead tenderly. "Are you feeling alright, my love?" He asked me.

I smiled. "Oh, I feel more than alright." I answered.

"I am glad to hear that."

I snuggled closer, enjoying the afterglow of our love-making. I could feel my eyelids growing heavy, though it was only midday. My body exhausted from finally getting the release it had been craving for weeks...or that may have just been the pregnancy...or a combination, I wasn't sure.

Shingen began to rub soothing circles in my back as he held me tighter. "Feeling tired?" He asked me.

"Maybe...just a little." I answered. "But I don't want to go to sleep yet."

Shingen chuckled. "Feel free to rest peacefully in my arms, my love." He told me. "If you wish, I can wake you with a kiss after you've napped for a while."

"But sleeping seems..." I let out a yawn then. "...like such a waste, when we finally got the all clear."

"I will just love you more when you wake up." He replied, kissing my brow once again. He then lifted a hand to the back of my head and began to massage my scalp.

"Mmm..." I murmured, my eyes closing. "That...feels...nice."

"Rest well, my princess."

Safe, warm, and satisfied, it wasn't long before I was falling asleep in Shingen's arms. Sweet dreams awaited me.

Shingen lay there holding his wife in his arms, gazing at her lovingly. The early afternoon sun spilled in from the open window, casting a heavenly golden glow about her. A tender smile came to his lips. "You truly are a sleeping angel." He whispered to her. "Definitely no siren."

After laying there for a while, just watching her sleep, Shingen gently untangled himself from his love and climbed out of bed. He knew she would likely be waking up soon and would probably be hungry. He put on his kimono and stepped out to find one of the maids. He requested food be brought to them in an hour before turning back to his sleeping wife.

He sat there and reached his fingers out to gently play with her now short strands of hair. It had already started to grow back out just a bit below her chin now. No matter what, he couldn't help but to feel that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

The food was brought what seemed like a short while later and the smell was soon wafting over to their futon. Shingen could tell the moment the aroma reached Ava as she began to stir. "Hmm...that...smells...delicious." She muttered sleepily.

Shingen watched as her eyes gently fluttered open. They soon came to focus on him and he gave her a smile. "Did you sleep well?" He asked, his fingers still playing in her hair.

She returned the smile. "Yes...but what happened to you waking me up with a kiss? And why aren't you still in bed with me?" She asked, pouting playfully.

"I had a feeling that when you awoke, you might be hungry." Shingen answered.

Ava pursed her lips. "Well...I'm kind of always hungry right now so that was a good guess."

Shingen chuckled. "I did expect that I would still be able to wake you with a kiss though, but it appears I should have done that before the food arrived."

Ava's cheeks reddened. "It's not my fault...pregnancy can heighten a woman's sense of smell you know."

She's so adorable right now. Shingen thought. I can't help myself. He was then leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

She looked up at him, her cheeks still red, but a smile on her face. She appeared to warm beneath his loving gaze. "What's that look on your face?" She asked.

"Just thinking about how adorable my wife is." He answered.

Ava was about to say something when her stomach let out a growl. "I guess the baby is telling me to eat." She said, a smile on her face.

Shingen was then helping Ava to get up and she slid on a robe before they sat back down to enjoy their meal together. She happily dug into the food, smiling the entire time. How can one person be so adorable? Shingen thought as he watched Ava eat the fish, rice and steamed vegetables. Everything she did was so cute.

She looked over at him as she finished her last bite of food. "That was delicious. I'm glad you had it brought in."

"Anything for my princess." He replied. He was then reaching up his hand to place his fingers beneath her chin. He traced her lower lip with his thumb. "Are you still hungry?" He asked.

He watched as Ava's eyes darkened in an attractive alluring way. Her lips parted and a slight gasp escaped them. "Not...for food." She answered.

Shingen smiled at her as he snaked his other arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. "Good...we have a lot of time to make up for." He then captured her lips in a passionate kiss that was the beginning of yet another round of gentle love-making.

Reach Chapter 12 below:

https://writingwhimsey.tumblr.com/post/657335615431524352/the-tiger-and-the-oda-princess-ch-12

#ikesen shingen #ikesen #fanfic #romance #chapter 11

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years ago

Text

The Red Well (Part 3) Hearts and Minds

This is it folks! The MC is EMPOWERED! @rurifangirl

The smoke of liquid nitrogen was gone and people finally saw the true appearance of the holy skeleton. It looked like a crippled embryo. Its swollen head had a large single eye. What looked like a tail was actually a flesh-wrapped spine. Its ribs protrude outside the flesh layer, so it must have used these sharp ribs to insert into the host's spine and manipulate the body when it was parasitic. The holy skeleton did not die under the blade of Gathering Clouds. It twisted and made a "hissing" sound. The golden eyes flash at you, but in the glass capture chamber it could not touch any host that could be parasitized. Without the power of a body it was so weak it couldn’t escape through glass.

King General used a strong flashlight and peered through the outer layer of flesh of the skeleton. Inside the half-developed organs were faintly visible.

You could still feel yourself shaking, not only in fear of this thing and its hunger for you, but in fear of Ruri Kazama who was even stronger. Now you finally understood why Ruri Kazama offered to take you here, rob Herzog of the fetal blood and give it to you. It wasn’t just about saving your life. When you stared into his swirling pupils of red and gold, you finally grasped that this was about more than just survival. He wouldn’t stop at Herzog and Chisei.

World Domination.

With you.

You have a nightmare vision of this unstoppable hybrid, killing everyone you know, piling them up like hay. Z understood his true nature. He warned you several times and each time you felt you had a reason to ignore him. His last words were “This one’s on you.”

You thought you were smart, strong, and quick enough to change and control your situation. But you were nothing compared to Ruri Kazama. Nothing!

There was only one way to free yourself...

"Look at it, how beautiful it is! What a perfect way to evolve! Before it was executed by the Black King, it actively evolved to live in parasitic form! It perpetuated its existence in this way!" The king pressed his hands on the capture pod and glorified the ugly parasite.

"Ah Excuse me!.” A voice from somewhere in this massive cave spoke up. “..if the god is a parasite ...... then how does it help us evolve?''

"It's not enough to find a parasite, you also have to find a host and food for it." The King smiled, "Only a very few hosts in this world can be parasitized by the god, such as Izanagi and Susanoo, but unfortunately the ancient descendants did not understand the great meaning of this parasitism and killed the god before it completely evolved into the new white king. It is not the god in this form that can give us the path of evolution, but the White King after the evolution is complete! We will see the new king ascend the throne and open a new chapter in the world!''

Pillars of light descended from the sky, enveloping you, the King General and Ruri Kazama in them. The helicopter's rotor blades cut through the rain curtain, a loud roar echoing through the well. It was a black helicopter with the cabin door open, and Gen Chisei sitting in the cabin, his long black trench coat whipping and flying.

At the last moment, Hydra arrived on the scene.

Ruri Kazama, who had been silent, seemed to wake up from a deep sleep. His eyes lit up, and golden mandala-like patterns seemed to turn under them. He slowly lifted his head and looked up at the black shadow that had fallen from the sky, the gale blowing away the fringes of his Kimono to reveal his ribbed chest.

"Brother! Brother! You've come to see me? Are you here for my graduation?" He laughed wildly in the wind.

"Or have you come for my enthronement ceremony?" His smile tightened into a malicious grimace, leaving only biting ferocity, "With your blood to stain my vestments with your sacrificial red?"

Just like that, Ruri seemed to have forgotten about you. But he already told you what to do.

Hide.

The ancient and stern language descended from the sky, just like the language of God echoing in the sky. The field of “Majesty" enveloped the Red Well, and tens of thousands of stainless steel wall panels fell off the well walls, pressing the king's wrath on everyone's head. The rules of gravity were forcibly changed. Everyone felt ten times their weight on their bones.

You flee. You flee like you fled the soldiers in Black Swan Bay. The huge metal plates smashed down on the helpless Devil Clan elites. But you were not affected and you had the Sword of the Gathering Clouds to aid you. The super sharp master blade cut through the thick steal plates like paper as you headed for the safety cabins. You didn’t understand why you were spared Majesty’s influence. Was this payback for rescuing Sakura on the Tokyo Tower? Or did Chisei understand that you weren't exactly a willing participant in all this?

All around you the moans of the members of the Devil Clan were echoing. They were like souls trapped in hell. You pause in your flight.

A young man had managed to grab your heel. His tears were pooling under his eyes. They were tears mixed with blood. His jaw looked distorted and broken. His chest was whistling with blood. He couldn’t have been older than you were, but he struggled. “Help… me…”

Before you could answer a massive shadow loomed over you and a steel plate came down and smashed through his neck like a guillotine, sending his head flying clear off the platform into the well below.

This wasn’t fair. These were people. They didn’t know Herzog was bad any more than you did as a Black Swan Bay orphan. Again, your mind superimposes Black Swan Bay onto the Red Well. If Herzog had taken you to the capitol as promised, wouldn’t he still be your beloved father? Would he not have infected you with his distorted visions of evolution? These people were just trying to survive! They were all that was left of the Devil Clan. Everyone else was in prison!

What was the difference between them and you? They were just like you! They were being slaughtered like animals and they were just like you!

The Red Well suddenly echoed with a mighty roar that came from your wide open throat. It was plaintive and piercing like the cry of a lonely wolf or a mourning mother over her fallen child. It was full of sorrow but also fierce frustration that this shit keeps happening and you want it to fucking stop! Your throat stretched and rattled painfully. If you could stop the world with your voice, you would roar until your voice gave out!

Your eyes explode into a kaleidoscope pattern of black red and gold as the blood in your body finally takes full hold. Ruri’s blood has replaced your own. That blood was yours now and all the power that came with it!

Ruri was laughing wildly from somewhere in the cave. “Do you hear that brother! It’s just as it’s written! A rib was taken from a man and from it was formed into a woman! See! I can quote fairy tales too!”

Your hands seize a firm hold of Gathering Clouds and you spin and a dazzling horizontal arc! The secret of this mighty sword is that it could control the wind. One of the first emperor hybrids wielded it to push a wildfire set by his enemies back into them, burning them to ash. In this case, the sword produced a wind so powerful it knocked back all the massive steel plates. Even though they were heavy in normal gravity and ten times heavier under the influence of Majesty, this dragon-tail sword blew those plates away like they weighed no more than feathers! They scattered like dandelion tufts blown by a child!

There was nothing in your mind other than stopping this mindless slaughter. You didn’t care about the Devil Clan versus Hydra. In this matter, you had to agree with Ruri Kazama. There were no good guys versus bad guys. There were good guys in Hydra like Sakura Yabuki and there were good people in the Devil Clan, like Chime and Chance. The only evil that led both astray were Herzog and Bondarev. They should be turning those weapons on them!

Chisei did not come alone. The heavily armed Hydra members followed Gen Chisei out of the cabin of the helicopters. They fired at the shaft wall with grapple guns and hung high from them, but Chisei Gen fell straight down. Kazama Ruri stretched the fuchsia-red sword in the air, Chisei’s twin blades made a dazzling ray of more than ten meters long, and the three blades fought against each other. The violent sparks illuminate the faces of the estranged brothers. Chisei’s face is indifferent like a stone carving, but Kazama Ruri’s is like a bloodthirsty evil spirit.

Around them, gunfire and explosions continued. The Hydra Elites hung in the air by their grapple guns and pulled the trigger before they had even completed their fall. A hailstorm of bullets fell from the sky. The moment Chisei jumped out of the cabin, “Majesty” was lifted, but the engineering team and gunmen of the Devil Clan were cut down and suppressed by gunfire before they could get up and dodge. The Hydra elites were not going to spare anyone in the well. They were thugs among thugs, and now, even though they dangled from ropes, they hold their weapons as still and stable as professional assassins.

A hurricane of violence had erupted in the Well of Bones. Ruri and Chisei’s blades were like lightning, the gun battles were like thunder, and you were howling like the wind.

You ran straight towards the wall, and then straight up the wall. Your face is like the mask of Medusa and your hair quivered like black snakes. You didn’t care how fast you were running, it wasn’t fast enough! People were still dying! If this were just up to you and just about you, you probably could have killed everyone in this well much more easily. That was how you were taught in Black Swan Bay. But now you’d been infected with a new philosophy.

The righteous philosophy of Caesar Gattuso! What was right mattered more than what was efficient. Human lives were worth more than the blood of gods! Your whole body felt like it was on fire as you cut through all the weapons of the Hydra members hanging on the walls. You were just as fast as Ruri was. Hydra leaders took aim at the Devil clan only for the muzzles of their guns to fall off and a strong breeze to shake them from the wall. You were able to easily outrun the bullets that strafed after you as you cut heavy weapons to pieces and cut them from their wires so that they would fall to the maintenance platform.

The surviving Devil clan members cheered as they crawled out from cover and picked up weapons to counterattack, and they aimed at the vital parts of the Hydra assassins, giving them fatal injuries while they were hanging in the air. But then those cheers changed to fearful confusion as this whirlwind of a woman descended on them and their weapons split in half even though they never saw you cut them.. “Stop fighting! Don’t you realize who the real enemy is?!” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It sounds like a mix of Ruri Kazama’s voice and yours, speaking double toned, like someone possessed.

“Traitor! She’s a traitor!” Someone yelled among the Devil Clan ranks

“Kill that Devil woman!” Came shouts from the Hydra elites on the wall.

Yelling erupted from every side of the well from both the Devil Clan and the Hydra elites. You’re suddenly enveloped by a hail of bullets from both sides who now viewed you as a dangerous enemy and united to fight against you. A rueful bitter voice echoed in your head. “Well, at least they answered your question. Their real enemy is you… apparently.” A strong wind burst out and the bullets of the Hydra and the Devil Clan shot back into their faces. Dozens of men on both sides on the conflict fell dead or seriously wounded in an instant.

You put one hand over your eyes. You cackled at your own despair. You couldn’t stop yourself laughing uproariously. Your laugh rose to an insane screaming pitch as you rose above the floor of the maintenance platform on a gale of wind like some sort of evil witch. “Fine… Fine! Have it your way. Tear each other’s throats and die here with no one to mourn you!” While you felt the evil of Herzog and the justice of Gattuso, you still had little patience for idiots.

“Leave her to me! I’ll take care of the rest!” A man darted forward. You could tell by his speed and the ferociousness in his eyes that this one was different. The sword he carried glow brilliantly as though it had been superheated. But to you he was just running like a child with a toy light saber. What mattered more was that he was a leader. He had influence.

You met him, but not blade for blade so as not to smash his weapon by accident. Instead you dodged while he struck at you again and again but you were like a ghost in the air. “Tell your men to stop fighting!” You say.

“I will not let you resurrect the god!” His blade suddenly burst into flames, extending its reach and sending a wave of fire at you. The fire ignites your dress, turning the white fabric to soot and exposing your midriff. Delicate white scales sparkled on your abdomen in the rain as though you were made of diamond. The man’s eyes widened in horror as you just absorbed what should have been a devastating blow.

“The god is already resurrected.” You tell him, your voice is shaking, pleading. The rain drops run down your face in a torrent. “You don’t understand its nature. I don’t think you can control it. If you don’t work together with the Devil Clan, you’ll never-”

Now it was the senior member’s turn to laugh. “Ha! Work together? Work with the greedy people who got us into this mess in the first place?!” He pointed the sword at you. His eyes blazing gold. “You’re just a child. We’ve been fighting this war for all our lives. Our sides were determined on the day we were born and I have sworn to follow my righteous path until I die!”

“These people are your family!” You scream desperately. “Chance’s real name was Ichirou Inuyama! He was Inuyama!”

You suddenly see his whole body glow like fire and his clothes burned away. Under his combat suit he was strapped head to toe in layers of plastic explosive! He’d prepared to meet a super-Devil like you or Ruri.

He howled against the wind. “DIE! DEVIL SCUM!”

Time seemed to slow as the raging ball of flame burned his body to ash and came towards you, and the roaring gale of Gathering Clouds bubbled outward to meet it. The force of the suicide vest was so powerful, the flames licked around your body, surrounding you in fire. But eventually, just as in the legend, the wind won out. The full force of the suicide blast flew away from you. Not only that, the blast was fed and accelerated by your ferocious wind until that fire expanded into a fireball a hundred meters wide and heated up to nearly 2,000 degrees. It engulfed men and women who had thrown away their broken guns and pulled out knives and swords. If they didn’t have knives and swords, they fought with fists, feet, and bits of debris. They didn’t even look up when the ball of fire took them over and snuffed out their lives. The massive fireball left corpses and flames and devastation in its wake.

But you didn’t mean it. You were just defending yourself.

A loud crash interrupted you before you could panic. You jerked your head around and saw Chisei Gen standing under a shower of burning wreckage from a helicopter that was rolling down the wall. Gen Chisei did not dodge and it was too late to warn him.

You run forward a few steps but the whirling blade that had broken off from the wreckage already chopped into Chisei’s shoulder, crushing the man flat to the ground as the rest of the blades cut in turn. Immediately afterwards, the crumpled black fuselage hit him and slid across the ground before finally crashing into the tall steel liquid nitrogen tank. Huge amounts of liquid nitrogen poured over the wreckage of the helicopter, frost spreading along the surface of the wreckage and rising up as a thick mist.

The fuel tanks ruptured and the fallen wreckage was ignited. Electric sparks flashed and buzzed as if a thousand suns were burning at the bottom of the well, a wave of gas forcing everyone still alive apart. Columns of light swept across the bottom of the storage well with columns of dust, fiery air currents and flying debris blew across the area.

The Hydra and engineering teams of the Devil Clan were still fighting. They didn't even realize that the leader of the Hydra group had been killed in action. All of them were immersed in a great sense of mission and anger. No matter what the outcome of this fight was, no one could stop anymore. Even though you had the blood, the power, and the faith in justice, you felt lost and without any hope of victory.

You’re not even sure you wanted Chime to come back any more. Maybe this is for the best that he sleeps forever with his brother.

This was not Black Swan Bay. These weren’t little children running from explosions or cold-blooded men. These were adults. These people were choosing to kill each other. Even if they were deceived, they truly believed the deception. Even if you took all their weapons and tied them all up, they would still move and crawl on the ground in an attempt to tear at each other with their teeth.

The trap that Herzog had set was not this well. The burning man was right. The trap had been set and carefully laid in their minds and cultivated from the day of their birth. Just like the trap of the suicide pills. These people had to, not only choose to live and not seek death, but also choose to let others live and not seek the death of other people.

"So sad the end, ah... the family line that stretched for thousands of years, the guardian of Japan, just ended its mission.'' Herzog stands by the burning wreckage and laments in a poetic voice, "From now on in the world, there will no longer be any such thing as Emperor.”

"But no matter," he smiled faintly again, "Emperors were outdated anyway."

Ruri was strangely silent. With his brother gone, shouldn’t he be attacking Herzog?

Herzog hoisted the carrying case in his hand, the glass capture capsule is contained in that case. He has got what he dreamed of all his life. It is time to leave this well. You huff. What a magnificent bastard. He didn’t have to do anything to kill anyone here. Everyone was happy to do it for him, yourself included.

You stare at the sword in your hand. What a poisoned pill that sword turned out to be!

At that moment, a loud heartbeat came from behind him, like a sudden booming death knell, like something returning from hell! Hands covered in white scales pierced the metal skin of the wreckage of the helicopter, and crystal clear claws snapped around the head of the King General!

The flames in the wreckage sucked in and out, getting more and more fiery, as though something huge was breathing in the cockpit. Each time it inhaled a huge amount of air from within the wreck, it exhaled a gushing fire from it.

The suitcase fell to the ground. The King kicked and struggled. Not only is the pressure on that sharp claw increasing, but the sound of breathing was taking on a threatening aura. Kazama Ruri didn't move. Those dull, soulless eyes lit up again, and he watched with interest as the claw slowly tightened. The king's mask was crumbling, blood dripping down from the cracks.

The wreckage suddenly burst apart! The few people who approached the wreckage were immediately killed by the flying flames and debris.

Out of the firelight came the dazzling white shadow, someone who could no longer be called human. He was such a beautiful and hideous creature. He possessed gnarled muscles and rippling sinews that proclaimed what power was in this incredible body. The surface of the scales of his skin were like golden-red brocade in the firelight. The skin on his back split open. Slender bones opened up. Bloody wings stretched themselves out for the first time He was drenched in blood from this wing beat but the wounds on his back healed at a speed visible to the naked eye, after which the fierce and savage back muscles bulged.

The exoskeleton-encircled face could no longer smile or frown, and the newborn Chisei breathed up into the sky with a windy roar in his throat.

He was something between an angel and a devil, a mistake that should not have been made in this world.

"Dragon's blood! You ...... you used dragon's blood?!" The General exclaimed.

Chisei’s voice was deep and echoing. "Yes, as an emperor, I can't kill you, but as a ghost, I can surpass the limits of an emperor." He said softly, "I've been a ghost slayer all my life, yet I didn't understand until this moment why those ghosts crave for power.''

He looked up at the dark night sky, rain pattering on that hard face: "When there is already boundless darkness where you are, how can you not fly to the flame?"

You gasp. Those words. Not those words! Those are Herzog’s words! Why was Chisei quoting the words of the dying Devil Clan? You reach out your hand. And then stop. With a slight popping sound, the skull of Herzog broke like a water pipe. He threw the King's body on the ground and lowered his emperor-like golden eyes to observe. The corpse never moved a single bit.

The King surprisingly just died. And suddenly everything made sense. You were too occupied to think about it before. Didn’t Chisei fall helplessly before Ruri Kazama just hours ago? Didn’t Chisei always save Majesty to the end of the battle as an escape plan because it rendered him as helpless as a newborn kitten? In this instance, he’d thrown it out at the beginning! But he suffered no side effects. He wanted to kill Ruri Kazama so badly that he went against his own morals and principles.

Morals and principals were so troublesome. You think to yourself bitterly. They get in the way of efficiency.

After what you’d seen of Ruri Kazama and after what you’d seen of the god. You didn’t believe you could survive here much longer and you didn’t think Chisei would win. It was best to escape while these two musclebound idiots solved their differences. Knowing them… they’d kill each other and you never got in the way of that before, and bitterly decide not to get in the way of that again.

Since Chisei didn’t suffer any from using his Soul Skill you decide to use your own Soul Skill. You press your foot to the ground and let the spiritual roots take hold without reservation. Mental filaments spread like vines and touch every part of the Red Well until you feel like you wear it as a second skin. You needed a way out. Then you could bury this place in magma. The magma wasn’t far from here. After all, it fed the god that caused all this. You would simply return it to its place.

A strange signature, like three footsteps, catches your attention. Someone had walked up near the rim of the well close to the machinery lift platform. You can’t see anyone, but they’re there. Who could be up there?

Your heart suddenly leaps into your throat and your memory throws up the scene on Tokyo Tower of Ruri beheading and then severing the body of the King in two only for it to pop up again in a second place! The person standing up on the platform was likely the real King! This body is a fake!

“Ha!” You snarl and take the Heavenly Cloud blade and strike the ground. It summons a huge tornado that lifts you off like a rocket. You really did have wings and you were going to pounce on this King creature like and eagle and kill him for real.

But this man was always prepared. What would he have for you? Bombs? Hah. Deadpool? Hah! There was nothing that could save him!

When you approach the rim of the well, it’s too late that you see the fine nano-fiber mesh that surrounds it. It wraps around you like a spiderweb, and clings tight as you collide with it and push with forward momentum. The Sword of Gathering Clouds slips from your grasp and goes falling back towards the well. Immediately your upward momentum comes crashing down onto the flat land that surrounds the Red Well and you roll several feet before coming to a stop next to an armored boot. Your hands are bound, your legs are bound. The nanofibers are crushing into your skin.

You stare up into the sky and a pistol is pointed right at your forehead. Herzog’s masked face comes into view. He waggles his fingers in greeting. “Hello.”

#Dragon Raja

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subarublue · 4 years ago

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Sparda Family Bonding Time Series - Part 1

Series Description: It’s family bonding time! Sparda family style! A series of short stories revolving around platonic familial relationships between the members of the DMC crew. Warning: Lots of fluff and bonding ahead.

One Shot

Title: Kindred Spirits

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Timeline: Post DMC5

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 4153

Read on Ao3

Summary: Losing a brother is hard, even if you don’t always get along. Which is why Dante is ever grateful for this second chance with his...because he knows someone who’ll never get another chance with hers.

Notes: Mostly just some platonic comfort and family fluff between Dante and Kyrie with a splash of Vergil, Nero, and Nico.

It was inevitable, really.

They’d been back from the underworld for almost a month now, but they were still adjusting back to normal life. They’d been down there for so long, after all; constantly fighting for their lives and sparring each other in between. It wasn’t easy getting back into the normal swing of things. Well, normal for Dante, anyway. Vergil’s definition of normal was a whole other story.

So it really wasn’t surprising that a fight (a real one and not a sparring match) had finally broken out between them. Honestly, Dante was surprised it had taken this long to happen. Then again, he had been trying not to start one, not that he could say much for Vergil’s effort, if there had even been any. He didn’t quite know for sure. Talking wasn’t exactly Vergil’s strong suit; of course Dante wasn’t much better in that regard, either.

He wasn’t even sure what had started it. It probably didn’t matter; whatever it was had likely been trivial. This had been brewing ever since they got back (probably before so, even) and one wrong thing was bound to set them off, eventually.

Because things always ended up like this between him and Vergil. Yeah, sure they were capable of getting along for long periods of time, but somehow, no matter how good things were going, it always ended up in a fight eventually. That was just how it had always been, ever since they were kids. It was just unfortunate that this time it happened at Nero’s place.

Luckily, it was late so the boys were all in bed, sound asleep. At least, Dante hoped they were. They were making quite a ruckus outside and this was not something kids needed to see. Nico and Nero were watching on the sidelines and the latter was trying his best to not resort to yelling at his father and uncle, which would make even more noise. Dante was certain it wouldn’t be long before his nephew dove into put a stop to their brawl.

Except that Nero never got the chance.

Vergil had just given Dante his usual spiel of “Die!” which Dante was sure was only said in anger and he didn’t actually mean it (probably) when a distinctly feminine voice pierced the air with a ferocity he had never before heard from the young woman.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

It was like time had stopped for everyone, including Vergil and Dante who both froze in mid-strike. Everyone turned to look at the petite woman standing on the steps of the porch. Dante wasn’t sure when they had gained another audience, but he now knew that in addition to Nero and Nico, Kyrie was bearing witness to the traditional Sparda way of ‘discussing your problems.’

Apparently though, she was far less than content with the way their family handled their issues. Her hands were fisted in her skirt with a white-knuckled grip and the look on her face was one of absolute fury; an expression Dante had never thought the innocent girl was capable of. When he saw her angry tears beginning to fall, he felt panic well up inside him, though he tamped it down as best he could. He was never good at dealing with crying women. Not that he would have to worry about that. Nero would take care of her.

“If you two want to kill each other, then go do it somewhere else! I’m not going to stand around here and watch you two make the biggest mistake you’ll ever regret. This is our home and I WON’T STAND FOR THIS!”

No one dared to say a word. By now Dante and even Vergil had lowered their swords and while the latter appeared mostly stoic as always, there was the barest hint of shame in his expression. Dante’s expression was more akin to a scolded child. Even Nero and Nico were taken aback, though Nico recovered more quickly. She snickered a bit, but seemed to realize that was a big mistake and tried to stifle it, though the glare Kyrie shot her told everyone she hadn’t been successful.

“Um, Kyrie?” Nero addressed her tentatively in an effort to distract her. This was new territory even for him. They’d had disagreements before of course, but nothing that had ever brought out this kind of anger in her.

She leveled her heated look at Nero, and he stiffened in response until she looked back at the battered duo on their lawn. He didn’t get another word in.

“I won’t repeat myself. Either put those away and get cleaned up or leave! I’ll not have two grown men who are supposed to be brothers trying to kill each other at my house.” Her voice had calmed now, but only because it was devoid of emotion; as if she didn’t have the energy to feel any more. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode back into the house, slamming the porch door behind her causing everyone except Vergil to flinch at the sudden noise.

The silence that followed in her departure was tense. Nero slowly turned to glare at his father and uncle with a look that rivaled his girlfriend’s from just moments ago.

“You two finished, then?” he said through gritted teeth. Dante could tell Nero was trying to rein in his temper.

“Yes.” Everyone was surprised when Vergil spoke first, but Dante was more so by his answer. He’d been certain Vergil was going to drag him off to finish their fight elsewhere. Instead, his brother sheathed Yamato without any complaint. That was definitely a change.

Huh. Guess he really is trying… But his thought didn’t get far before being interrupted.

“Dante?” Nero’s voice still held that angry tone, obviously waiting for a confirmation from his uncle, as well. Dante almost felt like a little kid again, being reprimanded for not paying attention.

“Yeah. No complaints from me.” He dismissed his sword as well to hopefully further appease his nephew.

“Soooo, uh, that was new. Didn’t know she had in it her, ya know?” Nico spoke up then, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Nero turned his glare on her, but it only lasted a second before worry settled on his face and he turned to looked at the door his girlfriend had left through.

“No, it’s not like her at all. I mean, she always gets a little emotional around this time of year, but she’s never gone off on anyone like that before...” Nero trailed off, obviously confused as to exactly what had Kyrie so upset all of a sudden.

“What significance does this time of year hold for her?” Surprisingly, it was Vergil who spoke up out of curiosity this time.

Nero looked stunned at first that his father had even bothered asking, but the look on his face quickly turned into a sorrowful grimace. Whatever the significance was, it affected Nero too, Dante noted.

That’s when he remembered.

Of course. This was the same time of year that the Savior incident occurred. They’d both been kidnapped by that old codger and used for his own, personal world-domination plan. Kyrie had been the bait and Nero had fallen right into his trap. It had been a horrible situation for the both of them. He was lucky he’d been able to rescue them...or well, Nero anyway; his nephew did all the damsel in distress saving. Either way, it stood to reason that the whole event left lasting scars.

“Her brother, Credo...he died around this time.” Nero looked pained as he spoke; Credo had been a brother to him, too. “I had to watch him die, but Kyrie? She never even got to see him one last time or say goodbye.”

At the mention of Credo, Dante’s eyes widened in realization and he suddenly felt very stupid for not putting two and two together immediately. Of course she was upset with them. Kyrie would have probably given anything to have her own brother back and here he and Vergil were, trying to make pincushions out of each other with their second chance.

He remembered Credo’s death clearly in his mind: questioning the dying man for information. Information that he gave freely in hopes that it would put an end to Sanctus’s plans. The man using his last bit of strength to stand, to ask Dante for one final request: to save Nero and his little sister.

God, I never even told either of them about his last moments. Nero probably didn’t even know he was still alive after the Savior took him. I should have...

Movement from Nero drew his attention away from his own thoughts. It was clear, despite what he’d just told Vergil, that Nero was still in the dark about exactly why their fight had upset Kyrie so much, but he was already moving to go after her. Dante panicked before he could stop himself.

“Wait, kid!”

He almost cringed as Nero turned to regard him with an angry look. What had possessed him to stop his nephew? Nero knew his girlfriend better than anyone so the kid was the logical choice to go and comfort her. Hell, he could probably do it better than Dante and Vergil combined, though relatively speaking, the two of them combined was almost never a good thing. Not to mention they both were complete shit at comforting others.

“What? You got a problem? You’re half the reason she’s upset so unless you’re gonna go fix this, just shut your damn mouth.” It was clear Nero was still angry with them, and Dante didn’t blame him. He didn’t like his father and uncle fighting if his stopping their fight right before their little underworld vacation was anything to go by.

But now, Nero was turning back to go after Kyrie, not even bothering to wait for an answer.

I should just let him go. They’ve been together long enough, surely she’ll tell him what’s bothering her and he can comfort her way better than-

Nero was opening the back door now and Dante couldn’t stop the words that left his mouth.

“Let me talk to her.” He regretted them the second he said it.

Stupid. This was a stupid idea. He was no good with crying women. Why was he doing this? Why was he putting himself in a situation where he was probably just going to make matters worse?

Oh, who was he kidding? He knew very well why he was doing this:

Guilt.

Not only did he feel somewhat responsible for what happened to the both of them and Credo, he’d never even told them about the man’s dying wish for Dante to save them. And here he was, fighting with his own brother right in their backyard.

Nero couldn’t cover his shocked expression, not that Dante expected any different of a reaction. In fact, even Nico and Vergil had surprised looks on their faces. When no one made a move to say anything, too stunned into silence, Dante figured he’d have to explain.

“Look, I think I understand what’s really bothering her, so...just let me talk to her. If I make it worse, you can step in and fix it.”

“If you make it worse, I’ll do more than just bitch-slap you this time.” Nero crossed his arms and leveled Dante with a glare to show he meant business.

“Deal.” He nodded to Nero as he passed him to head through the door. He really hoped he didn’t screw this up; for Kyrie’s sake...and his own.

It didn’t take him long to find her; she hadn’t gone far. She was sitting on a swinging bench on the front porch as he stepped out the door. When he heard her quiet weeping, he felt the panic rise up in him again.

Why? Why’d he volunteer for this again? He wasn’t any good at this whole comfort thing. Where was he even supposed to start?

Sorry’s usually a good place. He sighed. Yeah, right. What the hell was he supposed to say sorry for?

Sorry my brother and I not-quite killed each other and bled all over your lawn? Sorry your brother’s dead and mine’s not? Sorry it looks like we’re wasting the second chance we have when you deserve it a hell of a lot more?

God, he was terrible at this…and he hadn’t even said anything, yet.

He heard her try to stifle a sob, apparently now aware that she had company. He swallowed hard. He was not prepared for this at all.

Guess it’s time to do what I do best: wing it.

He took a seat at the opposite end from her. He watched her stiffen when his weight shifted the swing of the bench, slightly. Still unsure on how to start, he looked straight ahead, only glancing over at her every now and then as she tried to quiet her tears. He was half-hoping she’d say something first, though it soon became evident that would not be the case. He was just stalling because he was afraid; more so of upsetting her further than of Nero’s wrath.

He caught her out of the corner of his eye, chancing a glance in his direction to see who was currently sitting with her. He heard her choke back another sob, though whether it was from realizing it was him or some other reason, he didn’t know. It still solidified his thoughts that this was bad idea, but he was already here and Nero was expecting him to fix this. Besides, she deserved to know about her brother’s last moments. It was the least he could do. If he made things worse, he’d just have to let Nero beat the crap out of him. Maybe that would make her feel better, though he doubted it. This was Kyrie, after all. She’d never wish harm on anyone.

He cleared his throat finally, trying to gather up some courage. He knew he couldn’t stall forever.

“I’m no good at shit like this, so you’ll have to bear with me a bit.” Probably not the best start, so he paused to give her a chance to tell him to leave in case she didn’t want to talk to him. When she finally spoke, she didn’t tell him to leave, but she didn’t bother to turn and face him, either.

“It’s very rude to have fights at other people’s houses, you know?” There was a tinge of anger to her voice still. “Especially when you should be happy to have each other back.”

There it was. There was no mistaking the disdain in her voice. She really did think they were taking advantage of this second chance they had. So he’d been right, after all. Now, what to do about it?

Well, set her straight, of course....hopefully.

“I know it doesn’t look like we’re thankful to have each other back, but that’s not the case. Well, for me anyway. I can’t really speak for Vergil, but...he seems to be trying, I guess.”

“Is that how you show it? By trying to kill each other?” He could still hear her sniffle now and then, but her anger was overriding her crying for the moment. He sighed again.

“I ain’t gonna get into why we do things the way we do. We’d be here all night. What I can tell you is no matter how serious it looked, we weren’t gonna kill each other. Maybe a long time ago that might’ve been the case, but not anymore. Things are different now.”

“Because of Nero.” The anger was gone from her voice now, but it was replaced with an emotion he didn’t really think he could deal with well: sorrow.

“Yeah.” The silence following his admission was terribly uncomfortable. She was back to crying quietly again and he decided he should go with what his first instinct had been: apologize. Though he had far more to apologize for than just the brawl in her backyard.

“I’m sorry for what happened back then.”

“Just don’t fight here. I know Nero hates it.”

So do you. He didn’t say it out loud, though. Instead, he opted to correct her assumption. “I wasn’t apologizing for that, though I am sorry for that, too.”

He saw her in his peripheral vision; she slowly turned to face him. He was really glad he wasn’t looking directly at her. He could tell her face was tear-stained and it would have probably shot down any confidence he had to say what he needed to next.

“What are you apologizing for, then?” Her voice was strained from all the crying, but the confusion was still evident.

“For what happened to your brother.”

Her gasp was so quiet he would have missed it if he didn’t have exceptional hearing and he glanced at her briefly. Her eyes were wide and her hands covered her mouth in shock, obviously not having expected his answer. He swallowed thickly.

No backing out now, he thought. “I guess you could say I know what it feels like to lose a brother, too. I thought Vergil was dead for a long time. Even before that, I lost him to his own desire for power. We never really got along very well, but…it still hurt.”

“What happened that made you think he was dead”? Her shock had died down as she’d listened to him, now voicing an obvious question he should have anticipated.

A pained look crossed his face at the memory. She just didn’t know what can of worms she was trying to open. That was something he might tell them someday (or maybe Vergil would, if he really remembered it), but for now it was better left unsaid. They were getting off topic, anyway. Fortunately, she’d seen the look on his face at her question and understood it was a subject he didn’t want to get into.

“Sorry. I should have known better than to ask that thoughtlessly. It still hurts to talk about how Credo died, too.”

They were getting back to the reason he originally came out here in the first place and he was never one to pass up an opportunity, so he took it.

“You probably didn’t know it, but I was there…when he died, you know?”

“Yes, I know. Nero told me. He said you were there to catch him when he fell,” she said it like it should have been obvious and he knew she didn’t understand what he meant.

“No. Nero only told you what he knew.” She looked at him as he spoke and he turned slightly to face her more directly. Surely if he could face demons on a daily basis, he could face this. “He was still alive after Nero was taken by the Savior.” There was a long stretch of silence as she realized what this meant.

“But…Nero said he was probably dead when he fell from the Savior. He said that Sanctus…with Yamato…” She faltered, unable to talk about how her brother had died at the hands of someone he had respected and served. She was crying again now, and it took all his resolve not to look away again.

“Well, he wasn’t.” He met her eyes. He could barely catch the small glimmer of hope in them through her tears. She hadn’t had a body to bury and he suddenly realized that all she’d ever really wanted was a bit of closure, since she’d been practically comatose through the whole thing.

“I talked to him, before…you know.” He refrained from mentioning the man’s death again to try and avoid more of her tears. He turned away again, finding he couldn’t handle the look on her face. “He told me what the old man’s plans were. I guess that was his way of trying to right any wrongs he’d done in his last moments.”

“He was always very noble and selfless. He really thought what they were doing was for the better of the world.” She seemed to have gotten her crying under control somewhat as she reminisced about her brother, but her tone was still heavy with sadness. “And he was never one to be afraid of accepting responsibility for his own actions. I’m glad in his last moments that he wasn’t alone…and he was thinking of redemption.”

“Those weren’t his last thoughts, though.” He braved another glance at her before looking away again to stare at nothing in particular.

“W-what do you mean?” She seemed confused, as if she couldn’t think of anything else that might have mattered to Credo in his last moments.

“What do you think it means? He was pretty stubborn. Even as he sat there bleeding out, he forced himself to his feet so he could meet me face to face and ask me to honor his one last request-” Dante turned back to look at her fully this time “-to save you and Nero.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly before the waterworks started up again and he felt more panic welling up in him. Great. He made her cry more. God, this is exactly what he was afraid of.

“At the end…h-he was thinking of us?”

She was staring at her hands in her lap as more silent tears fell from her eyes. She wasn’t really talking to anyone in particular; just thinking out loud, but he countered her question, anyway.

“Did you really expect any different?” Her tearful gaze met his and he willed himself not to look away. “You said it yourself: he was pretty noble and selfless. Seems very much like him to be worried about the two people he cared about most rather than his own fate.”

He’d hoped that would be of some comfort to her and stop her crying, but he jerked when she suddenly let out a rather loud sob and lunged forward, gripping the lapels of his coat as she practically fell into his chest and started weeping. He swallowed nervously, half-expecting Nero to come out the front door ready to knock him around a bit, but no one disturbed them and he settled for awkwardly patting her on the back as she cried her heart out.

They sat like that for a while; long enough that awkwardness dissipated for him somewhat. He eventually opted to rest one arm around her back in a gentle half-embrace, which seemed to do far more at comforting her than anything else. Eventually, she stopped crying and he hoped that was good enough.

“Dante?”

He looked down at her as she pulled away from him and the panic came back full force when he noticed there were still tears running down her cheeks. There was something different about it this time, though. This wasn’t the sorrowful weeping from moments ago. Instead, the silent tears were a stark contrast to the gentle smile on her face.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Thank you.” She said before attempting to dry her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

He let out a short huff of relief. It seemed he wouldn’t get the crap beat out of him for the second time tonight. At least he could say that Vergil hadn’t faired too well, either. More so, he was just happy he could give her that little bit of closure that was long overdue.

“I’m sorry I never said anything before. Nero told me once he was the only family you had left and I guess I just didn’t know how to bring it up. I’m not real great at dealing with cryin’ women,” he admitted. That prompted a quiet laugh from her as he stood up from the bench and offered her a hand up, which she accepted graciously.

“I can understand that.” She gave him a knowing smile. “He was wrong, though.”

“Huh?” Now it was his turn to be confused.

“Nero. He was wrong. Credo wasn’t my only family left.” The smile on her face held a bit of a teasing look to it. His confusion bled into his expression as she took one of his hands in both of hers. “I have a new one now, in all of you.”

Tears started forming in her eyes again at the admission, while his widened in surprise this time. Her expression was anything but sad though, and Dante now recognized these tears for what they were: tears of happiness. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as he pulled her into a gentle hug.

“It’s a bit late and maybe Nero hasn’t made it official quite yet, but...welcome to the family, Kyrie.”

“Thank you, Dante.”

When he pulled away, her smile was brighter than ever, despite the tears, and he thought that…maybe not all crying was so bad.

Part 1 of this series • Part 2 →

#devil may cry fanfiction #dmc #dmc dante #dmc kyrie #my writing #devil may cry #suby scrawls

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solynaceawrites · 4 years ago

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Promise Me Forever [11]

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Lirael Thorne (OC) Tags: Slow Burn, Romance, Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe, First Time, Friends to Lovers Chapters: 11/14 co-written by @lickitysplitfic Summary: An old, long-forgotten promise between gods comes back to haunt Dante when it deposits an unfamiliar woman on his door. Claiming to be the descendant of Ler, she says that they’re meant to fulfill the oath made by Sparda centuries ago, and all he can do is watch as she turns his life upside down. Yet when her parents come knocking, demanding the oath be fulfilled, he’s forced to choose: return to the bachelor ways he loved so much, or give in to the emotions brewing between him.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Lir can't stop smiling as she follows Dante through the streets of Fortuna. The aquarium had been everything she dreamed of and more: large tanks full of exotic fish, an open pool where she had been allowed to pet a sea urchin and a turtle��even if the ticklish sensation of the urchin's spines made her squeal—and even a hallway that passed through an exhibit where a shark swam directly overhead. Dante had been more than patient with her when she stopped and stared in wonder, gently pulling her to the side to allow others to pass.

Her hand reaches to her neck, where a charm he'd bought her rests. It's a simple thing, a shark's tooth on a leather thread, but she cherishes it more than anything else she owns, and he'd seemed pleased by how happy she'd been to receive it. Even now, he's more relaxed than he's been in weeks, strolling along with his hands in his pockets, pointing out the different shops and buildings he recognizes.

She's a bit nervous about meeting Nero and Kyrie again, more so meeting their children, but the high of the aquarium makes it easy to shift that into anticipation. Lir has always been good with children, something that came about when she'd been picked to teach weekly classes for reading and writing, and she hopes these will take to her as easily as the ones from her home had.

Their house is small, but cute, a bike sitting on the tiny patch of grass that is their front lawn and a selection of different kinds of balls on the steps. When Dante rings the doorbell there are shouts and footsteps inside, and Lir is shocked when two boys fling the door open. "Dante!" they scream, launching themselves at him.

"Hey boys!" he laughs, catching each one in an arm. Lir chuckles as he swings them upside down, holding them like footballs.

"Can I touch your gun?" one asks.

"No, Nero would kill me."

"How about me? Can I have one?" the other pleads.

"Maybe later. Go tell Nero we're here."

He swings them both upright and they take off, pushing each other as they disappear in the house. Dante turns to her with a grin and Lir laughs. "Is it always like that when you come over?" she asks.

"Pretty much! They'll be askin' for stories all night. Always gotta be careful which ones I tell, or Nero'll scold me about givin' 'em nightmares."

She nods, and then Nero appears in the doorway, eyeing both of them. "Guns?" he asks, and Dante shakes his head. "Sword? Any other sort of weapon?"

"Just my good looks," Dante jokes.

Nero rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Don't hurt yourself stretchin' like that." He steps to the side to allow them to enter. "Come on in. Kyrie's makin' spaghetti."

"It smells delicious," Lir says as she enters, and he smiles at her. "Thank you for having us."

"He treating you okay?" Nero asks suspiciously as he closes the door.

Lir nods, and he leads them back through the house. The boys are in the living room watching television and shooting tiny cars along an elaborate racetrack that takes up most of the floor. "Woah!" Dante exclaims, rubbing his hands together as he plops down with them.

Nero nudges her arm. "Come on with me, you don't have to play too," he says with a laugh.

Lir glances back as he leads her towards the kitchen, smiling to see him listening to the boys excitedly talk as they climb into his lap. She would have never guessed he would be so good with kids, and it really makes her happy . . . but then she realizes that is an incredibly dangerous train of thought and focuses squarely on the back of Nero's head.

In the kitchen, they find Kyrie humming to herself as she stirs a pot on the stove. The room smells of garlic and tomatoes and spices, and Lir breathes it in deeply, her mouth watering; visiting the aquarium had left her with a larger appetite than usual, so she's eager to taste the dinner Kyrie has spent so long on. "Get'cha something to drink?" Nero asks.

Lir nods, moving on instinct towards the stove. "What can I do to help?"

"Sit and relax," Kyrie laughs. "You're our guest."

She pauses, then takes a seat at the small table in the kitchen, where she'll be in easy reach if she's needed. Nero sets a glass of white wine in front of her and settles across from her with a bottle of beer clutched loosely in his hand. "Sorry if this is abrupt," he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "but I wanted to talk to you for a minute without Dante around."

"What about?"

Instead of Nero, it's Kyrie who answers, "He's worried that you might not be happy since this is an arranged marriage. Yes," she adds when Lir inhales sharply, "Nero told me. I'm not one to judge, so don't think that I will. But, having seen how poorly they can go, we both just want to make sure you're alright."

"Yes, it's all wonderful!" she answers immediately, wincing a bit as her voice goes a bit high pitched. Lir clears her throat when they exchange a glance, but she continues on, "Everything is fine. Dante treats me very well, I'm very happy. I'm glad to be here."

"Your family seemed intense," Nero says. He leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. "Did they pressure you?"

Lir shrugs, not sure how to answer. "Yes and no. But it was my decision in the end. We needed to do something about the oath, and Dante and I . . ." She sucks in a breath, wanting to avoid that topic altogether. "We figured it was the best solution."

Unfortunately by their expressions, Lir can see her explanation wasn't enough. "What oath?" Kyrie asks just as Nero says, "Best solution?"

"The, uh . . ." Lir shifts uncomfortably. "Sparda and . . . Well, he . . ."

"Sparda," Nero snorts, shaking his head. "At what point are people going to give up all this stupid crap?"

"Nero!" Kyrie scolds. He looks appropriately chagrined, and Kyrie sighs. "Lir, your business is your own. We just want to know you are safe and happy."

Lir nods. "I am."

"Good." Kyrie hands Nero the potholder as he moves to drain the pot. "So . . ." Kyrie says with a wink. "Are we expecting any little ones soon?"

Her heart pounds uncomfortably in her chest. It's an innocent enough question, one she'd heard directed to her friends, who would smile coyly and beat around the bush until all of them were laughing about it. But for her? Is it even possible? She's been regular since she was twelve, but there's no telling if any sort of pregnancy between her and Dante would hold, given that he's half-devil. Yet hadn't Sparda had children just fine, even if it had taken him two thousand years?

"Not yet," she murmurs. "We're still adjusting to this, and children would mean . . ." We'd have to have sex again, she nearly says, but cuts that short. "What about you?"

"Not until after we're married." Nero calls over his shoulder. "Besides, the ones we've got now are more than enough."

As if on cue, there is a crash from the living room, and Nero sighs as he places the pot back on the stove. "What have they done now?" he grumbles as he walks through the kitchen door.

Lir stands as well, but Kyrie just laughs and points to a drawer. "Will you set the table? We're just about ready."

Glad for something to do, she gathers silverware and plates and moves into the dining room on the side. It's a bit cramped, just enough space for six chairs, but Lir can't help but smile to herself as she carefully arranges the place settings, even folding napkins on top in pretty arrangements. This is much more her element, and when Dante swings into the dining room a moment later with one kid on his hip and the other on his back, Nero trailing after, they all stop short. "Wow," Nero says, lifting one of the boys and planting him on a chair.

Lir smiles, and Dante hands off the other kid before walking around to stand next to her. "This looks really nice!" he beams, holding out his hand to help her to a seat.

She looks at his extended palm and swallows thickly before pulling out a chair. "It's no trouble," she says, quickly sitting down.

He gives her a strange look, and she doesn't miss the glance Nero and Kyrie share as they bring the food to the table, and her face burns. After what her mother told her, touching his hand seems too risky; while Lir can't remember if she's done it before, and knows that she probably has—hadn't he helped her up after she'd fallen once?—she's afraid that doing it now, when they've gotten to know each other, will end with her parents taking her away.

"This looks delicious," she says to Kyrie. "Thank you."

Kyrie smiles, though it seems a tad uneasy. "Of course. Dante is like family, and you're included in that now."

Silence descends, broken only by the soft scraping of silverware over plates as they portion out the spaghetti and toasted bread, the two boys intent on eating, and Lir does her best not to sink into her seat. This can be salvaged, she thinks, and she turns to Nero. "Have you lived in Fortuna long?"

He shrugs, grating cheese over his pasta. "My whole life. Grew up in an orphanage for a while. Then Kyrie's dad took me in."

"Childhood sweethearts," Lir murmurs. "That's really sweet."

"Did you have someone before you moved here?" Nero asks.

There is a loud thump under the table followed by Nero's "ow!" Lir jumps, not sure if it was Dante or Kyrie who did it, but she answers, "No, it wasn't exactly encouraged."

"Did you know that my birthday is next week?" the younger boy pipes up.

Relieved for the interruption, Lir shakes her head. "I didn't! Happy birthday! How old will you be?"

He puts up five fingers. "Will you come to the party? Kyrie is making a cake and she promised it would be chocolate."

"That would be very nice," Lir answers.

She catches Dante smiling at her when the other boy asks, "Do you and Dante have babies yet?"

Dante chokes on the mouthful of beer he'd just taken, and her face feels like it's on fire, both from the question and his reaction. "No," she says gently. "We don't. Do you know what that means?"

The boy's nose wrinkles. "You haven't kissed?"

Lir laughs softly. "It means, of course, that you'll get more presents from us on your birthday if you've been a good boy. Have you been a good boy?"

He nods his head eagerly. "Yeah! I can tie my shoes and I'm learnin' how to write and I can spell my name!"

The boys dominate the rest of the conversation, and Lir is happy to ask questions with the occasional interjection from Nero or Kyrie. She can feel Dante's eyes on her though, and at one point swears she feels his hand on her leg, but when she looks down it is gone.

Kyrie offers coffee after dinner, but Lir glances at Dante. "We should get back," she says. "It was a long day, I'm a bit tired. If you don't mind?"

"Of course," Kyrie agrees. "I'm so happy the two of you came to visit, and I know the boys are, too. Nero, will you show them out?"

"Yeah." He stands, jerking his head. "C'mon. Least I can do is make sure you get to the crossroads safely."

Lir and Dante follow him. "This is far enough," Dante says when they're on the porch. Nero turns to him with a frown, and he shrugs. "Kyrie'll need your help with the kids, and I can get us back to our room. No need to worry. Besides, I need to talk to Lir alone."

"Careful out there," Nero says as he nods towards the street. "Demons don't normally come this far towards the water but strange things can happen." He glances at Lir and grins. "Of course, now that the two of you are hitched I guess we don't have to look there for those fuckers, do we?"

Lir sucks in a sharp breath and Dante punches his arm. "Watch the fucking language, kid," he says good-naturedly, then gives a wave as he hops down the steps.

She follows after, ignoring Dante when he holds his hand out to her. Instead she tugs her cardigan closed as they turn down the street. "They are a lovely family," Lir says.

"Yeah. Kid's got it nice now. And it's good that he does. He sure went through enough shit thanks to the Order."

Lir glances at him; his expression is guarded, not quite closed off, and she presses carefully. "What happened then? I know there were demons in the street, and a statue came to life, but the details weren't in the papers."

They pause at a crosswalk, and Dante watches the light. "A cult sprung up around my old man. Called him The Savior, built a church and a statue. Over time, I guess they got powerful enough that Fortuna couldn't do much about 'em. Anyway, they were turnin' themselves into demons, and they opened hell gates all over the city. I took care of those while Nero dealt with them. They'd raised him for years as a sacrifice." He pauses as they start to cross, then adds, "Not so different from you, I guess."

Lir stops, looking up at him in shock and hurt. "I'm not a sacrifice, Dante," she says harshly.

He looks at her and shrugs. "You know what I mean."

"No I don't! I'm not . . ." She folds her arms and huffs, suddenly and furiously hurt. "I'm not anything."

"You're my wife. That's something." Lir stops on the sidewalk, and he continues on for a few steps before noticing and turning to face her. "I didn't want to push ya. I get it, I'm not the easiest person to talk to, and, honestly, I'm surprised you ain't cut and run yet. But something's buggin' you. Has been ever since yer mother called the shop. I thought comin' here would be nice for you, seein' the aquarium, maybe help you figure it out on your own."

"Dante," she whispers, clinging to herself.

"So, you can tell me, or not."

"Your wife," she murmurs. "Your wife. That's all I am, all I was meant to be."

"That's not what I—"

"Raised as a sacrifice, right?" Her lip trembles as she looks at him angrily. "A wife for you, to cook and clean and take care of the son of Sparda, right? Nothing else, nothing else wanted or needed."

Dante frowns. "What—"

"And you know the worst part about it?" Lir cries, her shouting actually drawing a few looks. Dante glances around, rubbing the back of his neck, just like Nero, and that makes her even angrier. Not caring about who is looking, she shouts, "You don't even care about Sparda! Or Ler, or any of it! It's all just a big dumb joke to you all, but this is my life!"

"Lir," he hisses, stepping closer and bending down. "You might not want to shout the name Sparda in the middle of the street."

"Why not? Let them hear about how useless he was at following through on his promises, or writing them down!" She stares up at him defiantly. "And you know what, Dante? It wasn't even necessary! They got it wrong! All we have to do is shake hands, and it's done, it's over with. So here!" Lir holds out her hand. "Shake and be done with it, and send me home. Just like you've wanted to do since I set foot in your shop."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He grabs her, not by the hand but by the arm, frowning down into her face. "What are you talking about?"

Lir grits her teeth. "We didn't have to marry. They had it wrong. So you'll be sending me back then, right? Well I'll save you the trouble, because I—I'm leaving."

Dante's eyes go wide. He drops his hand and takes a step back. "You're leaving?"

She presses her lips together, not knowing what to say. This isn't at all how she wanted to tell him, or do this—hell, she doesn't want to leave at all. But she is too angry now to back down, and Lir is afraid if she doesn't call her own bluff, she'll never be able to know for certain if Dante wants her, truly wants her.

"Yes," she answers. "I was going to tell you when we got back, but . . ." Lir looks down so he won't see her eyes get watery. "This is for the best, Dante."

"What the fuck for?" He sounds confused and angry, but, worse, he sounds hurt, and she winces. "You said you didn't want to go back there. You said you wanted to stay."

"That was before."

"Before? Before what? Lir, if this is about us having sex—"

"It's not!" she insists. "It's . . . You always told me that you weren't the marrying type, and you didn't even want to do this until my parents showed up. Even then, it was just an obligation, so we don't have to . . . We don't have to keep doing this. I'll go home, and you can go back to the life you like without me in the way."

Dante shakes his head. "But Lir, I . . ."

"I should go back," she says, as if trying to convince herself. "I know you had this vacation planned, and the room . . . You can stay and I'll take the train back."

To her surprise, he reaches out and cradles her face in his hands. Lir blinks up at him, her heart pounding as he strokes her cheeks with his thumbs. She sinks into his touch, daring to hope that he will ask her to stay. As he steps closer, his face inching towards her, she imagines he will kiss her, and tell her he wants her, and all of this will be okay.

"There's no trains this late," he says instead. "Come back to the room and stay the night. I'll take you back to the shop in the morning."

Miserably, she nods, and they finish the walk back to the hotel in a heavy, oppressive silence. The fact that there's only one bed—something she'd barely noticed before—sends a fresh wave of tears to her eyes, which she does her best swallow. The last thing she wants after making such a mess of things is to cause Dante any more discomfort, particularly on her account.

Dante glances between her and the bed. "I'll take the floor," he offers gruffly. "You'll need sleep if you're goin' home tomorrow."

"No, no it's fine—"

He doesn't answer, just disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. Lir uses the opportunity to quickly change, pulling on a nightgown and stashing her clothes. She should pack, but Lir can't bring herself to do it, and when Dante finally emerges she rushes in for some peace so she can get herself together.

She brushes her teeth and washes her face, taking as much time as she can, not wanting to face him yet. When she has used up as much time as she thinks she can without him coming to find her, Lir turns off the light and opens the door.

Thankfully the room is dark, but when she makes her way to the bed she is surprised to find Dante on one side. Lir slips into the other, and without turning he mumbles, "Are you sure this is alright?"

"It's for the best," she answers uncertainly.

He huffs a humorless little laugh. "Best for who? You want to go back, that's one thing, but don't say it's for me. I already told you, I like havin' you around. Don't know how many times I have to say it before you believe it."

Lir rolls to her side and looks out the window. The lights of the city make the harbor glitter a bit, and suddenly she is homesick for her own seaside town. But the feeling is unwanted, mixing with wanting Red Grave, and the Devil May Cry, and Dante. He likes having her around . . . but that feels worse somehow.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," she whispers.

"Figured she told you something when I saw your face after you hung up," he mutters. "Just don't do it again."

"Not just about that." Lir feels him shift, the bed dipping and sheets twisting as he rolls over, and she wonders if he's facing her, if she should do the same. "I don't want to go back. There's just . . . I feel so guilty about staying. Your whole life was upended over something that could have taken five seconds, you've had to deal with me and my family. It doesn't seem right to ask to stay after all of this."

She can practically hear him thinking, the subtle bob of his throat and the way he exhales slowly when deeply considering something. It's one of the things about him Lir didn't know she knew until she knew it, like how he likes his socks folded and that he likes peanut butter on top of jelly, not the other way around. She listens to him breathe and think and she thinks of more, like how he slouches when he's paying attention but sits forward when he's tired, how he dusts the picture on his desk every day without fail, how he purposefully leaves her snacks on the bottom shelves where she can reach. Her chest grows tight as she thinks about all the things she's learned about Dante, and how much more she wants to learn, but now she might not get the chance.

"I ain't chasing you, Lir," he murmurs. "If you want to go, if you feel that strongly about it, then you can go. I've said what I needed to say. Sleep on it tonight and you can decide in the morning."

She hears him shift again, rolling over, and Lir looks out the window. He's said his peace, except for the three words she's wanted to hear most.

#dmc #devil may cry #dante sparda #lirael thorne #lir #dante/lir #dante/oc #dante x oc #dmc oc #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #story #myfic #collab #promise me forever #pmf

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years ago

Text

Unwanted Animal

One

A/N: Sooo this is my first Lambert x OC fic that I intend to have multiple parts of. The title came from The Amazing Devils’ song That Unwanted Animal which I will link here. It’s an incredible song. This is going to be a Lambert x fem!OC and unlike my other works this one is going to be relatively dark in some senses. Under the cut is a deeper explanation :) I want to give a huge HUGE thank you to @writingawaymylife because without them I wouldn’t have made this as good as it is and it probably wouldn’t even be out yet! Thank you again so so so much for helping me babe!!! You’re absolutely amazing <3 And just a reminder guys that I messed with my tags a while back so now you have to go to here to be tagged in any of my works.

Warnings: graphic depictions of death, descriptive crime scene, gory, murder, death, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of forced pregnancy, mentions of kidnapping

Word Count: 4.5k

Additional Note: There’s going to be mentions of sexual assault but very brief, nothing descriptive and I will always always tag it in the warnings. There’s also going to be relatively gory and bloody deaths, mentions forced pregnancy and kidnapping, and kidnapping. I will always always always tag all of this in the warnings. This story will never ever have descriptive parts of any sexual assault. That’s something I will not do. Even though I will mention it a handful of times through the entire story, I do not plan to go into any details but if that changes I will let you know by tagging it in the warnings. I just want everyone to know that you do not have to read this! Please do not read this if you know or feel that any of these matters could be triggering for you. I know content with Lambert is very light and we don’t have a lot of it but if you want to read Lambert works that aren’t dark like this one please go to my masterlist here or if you have a prompt or scenario you want to see, drop it in my ask box!! I’m always open to asks. Again please please please don’t read this if you do know this will trigger you in any sort of way. Your mental health is more important than me getting notes on this. It’s just fiction. Your mental health should not suffer at all because of it :)

***

[ Aachen, Temeria ]

“She killed him! She killed my husband!”

Lambert ran his hand over his face, cursing the gods for putting him in this situation.

Across from him sat a woman, now a widow, sobbing as she tried to get out the story of her husband’s death.

The witcher hadn’t meant to stop in the small town of Aachen. He was only passing through when this widow offered a decent reward for whoever killed her husband’s murderer.

She introduced herself as Haldana Dielke. She wore a dark blue dress with gold laces up the front of the dress. Around her neck was an expensive golden necklace with three sapphires dangling from the thick chain. A sapphire ring held in gold was on her left hand along with a few other rings. Her hair was long and gray at the roots but blonde towards the ends. A braid was intricately formed down the top of her head where her hair would part but this was only meant to keep her hair from getting into her face.

“Look, lady. I don’t have all day.” He leaned forward in his chair, large hand clasping around the mug of ale on the table. “Either spit it out or I’ll be moving on.”

The widow sniffled and wiped her eyes with a cloth.

Lambert very briefly glanced around the room, spotting a group of men looking in his direction. They weren’t the only ones practically staring at the witcher. He knew very well the patrons of the upper class establishment were whispering about him, about how he didn’t belong there.

“Do you know who killed your husband?”

“Aye. It was that murderous whore Rosalia Larsen of Cidaris. She killed him.”

“Never heard of her.” Lambert put the mug down and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“She’s slaughtered men from here to Vizima. Just last week, she butchered a pig farmer in front of his children. Can you believe that?”

“I’ve heard of worse.”

“They say that when she’s ready to kill again, a storm rumbles in the sky. They say it’s the gods trying to warn her next victim.”

“So she’s an assassin?”

“Hardly.” The woman scoffed. “She isn’t hired to kill anyone. Just does as she pleases. So? Are you gonna kill her or do I have to find someone else?”

“I’ll do it.” Lambert rose to his feet. Job seemed easy enough. He’d be out of town before the sun set and on his way to Redania. “It would help if I took a look at the place your husband was killed. See if I can find anything useful.”

“I’ll take you there.”

***

The murder took place at an inn just down the road from the tavern Lambert met the widow at. She refused to go into the room but pointed him in the direction and disappeared down the stairs, crying hysterically.

Lambert was glad she left. All the crying she did was starting to get on his nerves.

He pushed the door to the room open and stepped in.

The room was anything but nice and tidy. The blankets on the bed had been ripped off and a pillow was lying in one of the many pools of blood. Drawers to the dresser were pulled open, clothes ripped from them and thrown onto the floor. A pot of what used to be red geraniums was on the floor. The pot had shattered and it looked as though a chunk of the pot was used as a weapon. There was a piece on the floor covered in blood. Crimson splattered across a mirror in the room. That same mirror was splintered, pieces of flesh still clung to the shards of glass.

“Poor bastard.” Lambert muttered, knowing it was the victim’s face that had been slammed into the mirror and then dragged across the broken pieces.

“That’s what I’ll say.”

The witcher looked over his shoulder to see a man standing in the doorway to the room. He was old and gray with a spectacle on his right eye.

“Name’s Arne Halfdorn. I’m the coroner.”

“Town this small has a coroner?”

“Oh, no. I work for this town and the surrounding ones. I was called here to inspect the death of Master Dielke.”

“What’s there to inspect? The guy was stabbed.” Lambert turned his attention to the blood on the floor. He knelt down, inspecting the boot print in the red liquid. It was small, too small to be a grown man’s but not small enough to be a child’s.

“That’s an understatement. I have yet to finish looking over the corpse, I wanted to take a further look at the crime scene. But from what I’ve seen, he was stabbed multiple times and endured quite a lot of trauma to multiple parts of his body. Bruising and swelling in his face suggests blunt force trauma.”

“He was used as a punching bag.” Lambert looked around the room, yellow eyes carefully scanning everything. “It was personal.”

“Has Madam Dielke hired you to track down the murderer?”

“She has.” The witcher spotted a necklace underneath the edge of the bed. He stood up and moved to retrieve it. “What can you tell me about Rosalia Larsen of Cidaris?”

“Not much to be quite honest.” Halfdorn fixed his spectacle, watching Lambert inspect the necklace. “All I ever see are her victims, and might I say that woman has a lot of rage and strength.”

“What makes you say that?”

“All of her victims suffered terribly in their last moments of life.”

“Know anything about her?”

“No. All I know is she used to work for the Dielke’s as a maid.”

“Dielke’s widow didn’t mention that.” Lambert muttered.

The pendant on the golden necklace was a red ruby. He stuffed it into his pocket and sighed. Of course she didn’t mention to him that she had personal ties to the killer. If she didn’t tell him that, what else was the old woman keeping from him?

“Well, I’ll leave you to your work, witcher.” Halfdorn nodded once to Lambert before leaving.

As he watched the coroner leave, Lambert took a deep breath.

The scent of lavender and rose caught his attention. It had to be her, Rosalia Larsen. The scent didn’t belong in the room.

He stepped out of the room, eyes focused on the wooden floor. There were spots of blood down the hallway, not completely boot prints but the witcher figured it had to be from the killer. They disappeared on the top of the staircase but the scent trail continued.

***

Mud squished beneath his boots. It had been steadily raining all day long. Luckily, it had stopped for the time being.

The trail took him all the way across town to the edge of the forest but it stopped there. There were too many scents mixing with the killer’s. Damp moss, pine needles, and the rain were just a few things interfering with the scent. There was a pack of wolves that had recently passed through, leaving behind pawprints in the mud as well as their musty, wet dog smell.

Lambert looked down at the patch of mud, finding a wolf’s print inside of a boot print. He knelt down to inspect a boot print in the mud, the same size as the one from the scene of the murder.

“Great.” He muttered. He wasn’t too thrilled about searching the woods for the murderer.

He drew his silver sword and ventured into the forest.

***

The tracks ended beside a large oak tree. Lambert sighed and looked around for anything that could lead him to his target.

“Fuck me.” He muttered. He could hear a heartbeat, steady and calm but he didn’t have enough time to figure out where it was coming from.

“Did she send you after me?” A voice came from above him.

The witcher stepped away from the oak, tightening his grip on his sword.

A woman was kneeling on a thick branch about six feet above his head. Her hair was dark and braided, the braid pulled over one shoulder. A few unruly strands fell out around her face, acting as some sort of frame for her hardened features.

She stood up on the branch and stepped off, landing just a few feet from the witcher.

Now that she was closer, he could take in her appearance better. Her eyes were piercing blue and her jaw was squared with high cheekbones. She wore a white blouse with poofy sleeves that hung off of her shoulders. Over top of it was a blue corset with white floral designs. Her pants were black leather and her boots were the same black leather, though they were a bit worn. Two daggers rested on either of her hips. Black gloves covered her hands.

“Depends.” Lambert readjusted his grip on his sword. “Are you Rosalia?”

“I am.” She nodded softly, eyes flickering down to the sword he held. “You’re a witcher. Did she tell you I was a monster?”

“She did, but your actions kinda speak for themselves.” Lambert raised his sword, pointing the tip at her, and took a step towards her.

Rosalia moved backwards until her back was to the large oak tree and she had nowhere to go. The cold metal just barely touched the column of her throat, yet she didn’t show fear. She didn’t beg for her life. She didn’t weep like so many others did.

Icy blue eyes locked with Lambert’s.

“Did she tell you that her husband raped me?” Her voice was quiet, trembling just slightly.

Lambert didn’t move, didn’t react to her words.

“If she neglected to mention that, then I’m sure she didn’t tell you that he impregnated me because she couldn’t have children. They stole my baby from me. I…. I never even had a chance to hold him.”

“That explains why you killed her husband. Doesn’t explain why you kill others.”

Rosalia looked away for a moment, something moving in the brush stole her attention. It was a rabbit.

She didn’t care to explain herself, to give this man her sob story. He wouldn’t care. No one cared.

“If you’re going to kill me, get on with it.” She turned her head back to him. “I’m sure Haldana Dielke is offering quite the reward for my head. Just make sure that once she’s given you your pay, you slice her fucking head clean off. The whore deserves it.”

Lambert knew it would be easy just to kill her and collect his reward and be on his way. But a part of him wanted to know if Rosalia’s words were true, if what she had done was kill her abuser.

With a heavy sigh, he moved away from her and lowered his sword.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth and not just trying to get me to spare your life?”

“You don’t.” Rosalia stepped away from the tree trunk. “I don’t have to say anything to get you to believe me. I could’ve killed you the second you stepped beneath this tree. But I didn’t. I don’t kill without reason.”

“The pig farmer, the one you killed in front of his children. What about him?”

“Oh, he was lucky.” A cold smirk came to her lips. She began to move to the left, slowly circling Lambert like a cat would a mouse. “There’s a little girl who went missing four months ago. She was found with a broken neck in the woods just that way.” Rosalia nodded in the direction of the town. “He stole her from her garden and had his way with her. The townspeople did nothing when they learned of what he did. He supplies them with meat. I couldn’t stand idly by while that little girl’s family suffered.”

“Killing him wasn’t your call.” Lambert followed her every move, turning as she circled him so his back was never to her.

“Neither is killing me yours.”

Rosalia pulled a dagger from her hip and lunged at him.

He stepped away and brought the sword down to slash at her arm. Her movements were swift and quick. She spun, narrowly avoiding the blade as she brought her arm in.

He advanced towards her, knowing he had the upper hand with his sword.

Rosalia drew the second dagger, using both this time to catch the blade of his sword just above her head. Her eyes met his, a dangerous smirk crossing her pink lips.

A growl vibrated in his throat. He stepped towards her and delivered a heavy kick to her abdomen. She fell back onto the ground, losing both of her daggers. Before she had a chance to get up, Lambert stabbed at her with his sword. She rolled out of the way, kicking the outside of his knee.

He grunted at the pain, feeling something crack.

She jumped to her feet, gathering her daggers hastily. He was quick though, and she underestimated that.

As she was turning around to charge him, he was already there, pointing his blade at her.

“You’re quick, woman. I’ll give you that.” He panted, out of breath and a little impressed with her abilities.

She breathed heavily through her nose, smirk still playing on her lips. She sheathed both daggers, holding her hands by her sides with her palms towards him.

He pulled his sword back, ready to decapitate her with one clean swoop.

Rosalia ducked but charged him, tackling the witcher to the ground.

His sword fell from his grip and landed a few feet away.

She managed to punch him once in his jaw before he used his strength to knock her off balance and roll over on to her. He sat on her stomach, knees on either side of her torso.

He caught each of her hands as she tried to punch him. The smirk disappeared and a snarl replaced it.

Being that he was on her stomach, she was able to reach up with her legs and lock her ankles around the front of his neck. From there, she forced him backwards until he let her hands go and fell back.

Rosalia rolled backwards over her shoulders, landing on her feet a safe distance from the witcher. This gave her enough time to sprint away from him.

“Fucking hell.” Lambert stood up and brushed off his clothing. He picked up his sword, muttering a few curses as he sheathed it.

She was gone, disappearing into the darkening forest.

***

The sun had long since set on Aachen. Most of the townspeople were either at the tavern or in their beds.

Lambert met the widow at the tavern to inform her that his hunt was unsuccessful and that her life was probably in danger.

“So?” Haldana sat up as Lambert approached her table. She gestured to the seat in front of herself where a mug of ale sat for the witcher. “Is it done?”

“Yeah, no. Larsen’s a fast one. She escaped.” Lambert shook his head. He didn’t bother to sit down, not wanting to stay for very long. “You might want to get your family out of here. I’m sure she’ll come back and try to kill you.”

He moved to walk away but she stopped him.

“Wait! What makes you say that?”

The witcher muttered a few curses under his breath before turning back to her.

“She told me that after I killed her, I should kill you too. Sounded pretty angry over something.” Lambert watched the woman for a moment. Curiosity was eating up at him. “What’s your deal with her? Heard she was your maid. Why the sudden desire to kill you and your family?”

“Rosalia was hardly our maid.” Haldana shook her head, twisting a ring on her finger around. “She was a nanny, and a shite one at it.”

“Killer nanny.” He muttered under his breath. “Nice.”

“What did she tell you?” Haldana raised her brows.

Lambert glanced around the tavern briefly, spotting a hooded figure sitting on the opposite side of the establishment.

He pulled out a chair and sat down across from Haldana.

“Your husband took advantage of her.”

“Stupid whore.” Haldana shook her head, brushing her fingers over her hair. “She‘s been spreading rumors like that for as long as I’ve known her. She’s untrustworthy, witcher. You have to kill her before she harms my children.”

“If I’m staying in town any longer than tonight, I’m gonna need more as a reward for my work.”

Haldana muttered under her breath something Lambert didn’t care to listen to before agreeing.

“I must be going.”

The witcher watched her leave, then shook his head, taking a drink of the ale. His eyes gazed over the rim, watching the hooded figure move around the table to take Haldana’s spot.

It was Rosalia.

The witcher held her gaze, placing the ale back down on the table. Beneath the table, he reached into the sheath hidden in his boot to pull out a small dagger.

“Never met someone who willingly sat at the same table as the person hired to kill them.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me here in front of all these people.” She almost rolled her eyes at him.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart.” The corner of his lips turned up just slightly.

Rosalia’s hands rested on the table. She directed her gaze down to them, rubbing her knuckles.

She wasn’t wearing gloves at the moment so Lambert was able to see the bruising around her knuckles. They appeared swollen, probably broken. That had happened when she murdered Dielke.

“Besides I’m sure if these people were to learn who you were they’d be liable to kill you themselves.”

A devilish grin came to her lips like she wanted them to try.

Lambert reached into a pocket on his armor and Rosalia stiffened up, hands flattening on the table as she prepared to run.

“I found this in the room where you butchered Dielke.” He held up the golden necklace, the ruby dangling in the air. He saw the way her features shifted. She leaned back in her chair, hands falling to her lap. The grin disappeared.

She lost in the midst of the struggle. Dielke tried to put his hands around her throat but only managed to grab the necklace. The fragile gold chain snapped and in her escape she didn’t have time to search for it.

“I take it this is yours.” Lambert eyed the ruby. “Looks a little expensive for an assassin.”

“My father gave it to me before he died.” She answered flatly, tapping her fingers against her thigh. “It is very expensive. I imagine you’ll get quite a good deal from it when you sell it.”

Lambert said nothing for a while, placing the necklace down on the table.

“I’m sure you’ve had the chance to kill the widow. Why haven’t you?”

“The longer it takes for me to end her life, the more she just frequently sees my face around town, at the market or even passing by her house…. She’ll be overcome with fear. It will drive her mad.” The thought alone of inciting fear into Haldana made Rosalia smirk.

“If you’d like to be paid for murdering me, do it soon. I’m not sure how long I can hold off the inevitable.”

She stood to her feet and moved towards the door.

Lambert stood from his chair and put his arm out to block her. She stopped just before he had a chance to grab her. One hand took hold of his wrist while the other held his upper bicep. In one swift turn, she had him pinned to the table with his arm behind his back.

“It was nice running into you, witcher.”

He stood up and watched her disappear out of the tavern.

***

The next morning, Lambert was up bright and early to do a little research on Rosalia Larsen. He was curious about her. He didn’t completely believe the story she told him, but he was sure there was some truth to it.

Everyone in town knew her name. Many refused to tell the witcher anything, believing she’d come after them. Others provided useful information.

As the sun slipped behind the horizon, the witcher found himself wandering into the woods, secretly hoping that he could find her there.

He began to whistle to himself, twirling his sword around in his hand.

“That’s a lovely tune, witcher.” Her melodic voice came from above him.

He sighed, shaking his head as he looked up.

Rosalia was sitting on a branch high up, swinging her legs back and forth.

“What’s with you and trees?”

“What’s with you being bad at your job?” She countered, quirking a brow. “I’ve heard stories of your kind. Surely you’d have killed me by now if you wanted me dead.”

Rosalia slipped down from the branch, landing right in front of him. Piercing blue eyes looked up at him, the corner of her lips tugging up.

“Why is it you haven’t killed me?”

“Call it my curiosity.” He tilted his head to the side a little. Yellow eyes flickered down to shamelessly gaze at her bust.

“My eyes are up here, witcher.”

He smirked just slightly, finding her eyes.

“What is it you’re curious about?” Rosalia turned and moved away from him, walking around the thick base of the beech tree. Lambert sheathed his sword, knowing very well she was dangerous but he enjoyed the rush.

He moved to follow her.

“You. It seems everyone in Aachen fears you.”

“That’s not a difficult task. People don’t like those who are different from them.”

“You’re from Cidaris. What brought you to Temeria?”

Rosalia stopped circling the tree and instead turned to face him. The playfully dangerous glimmer in her eyes disappeared.

“You don’t need to hear my story, witcher. I’m not interested in your pity.” She quietly told him.

“Good. I’m not a pity party.” He crossed his arms.

Rosalia turned and started to walk through the woods, moving in and out of trees. She was swift and agile. Never once did she trip over a tree root or lose her footing.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Lambert stopped walking, something behind him catching his attention. It was the sound of footsteps upon the mossy ground, heavy boots against the mud. There was another heartbeat that didn’t belong in the forest, steadily beating.

The witcher looked over his shoulder just in time to see something hurling through the air in his direction. He ducked behind a tree as an arrow ripped through the space where he had just been.

Rosalia had heard Lambert stop and turned to see what he was up to. She wasn’t as quick as the wolf. By the time she realized what the object was, it was already hitting her shoulder.

She stumbled back, the force of the arrow hitting her body causing her to lose her balance. The stinging pain that erupted from the wound took Rosalia’s breath, her heart beginning to race. Red seeped from the wound, staining her gray shirt.

Her eyes widened, panicked like an animal caught in a trap. Eyes flighted over the woods, briefly flickering over Lambert before she spotted the man moving towards her. She didn’t recognize his face but she knew she didn’t want to stay there to figure out who he was.

Lambert watched as she snapped the end of the arrow off, leaving the tip of it still deeply embedded in her shoulder. Her heart was racing wildly and he could smell the adrenaline seeping into her veins.

She darted off into the woods, never once looking back.

Lambert watched her disappear from sight, carefully drawing his sword. His ears could pick up the sound of the stranger nearing him. Just as the man was passing the tree Lambert took refuge behind, the witcher decapitated him with one clean swing of his sword. The head rolled beneath a bush not too far away and the body collapsed.

The witcher used the man’s shirt to wipe the blood from his blade. He patted the man’s pockets, searching for anything that may tell him who this man was.

In a breast pocket on the man’s jerkin was a folded up piece of parchment paper. The ink had been smudged from rain or sweat - Lambert didn’t care to know. The only thing that was legible was Haldana Dielke’s name at the bottom of the paper.

Still unsure, the witcher dug around a little more in the man’s pockets until he found a sachet of coins. The cloth sachet had the Dielke’s family crest on it, an Escutcheon shield separated into four white triangles with a bright blue X across the shield. Two of the triangles had horses in it while the other two had lilies.

Lambert stood up, tucking the sachet of coin into his pocket.

Haldana Dielke hired this man to do the same thing she had hired the witcher for.

A low growl vibrated in the back of his throat as he looked in the direction Rosalia had disappeared in.

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bidean-byedean · 4 years ago

Text

new piece on AO3

xvi. family

Day 16 of the SPN advent calendar (not festive)

You stop for the night.

Rated: G // Tags: second person POV, outsider POV, finale denialist, post-canon/canon divergent, bar owner Dean, everyone is alive and in love, domestic fluff // Ships: Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, Claire/Kaia // Word count: 5.6k

The bar is unassuming, gentle, welcoming. Tucked away but easy to find, if you’re looking. It’s still the midwest after all. Dean knows how much it looks like the old haunt; some of it deliberately mimicked, some of it inevitable features of the genre, some of it only became apparent in certain lights, like a ghostly apparition in a foggy bathroom mirror. These things that were hidden until Sam laid eyes on the place for the first time, or an old regular froze in the doorway, or after hours when Dean is cleaning up and swears he heard Jo’s soft giggle.

When this happens, he pauses. Braced against the reclaimed wood of the bar, desperately straining his ears into the nothingness, begging for one more note. It’s only when a warm hand settles on his shoulder, always his left, somehow always, that he realises what he’s doing. There’s only one place that his prayers echo out anymore and all they do is remind Cas of all the things that Dean has lost, of all the parts of Dean’s life that he did not know, that he cannot restore. But at least now the old Hunter does not flinch at his touch. His body relaxes into the large, steady hand; grounded, brought back to the present where Jo’s laughter is an eternal echo that makes it neither real nor unreal. If their lives had taught them anything, the distinction is arbitrary.

Cas helps him collect the last of the glasses, stacking them into long, precarious towers. Not as tall as the ones Dean makes; he’s not as easy in his body, not as used to being observed, and he hates the sound of shattering glass, hates the silence afterwards, hates that moment of momentum when the breaking is about to happen and is happening and has happened. For angels, it’s always about to happen and happening and happened. Or, it used to be like that. When and so it is written meant something. Before, when it was Castiel and Dean Winchester, not now, in the after, when it is Cas and Dean.

There’s something deeply absurd happening here. You feel it when you first visit and you realise. Pulling off of a hunt in nowhere middle America, aching in your bones and, depending on what you killed, your heart, and you remember that Dean Winchester - yeah, that Dean Winchester - opened a bar around here. It’s already ridiculous, considering the things you’ve heard. Only half of them can be true, mostly the half that you can reconcile with your understanding of the truth.

John Winchester’s boy? Haven’t you heard?

Haven’t you heard he has a face you’d pay twice the going rate for? Haven’t you heard he’ll take it? Haven’t you heard he’s the best Hunter of his age? Haven’t you heard he sold his soul? Haven’t you heard an angel brought him back? Haven’t you heard he lost it again? To John? To the devil? To God? Haven’t you heard he was the most feared monster in Purgatory? Haven’t you heard losing his soul was nothing compared to losing his brother, to losing his angel, to losing his angel again, and again, and again?

Haven’t you heard? They’re in love.

So you roll up to the door of the bar and it just looks like a bar because the warding is painted beneath the sign holding the name, and the devil’s trap is in the shadows of the ceiling, and hex bags are stowed inside of the cushions of the stools, and a silver rosary consecrated by softly sung blessings, murmured by the human mouth of an Angel, sits in the water tank. Even if you know, you do not know. But you feel safe here, that is the point, the commandment of the space; welcome and be welcomed. And maybe you sit at the bar, tired and alone and lonely, surrounded (for the first time?) by people with whom you can speak freely and you realise the weight of speaking in code, always hiding, bearing a burden that sears into your soul until you’re not sure you have one anymore. You hear they burn out, that you can use them up, and then what are you?

But tonight you’re safe behind the warding and in front of a bar with a surprisingly pretentious beer menu and burgers that come with avocado and the word seasonal in front of some of the offerings. But there are people you’re familiar with, even if you don’t know them, you know them. Their faces hold the same weariness, their clothes practical or incongruous by design, masks and costumes and performances, all finally relaxed. So relax.

Maybe you haven’t seen him since before John died, or before he went to Hell, or before he killed God(?), but that doesn’t matter. Maybe you read the books, enjoying being in the know, enjoying that you enjoy them differently from all the other people that enjoy them, for better reasons. Maybe his name is a myth passed from Hunter to Hunter, monster to monster, or between the two (is there a two? You try not to think about this too much). Older now, so much older than he could’ve ever hoped for. Masculine in every way you hope to be masculine, if you really understand what it means, but by hoping and understanding you fail. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and wears a flannel shirt over a band tshirt and dishtowel over his shoulder, and his jaw is sharp and hard and stubbled, and his eyes framed by deep crow’s feet; he sees you and you feel seen. His forearms are too tanned for the season, but you’re distracted by how they flex under the skin, and his hands are big and rest on the wood in front of you, just hands now, but they might as well be an armoury for all the death they’ve caused.

So, maybe you’re suddenly afraid because the things you didn’t want to be true? Suddenly reality has shifted and not only do they reconcile with the truth, they are immutable from it, it is more impossible that impossible things don’t happen to this man.

Then he smiles.

“What can I get ya?”

His voice is so low it’s like traffic from a highway just out of sight from your motel room, that when you lie in the dark becomes part of your body, as essential to your existence as the thudding of your heart and the huffing of your lungs and the buzzing from the dying lights in the walkway outside. It’s atomic. It’s celestial.

Wasn’t the other one supposed to be an angel?

You don’t know. You’re not used to having choices. Simple choices, selfish ones, luxurious ones: if you want fries or steak-cut chips, American or Swiss, IPA or stout or lager, light or dark, or spirits. It embarrasses you, how difficult it is, in the face of meaninglessness, how do you fare?

“Just a beer, man.”

“I gotcha,” he tips his chin understandingly and gets to work.

Probably gets this all the time, an understood consequence of stepping outside of the comfort zone. Your comfort zone, not his, you realise. This is his domain, his playground, his paradise on Earth, as was the promised bounty for fighting on humanity’s side in the war. The one no one else had to fight in because he did.

Did he still have the sword?

‘German pilsner.”

“It’s good.”

His smile seems genuine and so is your surprise.

“What you here for?”

You keep your eyes on his, if you blink, you’ll see it again. “Shifter. Of a sort.”

“Mmm.”

“Then home.”

That catches his interest. “Where’s home?”

“Iowa.”

Then he opens the ground beneath you: “Who’s home?”

“Whoever’s left.”

He grunts appreciatively, his gaze flickering over his shoulder. You notice the bands on his fingers. Silver, you assume pure, but it catches the light in a way that isn’t quite right, you stare at it. He twists it with his thumb, an unconscious habit, a soothing touch, a comfort. Even a Winchester needs comforts. It’s a comfort in of itself.

A young woman, her blonde hair half-braided and threaded with metal, slides over the top of the bar, her leather trousers giving her enough slip over the wood. Her heavy boots thud onto the ground and she grins manically at his frown.

“What have I told you about-“

“Yeah, yeah, nice to see you too, old man.”

She kisses him on the cheek, he rolls his eyes, but leans into it, his mouth quirking upwards at the corners. Another woman appears, dark skinned and soft-eyed, she walked around the bar, civilised and grounded. The blonde throws her arm over her shoulders, you remember who they are: Claire and Kaia Nieves. The daughter of an Angel and a Dreamwalker. You heard they spared a family of werewolves on the West coast, you heard there’s a network for them, monsters who are not monstrous. You don’t like to think about what that means for you. The things you’ve done.

“Where is he?” He gestures to the back and they disappear. He looks after them, his face soft and open; you can’t imagine him torturing souls in Hell.

There are pockets of people throughout the bar: loners like you, pairs and trios quietly nursing their sustenance, groups crowding round tables, pulling chairs from elsewhere or standing when there are none free. They’re loud and joyful and free. Is it better to have a crowd? Is it enough to be adjacent? You’re not sure you have the energy to socialise, to make nice, maybe next time.

Someone enters and everyone’s heads turn, he’s called over to different tables, dropping by to say hello to everyone who calls his name: Sam fucking Winchester! He’s tall, made even taller by the short woman by his side, and their hands move animatedly as they talk, too precise, too many deliberate gestures to just be physicality. He watches her when she speaks, her voice is rounded and deliberate. Eileen Leahy. A Deaf Hunter. You remember someone telling you she was eaten by Hellhounds, dragged into the pit, and brought back by Sam, his magic, his love, willing to transcend the boundaries of life, upset the balance of the universe: all for her. You feel ashamed for wondering how she made it far enough to meet the Winchesters. It’s a fair question of any Hunter, the answer the same: in their own way. No one survives because they have all the makings of a Hunter, a preset list of requirements that they meet; you survive because you face the job with what you have and you do what you have to.

Dean salutes her playfully, she smiles so wide it looks like it hurts. You can’t remember the last time you smiled like that, the last time you felt pain that didn’t hurt. She sits at the bar and Sam sits next to her, towering and gentle. You remember him. The Boy King. No longer a boy, his throne abdicated. Does he really have demon blood coursing through his veins? Hell is closed up now, sometimes a demon pops up here and there, but not like before, when the world was full of them, when all you did was exorcise and pray and holy water became a currency and left most of the community ordained ministers from variously dubious sites of divine origin, consecrated ground became the last stronghold against the end of the world. The future placed in the hands of Sam Winchester. Now you know the face. You struggle to imagine the Devil in his eyes, not when you’ve seen true evil.

The Winchesters are not similar enough to be clocked as brothers. But there’s something in the tilt of their shoulders and their hazel green eyes and the cadence of their voices that suggests kinship, brotherhood, forged in the fires of Hell and gilded by the light of Heaven. They’re just men, you realise. Earthly and solid and real, no more myth than the one you beheaded just the other night, it’s blood as real as the blood that marks them Winchester. Just like anyone else.

“Isn’t Claire supposed to be helping out?”

Dean sighs. “She’s upstairs. Giving her a minute, she hasn’t been around in months.” You think he sounds upset. “Typical.”

“It’s a good thing, Dean,” Sam pushes. “Her and Kaia are doing a hundred times better than we would’ve.”

“We?” He snorts. “At their age you were smoking oregano with your bougie friends. I was actually saving people.”

Sam pulls a face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“And you’re a bitch,” he signs it big and deliberate, winking at Eileen. “Hey, want another?”

It takes a second for you to realise he’s talking to you, by then all three of them have their attention on you, openly appraising you. You wonder what they read in your posture, your face, the way you’ve ripped a paper napkin into tiny shreds.

“Any other recommendations?”

“Got a new dark in, like dessert in a glass.” He looks at Sam: “Finally found an apiarist to work with.”

“Apiarist?” You venture.

Dean looks towards the door that leads to the mysterious back. “Bee keeper. My-“ He pauses abruptly. “He likes bees.”

My. He.

Perhaps you don’t mean to, but you eyes flicker to the rainbow flag over the doorway. You notice more stuck in glasses on the shelves, some of them rainbow, some of the blue-purple-pink bands, some of them orange-white-pink. What is it like? You know what people say behind his back, what they’ve always said, the people in the know. The men who had paid for a moment with Dean Winchester, the men who had gotten one for free, the men who had hoped for either, for anything. They still call him names. If only John could see him now. John always knew he was a disappointment. Wouldn’t be like this if John were alive.

That doesn’t seem fair. You didn’t know John Winchester, most people didn’t. He died so long ago and Hunters have a quick turnaround, reblooded often, rarely more than a decade of history able to be told first-hand. Dean watches you and your eyes and you wonder what he’ll do, if you became a threat, how does he eliminate threats now? You shiver at the thought. You let wistfulness seep through. You try to convey the kinship. The I see me in you and you in me. The you fascinate me the same way a shadow does. The show me your throat and I’ll show you mine. The secret language you’ve learnt to speak. The other one. Hidden even beneath the Hunter’s code. The more forbidden one. The one of monsters like you. Like us.

It must work because he softens. He pours the dessert in a glass even though you didn’t order it and places it in front of you, next to the glass he places something small and shiny, he doesn’t wait for you to acknowledge it. It’s a metal pin. The silver knotted into a symbol you don’t know, impressively intricate for the size, and when you hold it, it feels unusually warm. You remember the way Dean’s ring caught the light, throwing it more than it should, almost giving off its own light, almost glowing. Whatever it is made of, this is its sibling. You pin it to your jacket, on the left lapel, the proximity to your heart neither deliberate nor indeliberate. It pleases him. You pleased him.

The drink is good, better than the last. Truthfully, you don’t like beer that much, but it’s easy and universal and unassuming. This isn’t beer, not in that way. It’s smooth and creamy and sweet, it rolls around on your tongue, asking to be tasted, not to be drunk. The honey has that sharpness of real, pure honey, the slight antiseptic burn you get from eating it straight from the jar. You remember eating honey from a jar, a chunk of comb suspended in the golden substance. You didn’t know it meant so much to you.

“Finally!”

“Get off my dick,” Claire bats back.

“Who the fuck taught you to be so rude?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no sense of upset between them. “What do you want with me?”

“Glasses.”

“Ughh, are you serious?”

“As a werepire.”

“There is no such thing as a werepire,” a new voice cuts in. It’s grumbling like Dean’s, somehow more gravelly; do they communicate in earthquakes? “Stop trying to make werepire happen.”

Castiel.

You gasp before you can stop yourself. An Angel of the Lord, walking on Earth, living above a bar instead of Heaven. He’s nothing that you expect. Tall and commanding, but different from Dean and Sam, the same, but somehow very not. His eyes are bright and intense, as blue as the deepest sky, the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, a blue that you never thought possible until right this second. You feel as if you should look away, as if seeing beneath a hair covering, something sacred and prized, something that is not for public consumption, only God’s eyes. Only Dean Winchester’s eyes. What is the difference now? Is this bar paradise? Where is the divinity in craft beer and crude hunters, clawing out a life on the edges of society, wading through the horror in the hope of retaining peace, but not for yourselves. Nothing is for yourself.

Except they have claimed each other. You heard Dean is branded, a scar of a handprint seared into his skin, a memento from when they met. They met in Hell. Castiel touched his soul and raised him from Hell and fell in love with him, literally fell. Who would love you if they had seen your soul? Seen the personal realm of Hell you curated? Can you even love yourself?

Doesn’t it leave you breathless?

And then the picture shifts. Castiel turns and you see a child, old enough to walk, but small enough to get away with demanding not to. It’s balanced on the Angel’s hip like it belongs there, like his body (is it his? Who did it belong to? Are they still there? Did they ask for this?) was made to hold it there. Dean ruffles their hair, their ambiguity is intriguing, refreshing for the Hunting community. Youth is a clean slate, you are never more full of options, full of potential, which slowly seeps from you as your choices narrow, as life demands decisions, assigns decisions, weighs you down with expectations and being perceived, an object for perception rather than existence.

You’ve heard about the child. A nephil. But no one knows the details. No one is brave enough to ask.

The child reaches for Dean and is pulled into his arms, plastered against his chest, small and content and belonging. You wonder what their life will be like. Will they be a Hunter? You doubt it, you doubt the doubt. How do you choose to bring life into this life? It’s too hard, too sad, too lonely, too destructive. Not even dandelions grow through the concrete paving of a Hunter’s solitude, of their broken soul and heart, tings you drag along behind you like a yoke, reminding you that you must keep going, that one day, you will not be able to keep going. The baggage. How do you inflict that on a child? When will this creature’s heart be torn out of its chest and put inside a box and chained shut, only to be your greatest weakness and source of strength?

Or will it be happy?

“You need to go to bed, buddy,” Dean says quietly, his voice so steeped in affection it makes your chest yearn. You can’t help being in earshot. That doesn’t make it right. “Want me? What’s wrong with your Dad?”

The child murmurs something silently.

“Okay. I got you,” his arms seem to tighten. “Cas? We’re going up.”

Cas. It rolls off of his tongue so easily, the repetition of a thousand, a million, making it more at home in his mouth than his own name. An Angel of the Lord called Cas because he stands on Earth, because he is not part of Heaven, because he is of Dean, not of God. He touches the child’s face gently, tenderly, motherly, and you ache for such simple, all-consuming affection, for someone to look at you with the reverence of worship at the altar of a god that speaks back. Castiel’s (because Cas is not for your mouth) hand runs down Dean’s arm, his fingers trailing, prolonging, and when it drops away, Dean leaves.

You’ve nearly finished your dessert in a glass without even realising, it’s good. Too good. You could drink it all night, but you shouldn’t. The list of shouldn’ts is getting too long. You can’t remember anything left that you can do, that doesn’t conflict with an imperative for self-restriction. Where do you have to be? Who is expecting you? What is your next move? Why are you even questioning it?

He notices you.

“Ah, Sweet Dreams. How did you like it?” He tilts his head, a little more than most people would, reminiscent of a puppy, of the velociraptors in that film, assessing your prey potential. You’re aware of his magnitude. You’re aware of your insignificance.

“Very smooth. Filling.”

“That is the problem, but Dean humours me.”

“With the bees?”

He nods seriously. “They’re dying at an alarming rate, you know.”

“I did.”

“Have you been here before?”

“First time.”

“Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“You look tired. Are you staying the night? We have rooms.”

“Uh-“

“That’s not a proposition,” he adds quickly. “Dean tells me that I sound like I’m hitting on people when I say that.”

You smile at his humanness. “I didn’t feel propositioned.” Would you like to? “I- I usually stay in my car, to be honest.”

His smile falters. “I wouldn’t advise that, it’s very uncomfortable and you’re much safer in here. The warding is some of my best work.”

“You never actually asked if I was a Hunter.” Hoping he’ll smite you?

He narrows his eyes playfully. “I didn’t have to. I know Hunters.”

“You must know everything.”

That catches him off guard. “Not as much as I used to.”

“What?”

Another head tilt. This one is more amused. “I guess news doesn’t travel as fast as you think. I am depowered,” he uses his fingers to make air quotes around the word. He laughs, but it’s a grating, sad sound. “Fallen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. “So, a room?”

You somehow agree to stay. The rates are reasonable and the weather turned recently, so you know that even if you get some sleep in your car, it’ll be fraught and restless, and a warm bed in the safest place in the US is hard to turn down. You wonder if they’re both always this attentive or if its you, if you’re really that pathetic, if it rolls off of you like a stench, trails after you like blood, someone else, yours. You accept the insistence of kindness from the Angel, former, no, current; he says otherwise, but you see divinity in his eyes, in his smile, in the way that he touched Dean, in the way he held his child.

“Was-“ You swallow and finger the pin that Dean gave you. “Was that your kid?”

Castiel nods happily. “Jack.”

“And Claire?”

Castiel looks across the bar at Claire, laughing loudly and talking in big, dramatic gestures with a group of Hunters. “Yes.”

He doesn’t offer clarification. You feel stupid for wanting some. All of the impossible things you’ve seen, why do you care? Why do you need to know the details? Why does it matter that they are together? That they created a family? Do you think you can too? Do you think you’re as special as Winchester?

He leans on the bar. ‘Claire is my vessel’s daughter. I took her father from her.”

“That’s intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“And Jack?”

“He-“ He pauses. “He chose me. You know how are nephil are.”

“Sure…”

“God, he is too good at that.” Dean interrupts loudly, pressing his face into the back of Castiel’s shoulder. “I always fall asleep putting him down.”

Castiel pats his head. “He’s spoilt.”

“Yeah, well, gotta make up for tryna shoot him, huh?” You and Castiel share a look. You do not ask for clarification. “You stayin’?” You nod. “Awesome. Another drink?”

The room spins gently around you, but you’re content to watch the show. It’s not one that would be on TV, but it should be, warm and carefree and soft, it’s the show of a family. They move around each other in a practiced dance; Sam and Eileen and Claire and Kaia and Castiel and Dean. So many of them. All alive. All in love. So much love. It’s hard not to watch Dean and Castiel, they’re captivating. Beautiful. You notice the magnetism, how they’re constantly touching, brushing, holding, pressing, it seems so easy, it would seem so easy if you weren’t watching, but you are, and you see how Dean watches the room, the way he look out before he does something deliberate, the way he pauses, the way he checks himself and checks himself checking himself. Dean tells a joke you don’t catch. Castiel responds by kissing him. You feel like you shouldn’t be watching. Your heart won’t let you look away. They talk an inch from each other’s faces. You wonder what it feels like to love someone like that.

Once you save the world, you can have it too.

God, you’re so tired, it’s a tired that sinks you into the ground, that makes you blood slow and your heart sticky and blinking a dangerous game. You want to see the end of the episode though. You don’t want to miss a moment.

Thud.

“Game over kiddo,” Claire comments when you sit up suddenly. “Past your bedtime.”

“I’m older than you,” you say, or slur, or think.

She laughs. “Sure. You got a room? I’ll show you up.” She frowns. “That’s not a proposition.”

You laugh. “Like father, like daughter.”

Her eyes slide over to the pair. “In all the ways that matter.”

The room is small and cosy: a double bed and thick duvet, a jug of water on the dresser, a small plate with cookies on it.

“Dean makes them,” Claire says as she watches you examine the room. “Don’t tell him I told you, if you remember that is.”

“Not tha’ drunk,” you protest, but the world spins when you close your eyes.

“Uh-huh. If you need anything just, uh, deal with it? This isn’t the Hilton. My D- Dean gets up pretty early, but if you wanna get away there’s like a key box and stuff. Night.”

The door clicks closed and you’re left alone. Your head feels fuzzy and full and empty at the same time, and you wonder how you got here. You wonder it a lot. Every time you’re searching for a hunt, driving to one, checking your weapons, reading the lore, tracking down a creature that has no right to exist.

That has no right not to exist.

For the first time in… well, you can’t even think about it, you sleep well. As soon as you crawl into bed, curled under the heavy duvet, surrounded by warmth and softenss, it creeps into your brain and takes away the tension from your body. You don’t even think to check the room for warding or make an escape plan, the assurance of safety here is like the knowledge that the sun will rise tomorrow, to doubt it seems like an insult to you and the universe. Maybe there is gentleness in the hunting life, a tender hand of comfort and understanding that will offer quiet and healing and rest, between the blood and guts and bones and death. Life.

You have dreams you don’t understand, but they don’t scare you. Nothing hunts you in the dark corners of your mind, you are not lost, you are not running, you are safe. Bathed in blue-white light that feels like sunshine and makes your lips tingle. It’s pure and divine and you do not feel worthy, but the feeling does not last, the self-loathing is soothed, washed away like a baptism of permission to see the way you try, how hard you fight, how hard you live.

Like any seasoned Hunter, the dawn brings consciousness, even though you definitely haven’t had enough sleep, yet you feel rested. More rested than you have in years. The ache in your bones that keeps you awake too late and forces you from shitty motel beds too early seems like a distant memory, one from a life you’re not sure you actually lived, like a reoccurring dream that permeates you waking days, but the relief, that’s real. Like the shower you take, the water almost too hot, the water pressure almost too hard, but it purifies you in a way that you thought was no longer possible, not after the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen.

Packed and ready to go, you linger by the door, wondering, briefly, what the rush is. Why do you need to leave today? What is really waiting for you at the other end?

But this is not home. (Nowhere is home.)

Being in a bar in the morning feels wrong, the grey light filtering into the room that’s already too lit, too exposed. Somehow it feels inviting though. A couple of people are already in the room, sipping out of big mugs with plates piled with toast and pastries and even cooked food. Who’s the chef here?

“Mornin’! How’s your head?” Dean grins brightly from behind the bar. He’s wearing a stained apron that says lord of the pies and the way he looks at you makes the floor feel soft underfoot, so you forget that he actually asked you a question.

“No complaints yet,” you quip, daring to make a reference that exposes you both. Your fingers find the pin on your jacket, still oddly warm, already a comfort.

He allows a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Coffee, please, lots.”

“You’re speaking my language.” The coffee smells good, expensive, something that you would pay $7 dollars for because you know what you’re really buying is the chance to sit somewhere beautiful and put together when you are anything but. “Milks and sugar just there.”

Although it feels like sacrilege, you forgo the pancakes he tries to convince you on; you’ve never had much of a stomach in the mornings, but especially not this early, after drinking, with such a long drive ahead. You’ll regret not eating in a few hours, but you’ve never been kind to your future self, why start now? You watch and sip your coffee and let the day seep into your brain, acknowledging that you have to live today, get on with it all. Again.

Three cups in and it’s time to go. You were hoping to see Castiel again, but he hasn’t appeared. Disembodied hands produced Jack through the doorway, but you couldn’t tell who they belonged to, maybe Castiel, maybe Claire. The toddler is more awake, he follows Dean around behind the bar, babbling nonsense that Dean replies to in a gentle, but grown up tone, always acknowledging his sentences, even when there’s no real answer to give. He’s a father. Embarrassingly you imagine him as the father of your children, however that would happen doesn’t matter, it’s a fantasy. A fantasy of security and domesticity. The only knives that Dean Winchester yields now are the ones in his kitchen; the only flesh he cuts through is whatever is on the menu, already slayed and butchered; the only fights he has are bickering with his family.

Family.

Your family is somewhere, out there, maybe where you left them, what’s left of them. Dean picks Jack up and they dance to the song on the radio, some sugary pop song that makes Jack laugh in that infectious toddler way and you get to witness the Dean Winchester sing all the words, perfectly. This isn’t the Dean that ruled Hell or Purgatory or Earth, that was the Hunter and the bow, the sword to Castiel’s shield, that fought the Devil and God and the every other cosmic entity. Could this Dean Winchester have saved the world?

But maybe this isn’t his weakness. If you do not have a soft underbelly then why do you need to have claws? If you do not have a reason to fight then what drives you to win? Dean bares his throat to the world to show it that he has something to protect, and that is what makes him so dangerous. What do you have? Where is the kink in your armour? What are you fighting for?

The bar disappears into the distance, shrinking in your rearview mirror the way a dream slips through your memory like water between your fingers as consciousness takes over. The roads are all the same, the towns are all the same, but you are not. The dread in the pit of your stomach is no longer a knife holding you hostage, but a knot attached to a rope, pulling you back, anchoring you. For all the time spent fighting it, the magnetic pull to a place you felt you could no longer love, people you could no longer have if you wanted to survive. They are what convinces you to survive. You think about the way Dean and Castiel looked at each other when the other wasn’t watching, you thinking about the way Sam never stopped smiling when Eileen spoke, you think about how Claire became a teenager again in Castiel’s arms.

On the second ring, your phone connects.

“I’m on my way.”

#personal #my fic #fanfic #spn fanfic #ao3 #destiel #saileen #2nd person pov #something a bit different #this definitely had a life of its own #bar owner!Dean #post canon spn #15x20 who?#outsider pov #domestic fluff #spn advent calender 2020 #yes I am using the prompts from this lol

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ayma-nidiot · 4 years ago

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“Don’t Speak Their Names” - Shrimpshipping fic Chapter 27

This chapter can be found here on AO3.

Chapter 27 - I Challenge My Fate

~07 November 2005~

“President Phuckdis! Reporting in, sir!” A Buster Blader saluted his general.

“Proceed, Captain.”

“Several enemies calling themselves ‘Earthbound Gods’ started attacking Joey and his friends. Apparently, Joey lost a duel, and last I checked, he was engaged in battle with a snake-like monster. There are now hundreds of enemy soldiers coming this way! It’s only a matter of time before-”

“Th-They’re here!” shouted a few guards who stood watch at the door. “Aaaaaaargh!”

“Hah!” Watda led the charge, showing no mercy in cutting down the guards. He aggressively attacked Joey and showed little interest in anything else. “How kind of you to show me where you lowlifes camp out! Now, give me Uru or else!”

“Never!” Joey swiped at Watda’s feet with his Salamandra sword, “summoned” from his Duel Disk.

“Oh?” Watda smirked as he jumped over the sword like a jump rope. “Why would you want to protect that ‘dung beetle…’ or whatever it is you called him?”

“Hahaha…” cackled a voice from behind Joey. “I wonder that, too. Well, no matter, since that will be your first and last mistake!”

“Weevil!” William growled at the half-shifted Weevil. “Dammit, he escaped!”

“What do you mean, ‘escaped?’” Joey wanted to know.

“William, you moron!” Phuckdis bopped his brother with the blunt end of his sword.

“Hey, Joey!” Weevil’s arms hardened, glowing blood-red. “Think fast!”

“Wh-What?” Joey darted around for the agile bug duelist. Before he could really process what was going on, Weevil found him first, stabbing his non-sword arm with a sharp spider arm. “Aaaah! You… You mosquito…”

“A mosquito, am I?” Weevil continued to assault Joey, who had to parry the attacks with a shaky arm. “Hah! A mosquito is but a caterpillar compared to the monster I’ve become, compliments of my fellow Earthbound Gods!”

“You’ve gone absolutely batshit, Weevil! Open your eyes, why don’t you!”

“Nah, how about no.” Weevil stabbed Joey’s sword hand so hard that the Salamandra sword went flying. “But I’ll gladly open a giant wound in your belly and let the maggots have at you. I’ll make you suffer for what you’ve done in the past…”

“G-Ggh…” Joey looked up at his former Battle City rival, knowing his life was as good as done.

“The only one who will be suffering here is you, Weevil! Amazoness Empress, get ‘im!” exclaimed a debilitated Mai.

“Ah…” All of the excitement of battle left Weevil in an instant, and he knelt to the ground in pain.

“Bind Weevil at once!” Phuckdis ordered. “And be quick about it!”

“Yes, sir!” Several Magician Girl monsters got to work right away.

“Mai…” Joey got up, hoping to help the woman he loved - that was until Watda got in his path.

“Going somewhere, Wheeler?” Watda slashed down a few Club members who got between him and Joey. “Not that it would do you any good, since your pretty little girlfriend is history!”

“Get off her, you thug!” Seeing Watda’s snake arms slither around Mai’s face pissed the hell out of Joey.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I want to hear her scream in agony after I take your life away!”

“Ggh…!” Joey tried to pick up the Salamandra. “Rex… Where the hell are… you…”

“Dammit, get out of our way!” Though the enemies Amber fought on the way to the Club meeting room were weak, their numbers were enough to overwhelm her.

“Need some help?” Rex asked before transforming himself, felling most of the enemies and weakening the rest.

“Papa! You shouldn’t be-” Amber would have scolded her mother if she hadn’t noticed what Rex’s transformation had done.

“Hehe!” Rex remained in rabbit form as he ran with Amber. “I might not be a strong monster, but I’ve got one heck of a special ability. Surprised?”

“Yeah, at the fact that your baby bump is still intact when you switch forms. Shapeshifter physiology is a weird thing, isn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t be for a girl genius like you.”

“Papa… I know the circumstances are grave, but I don’t want you to push yourself. Let your strong daughter do the fighting.”

Rex’s endurance barely held on long enough to reach the Tabletop Gaming Club’s meeting room. As soon as he turned back into a human, his ankles swelled badly, and held onto Amber as a crutch.

“I got you, Papa. Oh?” No sooner had Rex reverted forms when Amber saw a fight going on well inside their meeting room, in the health/recreation center.

Unlike Amber, Rex recognized Watda instantly - as well as the captive he held by the neck. “That’s the guy who captured me! And he’s got Joey! Ugh!” Rex strained to transform.

“Papa, are you nuts? That man is the Crimson Devil, the strongest of the Earthbound Gods! Even I’m not match for him! H-Hey, get back here!” Amber couldn’t stop her mother from running to Watda in human form.

“Hehehe…” Watda cackled as he raised Joey above the gathering crowd - most of whom were weak monsters that didn’t dare to raise a hand against Watda. “My Earthbound Gods have lost to your friends… It’s too bad that you really lucked out and ended up dueling me ! Although I have to commend your bravery, Mr. Wheeler. It’s too bad you’re not as smart or strong as you are reckless.”

“Joey!” As much as Mai wanted to rescue the man she loved, enemies restrained her. “No! Take me instead, please!”

“D-Damn… you… Watda…” Having lost against Watda himself, Phuckdis barely had the strength to crawl on the floor, let alone fight back.

“Y-You’ll never… have… Urk!” Joey howled in pain as Watda’s nails dug into his neck, drawing blood.

“You’re trying to protect the man who tried to steal your soul, and the one whom you call a ‘duelin’ disgrace?’ Hah!” Watda used his free hand to grab Joey’s head, with the intent to twist it off. “I’ll show you the consequences of being a nice guy, you bleeding-heart filth! You don’t even deserve the honour of final words!”

“And I’ll show you the consequences of messing with my friends!” Rex thundered as he quickly shifted and latched onto one of Watda’s arms.

“Wh-What? Yeowch!” Thanks to Rex’s special effect, Watda could feel his strength draining. “You damned rabbit! How did you escape?”

“Not gonna tell you! But you best think how you’re going to escape!”

“What do you- Argh!” Before Watda could even turn around, an arrow from Amber pierced his shoulder.

“You’re… gonna pay!” Amber continued to shoot a flurry of arrows, chasing Watda out of the building. “Wait! ...Dammit, he got away! Let me-”

From an all-fours position, Rex grabbed one of Amber’s ankles. “Amber, not now… Just look around you.”

“Papa…” Amber noticed that in this battle, many Club members have already died, the vast majority of them killed by Watda.

“At least we know who are enemies are now.”

“...Fine.” Amber turned back into a human and glanced at Joey. “Just so you know, I still hate you. I didn’t do what I did because I consider you a friend.”

“Hehe, I know you do. You just won’t admit it!” Joey’s tone turned serious when he looked down at Rex. “That was a bold thing you did, man. Not only are you super pregnant, but you got beat to a pulp for gods know how long. I’m… I’m sorry for all that I said about you in the past. I take it all back.”

“It’s cool, dude…” Rex decided he couldn’t move anymore, and leaned against a giant wooden table for rest.

“Ugh.” Amber instead turned her attention to her incapacitated allies, Phuckdis and William. “Guys, are you okay?”

“Barely…” Phuckdis managed to stand on his feet, and helped his brother stand up too. “More importantly, Lady Amber… We’ve finally done it. We can now complete our mission.”

“Oh?” Amber looked to the smaller crowd, gathered around… something.

“‘Lady’ Amber? Come to think of it, I think I’ve heard her called that before…” Rex couldn’t see what was going on, even though he wasn’t very far.

“...Stay where you are, Rex.” Amber didn’t allow Rex to move one more inch forward.

“Amber?” Rex’s heart broke a little when Amber called him by his name. “Let me see what’s the ruckus over there!”

“Oh, I will.” Amber gestured for her soldiers to move out of the way, and when they dispersed, Rex could see Weevil - bound at the ankles, weak, and completely void of emotion.

“Weevil! You’re okay…” Rex attempted to crawl over to where Weevil was, but the ankle pain held him back.

“Rex… I don’t think you realize what kind of enemies we’re up against.”

“I’ve learned enough when I was captured. They want Weevil to join them because he’s an almighty god. And who wouldn’t?”

“They don’t want him for just any reason… He’s an Earthbound God, destined to cause ruin.”

Rex remembered what Dip told him, but tried to deny it. “Th-That’s not true! I thought you knew better than anyone that he can use his powers for good!”

“For now, yes… But in time… In time…” Amber walked towards Weevil and stared him down. “Their minds will become so corrupt that they have no choice but to fulfill their destiny. And when they’re with their own kind, they’ll cause unspeakable destruction.”

“Amber, that’s nonsense!”

Amber’s body and voice shook. “After seeing this destruction myself, I can hardly call it nonsense! The Earthbound Gods are what ruined my future! It was them… They were the ones who…”

“You’re not serious…?” Rex hugged himself to stop trembling.

“I saw it with my own eyes! Weevil was the one who killed my baby brother… My boyfriend…” Amber looked at the members of the “Dweeb Patrol,” who were even more confused than Rex. “All of you… And… you, Rex. Weevil killed you right in front of me.”

“Oh… my gods…” Rex wanted to throw up just from hearing this awful story.

“This… has been my mission… all along…” Amber half-shifted and pointed her arrow at Weevil, who looked up at her without a gleam in his eyes.

“Amber!” Rex couldn’t stop crying. “Do you mean to tell me you were duping me this whole time? That all along, your only real goal was to kill Weevil?”

“That’s right. This overgrown spider is the only thing standing between our future and complete freedom!”

“Amber…” Rex cried. “I… I can’t believe what I’m hearing… No, I won’t believe it!”

“And now… I challenge my fate!” Amber’s arrow glowed brightly.

“Do it, Lady Amber.” Phuckdis ordered. “Your mother is already pregnant with your present self, so you can still live. And Francis… He never deserved to live in such a terrible future. Do this, and his soul will be appeased.”

“Haha…” Amber’s eyes hardened on Weevil. “I’m going to free everyone… I’m going to save the world! All I have to do is kill one bloody Earthbound God! And I’m going to do it in front of your very eyes, Rex!”

“Amber… Argh!” No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much Phuckdis and William pulled his legs, Rex crawled forward.

“Don’t you dare interfere in our mission, Rex!” Phuckdis threatened to stab Rex’s legs with his sword. “I don’t care if you’re pregnant! I won’t hesitate to hurt you!”

“Amber… I know you don’t want to do this. The bonds your father and I have forged with you over the past few months are real. They’re not something you want to end with a stupid, puny arrow. Even though you’re barely younger than us, Weevil and I really love you as our daughter. Isn’t there any room in your heart for the father who raised you? The father who taught you everything there is to know about insects and dueling? The father would would take all the pain and suffering in the world just to make you happy?”

“Shut… up…” Amber started to tear up.

“Amber… I want us to live and bond as a family. There’s got to be another way. Let’s put all this behind us and go on another mall trip, or walk in the park. But whatever you do… please, don’t do this.”

“Shut up, Rex! You’re just making it harder!” Amber’s aim at Weevil’s heart began to waver.

“But you can save him! We’ve done it before!”

“No. Look at him! He’s too far gone now... He doesn’t even remember who the fuck you are, Rex! This is the only way I can save the world - and Weevil’s soul. I… I don’t want to see this man suffer in the soulless shell that was once Weevil Underwood. I’d… rather… Sniff…”

“Rex… Weevil…” Even the normally-proud Joey, the Joey that once despised Rex and Weevil with everything he had, couldn’t help but shed tears of his own.

“Weevil…” Amber choked on her own breath, and she pulled her bowstring as far back as she could. “Sorry, not sorry.”

So were Amber’s final words as she tearfully let her arrow fly at Weevil full speed.

#yugioh #ygo #shrimpshipping #mpreg #fanfiction #this chapter legit made me cry #super obvious Fire Emblem Awakening references in this chapter hahaha

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uraharasandals · 4 years ago

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Loneliness / Hunger Games AU

Another Hunger Games au that no one asked for! I was tired of reading the books on my reading list so I tried something...more relaxing and got into the amazing world-building again. With that cheery thought, let’s have some more behind the scenes!

Title: Loneliness

Word count: 2325

Dazai, Mori (other side relationships)

Character study

Weak. Fragile. Worthless. That was what Dazai have been hearing his whole life, growing up around the other kids in District 2. The other kids were all sturdily built, each of them made up of pure courage, bravery, grim determination and muscle. The other kids could run ten miles without sweating, and still scale the training wall with ease. The other kids could handle basically every weapon without fumbling or letting the sword fall out of their hands.

Dazai could do none of these things.

He stopped caring early on, however, mainly because he had other things to worry about. For one, the other children at the orphanage he was at. The staff there told him that his parents were dead, which was why he ended up there. Somehow, his version of the truth was never sugarcoated. He thinks the staff there understood that he could bear the truth, and the truth was given to him. More like shoved; he didn’t have a choice to accept or not.

At any rate, because of his skinny frame that couldn’t be filled out no matter how hard he tried, Dazai was small, even for his age. Which resulted in a boatload of bullying from the older kids, kids his same age, even younger kids, because at the orphanage there never seemed to be enough, despite it being District 2.

District 2. They were taught that it was one of the Capitol’s favourites, and one of the most-fed. It was also the district of peacekeepers, the white-uniformed blank-faced guards that stood at virtually every corner he could see. Everyone aspired to be like them. Not Dazai.

Everyone also aspired to be a victor in the Hunger Games, and everyone who was someone (which was basically everyone except Dazai) signed up for training. Dazai didn’t bother to, not only because he had no interest in the Games entirely, but also he knew that the moment his name was called, someone more brutal, more bloodthirsty than him would take his place. No one in their right mind would let him go to the Hunger Games.

That is, no one in their right mind until he was eight. For some reason, that was when he got tired of being kicked around and bullied. Dazai soon found that he had a way with words. With manipulating others, and talking his way into anything and everything. His brain became sharper, and it was as if the world’s opportunities opened themselves to him. He was still scrawny and thin, but for once, he stood with confidence.

The constant manipulation came with a pleasant surprise, too. Rumours spread and soon people started steering clear of him. That was perfectly fine with Dazai; he wanted no company and didn’t bother with any. The staff let him keep the pet snake that somehow followed his commands, and thus he lived peacefully like that. (People called him ‘The Devil’s Child, but what did it matter? He even liked the ring of it)

Fourteen. Two years into the Hunger Games circuit and he started to get bored of just manipulating ordinary people. Dazai started stealing things. Well, not stealing per se, but talking people into giving him things. Mostly women, because he had seen in the mirror that he had a distinct sort of charm. Not conventional, but still charming. With his stature, he could even play the part of a pitiful child. So he talked the rich into giving him things. A jewel here, a ring there. Not much. Mostly he got bored with it and pawned it off, throwing in an excuse to avoid suspicion. He never got into trouble with anyone or anything either, and was beginning to think into making this into a living when he was approached one day.

Where did you learn to manipulate people like that? At first, Mori was just a friendly face. Dazai even bought into his lies, and started manipulating him. He quickly realised the man was more than that though, and somehow Mori was interested in taking him under as a disciple. What he did for a living, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was Mori socialising with important people and doing important things. Dazai also soon realised the gravity of what he was negotiating on a daily basis; the stakes were higher, meaning that more charm was laid on thick. He started to burrow deeper into the job, deeper into the underground network, and deeper into the lies. He also started enjoying it more, because when these people started losing, they fall deeper.

Dazai soon learnt a word for this; ‘sadistic’.

At any rate, it soon vanished into reality when his name was called at the Hunger Games drawing when he was seventeen. Seventeen. Just one more year and it would all be over. But no. Just when he turned seventeen, he had to be carted off to the Capitol and fight to the death for the entertainment of other people. The mere thought of it made him boiling with anger, for the first time in his life.

He held out as long as he could though, until he realised no one would volunteer for him. Dazai, the person who long ago already graduated from being ‘The Devil’s Child’ to probably personifying the devil himself. Dazai, having lurked in the underground connections so long even the light could not purify him. Dazai, Dazai, Dazai. Everyone in the seventeens crowd probably wished him dead from their loathing and their disgust, and he honestly wasn’t surprised. Another name was drawn and a lovely girl with two braids, though obviously one of the best trained of Two’s, hopped onto the stage and the crowd cheered. Dazai shook her hand and could only think of ways to corrupt her as he stared into her eyes.

They were soon on the train and lo and behold, Mori appeared, along with an unrecognizable woman. Dazai gave him a wan smile, which was mistaken for what passed for friendliness for him by the other two and their escort. He knew that Mori knew better though. After all, he was the only one present who knew his underground personality.

The days before the Games then flash by in a blur. Time with his prep time. Dazai was already naturally handsome and one of the assistants, a woman with blond curls dangling above the floor, poked his cheek good-naturedly and commented on his looks. His stylist gushed over how lucky he was to have a camera ready tribute on his hands, and he handled the fabric draping and costume testing with ease.

Mealtimes. Dazai was a natural speaker and commented, gushed, questioned and reacted with appropriate timing and impeccable style. He won over their escort, the female mentor, and even, he suspected, his fellow tribute. The girls were trained for direct confrontation, strength, battle. They weren’t equipped to handle such flattery or the male attention. Dazai had the girl falling at his feet in no time.

He also had the Capitol audience falling at his feet in no time, too. During his time with Caesar Flickerman, he played off his image as a charming young man who was shunned because of his naturally slim frame and background. Sympathy rose from the crowd, and he could see the rich women dabbing at their eyes with lace. Dazai managed to slip in a puppy look here and there, and he could practically see the sponsors lining up, just for him.

The only problem was his strength, as always. At Mori’s instruction, he tried out every weapon at the Centre, and found out he apparently excelled at throwing and aiming things. A side glance found his fellow Careers showing off around the other malnourished tributes, and he secretly added in some hunting skills, as well as trapping skills. A show of throwing knives got him a decent eight in the Gamemakers’ eyes; he suspected some of it came from his interview.

And of course, he was laying down the charm thick as usual. Dazai befriended everyone and accessed them, before accepting only one tribute for an ally - a tall eighteen year old called Oda Sakunosuke from District Four, who luckily was also part of the Career Gang. Thank god. Otherwise he would arose suspicion.

All too soon he had to take part in the Games. The morning of the Games Dazai felt anxiety clutch at his chest, and nearly lost his confident demeanor in front of the hovercraft personnel. He reminded himself that Mori had won through his wits, and not his strength, though doubt clouded his mind and would have continued if not for the note slipped to him via his stylist. At that, his lips curled up. As always, Mori thought of everything.

Killing turned out to be surprisingly easy. As long as you dismiss the fact that you were slaughtering live humans it came so much easier. And besides, Dazai was rear guard. He didn’t have to do much except take down the enemy from a distance, and it was easy as long as his opponent didn’t have a long-distance weapon at hand.

It soon became clear to the rest of the gang that Dazai had brains, and for some incredibly foolish reason they trusted him enough to come up with strategies for gameplay, not thinking that he might even betray them. Once again, his scrawny frame and charm became his assets.

Soon his allies started dropping dead, but subtly. He made sure they die when they were out hunting in small groups. Having assessed his fellow tributes, he knew which one of them were strong enough, and turned his allies on them. The battleground thinned quickly.

One element he hadn’t counted on affecting him, however, was Oda Sakunosuke. Initially he deemed him the only trustworthy one in the arena, but the more they spent time together the more he found himself dreading losing him. Dazai wasn’t sure what to do with this knowledge. He hadn’t exactly promised to win, but he was desperate enough to live (or at least die by his own methods) that he managed to keep himself alive. Should he allow Oda Sakunosuke to live instead of him?

The answer came on the fourth day, and it forced his hand. Having let his guard down, he hadn’t realised the arrow until it was too late. Flicking a knife at the direction and successfully hearing the cannon, he immediately rushed back to Oda’s side, blaming himself for not learning healing before, but it was no good. Well, at least he didn’t die by his hand. Dazai found himself, for the first time, ashamed of his thoughts and constant self-preservation.

Something else began to set in after Oda’s death too, a feeling he wasn’t familiar with until he realised, on the sixth day, what it was after killing another tribute. Loneliness. Desire for company, which was strange, because he had always been a loner. Staring down at the braids in the pool of blood, he silently, for the first time, bid his fellow tribute goodbye.

Twenty-two down, one to go. At this point, the audience was surely at the edge of their seats. Dazai hadn’t thought of the audience since day one and the melancholy after Oda died made him neglect nearly everything else except basic needs, but afterwards he realised the reward he got for charming the audience. A new set of knives after he pinned the Six tribute to a tree resembling crucifixion. Medicine for the mild burns over his hands after tricking a tribute into eating nightlock. Really, his list was endless.

His last tribute died unexpectedly though, and frankly, somewhat disappointingly. Dazai had perched himself on the Cornucopia as an easy target (and close to the lake too, for insurance) and he watched as the wild dogs chased the burly One male tribute down, before they leaped on top of him. The sounds stuck to him ever since, and Dazai thought honestly that no amount of time would erase the trauma.

The trumpet blew, he was patched up with no more burn scars on his hands, and soon he was waxing poetic about Mori and how much he owed him and all of that bullshit in front of a live audience, but not before holding in tears watching Oda Sakunosuke’s death replayed on a screen in front of him.

The part about Mori was true, in a way he did owe him. After experiencing the Games himself though, he started doubting whether the man was entirely sane with his methods, and began steering clear of him, though still being in the same industry. Dazai had navigated those waters before, and he continued doing so with ease, thinking he could continue with that lifestyle.

Before realising it was futile, of course. Despite his continuous charm and lies, there was a gnawing at his chest that was confirmed when one of the girls told him there was no heart left behind his words. But what else could he do? No companion would accept him, besides his fellow victors, and most of them were too old anyways (not that he minded sleeping with someone older but for a friend, perhaps the same age was a good start. At least, that was what he heard), or too wary of him. Apparently, even the gossip spread fast in the Victor’s Circle.

That was, until the mess of a Seven tribute was deposited into the Victor’s Circle during his first year of mentoring. The moment Dazai saw his bright orange curls, he knew Nakahara Chuuya would be worth the trouble.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #dazai #bsd dazai #Dazai Osamu #HUNGER GAMES AU #mori #Mori Ougai #bsd mori #relationship study #Character Study #what is this ending

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louadorable126 · 4 years ago

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Demons(you).me: Chapter 8 - The Cult of Fortuna’s charity event (Part 2)

Artwork Commissioned from Aya/Itouyas on twitter! Please check her out! <3

>>Click here to read on Ao3!<<

Summary:

In a city controlled by the generally altered race of Demons, Lady’s life as a mercenary on the lower floor was never easy. Especially when she ran into Dante. A demon on the hunt for his missing brother.

———–

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Characters: Vergil, Lady, Dante, Trish

———–

Chapter 8:

“Who are you?!

The doppelgänger of Eva raised an eyebrow in confusion at his hysteria. “One of your kind?” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I’m on your side, so calm yourself."

Wait, she sees herself as a demon? Great, that totally didn’t soothe Dante’s fears! In fact the complete opposite. Only bringing forth more questions than answers in his already overworked mind.

“S-Sorry. I, uh didn’t expect to see another…” He gulped for the words. "Another one of us down here.” He said shakily, lowering his sword, yet still not letting go of it completely. Playing along seemed like the best option right now in Dante’s mind. Freaking out, as reasonable as it was, wasn’t going to get him anywhere with this.“Why are you here then?"

“I would think the reason is pretty obvious, given that they are currently sitting around us.” The doppelgänger gestured to the limp bodies of the leaders. “Dispatch sent me to deal with these lunatics, and so I have. Though, how very thoughtful of them to send me a backup just in case~ You’re a damn good fighter, and I like that in an assistant."

“Dispatch?” So the demonic military had been looking into taking out the Cult of Fortuna as well then? Eh, not too big of a surprise. It was always gonna be a matter of time. At least on the upside, they’d saved him a job by pulling their ‘disappearing’ act on them here and now. “Oh right, dispatch! Yeah, they didn’t tell me anything about you being here. So hence, uh… all that-”

“Its fine, all is forgiven.” She cut in briskly, waving him off. Clearly holding no resentment at least. “They were probably trying to protect my identity. It's hard to put up a decent front if you know who you can trust!”

“True” Dante responded, somewhat detached; weakly leaning back against the solid wall behind him. In truth, he barely processed her words, too unsettled by the tone of her voice, that gentle yet smug smile not too dissimilar to his own… it was all too uncanny.

Ugh, this is so weird! He whined to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. Why couldn’t she just be a clone of Lady? At least she’d have another pretty sister if that were the case! Maybe a little more murderous, but I could work with that-

A chorus of radio chatter spat its way out of the busted helmet. Easily startling the two of them, as they quickly turned their heads towards the sound. The thick static it emanated, made it far too hard to make out exactly what was being said. But if Dante had to guess just by how many voices were overlapping each other whenever it did get audible, the situation sounded quite hectic.

“Seems like security just found out about our little play session." Gloria commented, glancing over her shoulder towards the open door. The sound of a stampede of feet bashing against laminate sounding in the distance. She sighed, shaking her head. “And here I thought Agnus would be a slower runner.”

“Hang on, you didn’t kill all of them?!” Dante yelled in surprise. This wasn’t good at all. How the hell were they going to make good on their deal with Augustus if they hadn’t cut off all the hydra’s heads? (Maybe a bit too literally in the unfortunate case of the guy near to Dante.) God, Vergil was going to have his guts for this…

“I dealt with who I was ordered to deal with. We’ll leave it at that.” The woman in white said ominously, turning her back on him and heading towards the door.

“Right. Totally not the short and simple way of saying you fucked up!” Dante scoffed, unbelieving.

“Oh, I could’ve killed him if I wanted.” Gloria reassured him confidently. Throwing her gilded blade up into the air playfully and catching it again stylishly. “We need to get moving.”

She left the room. Leaving Dante to on hurry after her begrudgingly; his bold red half-cape billowing behind him.

Okay. Maybe we can still get away with this, even if the cult leaders aren’t all dead! Dante thought, trying to reassure himself. As long as the Cult of Fortuna doesn't reform under Agnus. Augustus will have no reason to think we screwed up. Yeah! All he wants is his family to be free. So like he need to know about the finer details of this mission anyway-

His stream of consciousness was abruptly cut off, when his foot came into contact with something solid and heavy, just as he passed through the doorway. The demon glanced down curiously, only to immediately regret the decision when he found the two guards who’d assailed him at the door, laying out cold on the floor. Looking distinctly very dead, if the large pools of blood around them was anything to go by.

That explains why you guys didn’t come charging in at the first sound of commotion. Damn. Dante mused, awkwardly stepping over the guard’s arm he’d come into contact with. Trying to avoid getting blood on his dark metallic feet, with picky, small steps.

“Are you coming?” Gloria’s impatient voice asked. Dante looked up, finding his mother’s doppelgänger standing there in the darkness with her arms crossed disapprovingly - still holding her sword in one hand. “The sight of a few dead bodies scaring you, recruit?”

“Hey, I’m not the summer intern lady! Show me some respect, alright?” Dante said, biting back with his usual wit. Confidently walking off ahead of her down the hall ahead of her. “What even gives you authority over me anyway?”

“Oh I’ve only spent the last six months infiltrating my way inside here. I’d think with that amount of effort, I should be in charge instead of the guy who rocks up at the last minute!”

“Hey, sometimes it’s only the last few minutes that count in the end anyway!” Dante responded cheekily, lifting his crimson sword up and resting it on his shoulders. An overly-dramatic, mournful sigh escaping him, as he pressed his hand on his forehead, like he was a tragic character on stage. “Though, not that my epic tea serving skills will ever be appreciated now."

“They were very nice, dear.” Gloria complimented calmly from his side. The blond woman had caught up with him once again. "Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Perhaps. Although your real name would be nice too.” Dante smirked.

He knew he was pushing it a bit here. If she was sent by the demonic military, it was likely she wasn’t allowed to reveal her true identity to anyone for the sake of keeping things nice and secure; names always meant loose ends, and that was never good for anything covert.

It was a rule that Dante knew better than most (He kinda broke it... pretty often. Had the higher-ups or his dad found out about his first meeting with Lady for example, he no doubt would’ve gotten one hell of a rocket up his ass for how many protocols he’d broken). So the chances that uptight ‘Gloria’ here was gonna spill the beans on…well anything about herself, let alone the similarities to his mother, was unlikely at best.

It seemed he wasn’t wrong, as Trish’s face turned hard at the suggestion. Looking dead ahead with the stern procession, pretending as though he wasn’t there. Leaving an uncomfortable silence (Not that you couldn’t really call it that though, with all the panicked yelling and commands to ’search the area’ echoing down from a few corridors back) to fall upon them.

But that wasn’t to say there was a glimmer of hope. Every now and then, her lips would twitch almost like she was on the verge of saying something before shutting herself down once again. Until finally, she anxiously glanced over her shoulder and spoke.

“Trish.”

Hot damn! He actually got something out of her! “Trish? Oh like Beatrice-“

“Just Trish.” She insisted firmly. Her fixing her green eyes over to the young man beside her, with an fearsome intensity only Vergil could match. "And your’s?”

Oh. He hadn’t thought that far ahead with this.

Should I tell her? Crap, that was a tough question. Sure in the here and now it would be fine. Perfectly reasonable too since she’d given her own. But, what happened when this mission was over? Trish would most likely have to report back on how this operation went down. Write up some boring essay that Dante normally left Vergil to handle. She’d surely mention he was involved as her ‘back-up’ or something. And that would be fine if she left it vague. There were plenty of grunts like him out there so he’d be pretty anonymous.

But…if he was named. It wouldn’t take long for some clever-clogs back at dispatch to realise he was here unauthorised. Questions would be asked most certainly, and Dante wasn’t sure how well he or Vergil could defend themselves once that started happening. What, being involved in an unauthorised capacity on an operation months in the making, if he went off what Trish said. From there, it could only unravel more and more. The two week absence, Vergil’s little murder tour of the cities’ databanks, Lady, Eva-

What if they already know about Eva? Stuck the sudden, horrifying thought. Trish thinks she’s a demon. What if they had- No! They can’t have done that!

“I’m risking a lot telling you that, you know?” Trish huffed angrily, brushing hair out of her face rather elegantly. “Going to return the favour or not?”

“Yeah yeah I am..” Dante brushed her off, his voice quivering slight. If.. if they had done what he thought they’d done. There was no point hiding anything anymore.

There was no point to anything.

“Its.. its Dante”

“Good name.” Trish praised, a faint smile tracing her lips.

“Heard it before then?” He pried, returning with his usual confidant edge. Yet, that couldn’t be anywhere further from the truth in reality. His stomach was a torrent of nervous energy, swishing and swirling in anticipation for what would come as her reply. Honestly not sure if it would be a blessing or a curse if she did recognise him.

“No. It's just an instinct. Nothing grander than that I’m afraid.” Trish professed a little bashful. “Although, rolls off the tongue rather nicely I suppose."

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dante said, smiling weakly. Perhaps there was something there after all…

All of a sudden, Trish reached an arm across Dante’s chest and pulled him so they were both pressed flat against the wall.

“Hey, what was that for-“

“Shut it.” Trish ordered sternly, voice low. Putting a finger to her lips, before gesturing with her eyes to the end of the corridor.

Dante followed their gaze. In the dull yellow light leaking from around the corner. Two shadows, large and twisted in a way that made their builds indistinguishable, traced their way across the floor. Thankfully it seemed they had already passed by, if Dante guessed from the direction the shadows were moving. Having missed the pair of demons completely by some stroke of luck.

“Think we’re safe. They’re leaving.” Dante whispered, moving to get up, only the flat edge of Trish’s golden blade to be pressed against his chest. Pinning down him in place, unmoving.

“Not so fast.” Trish advised sternly. Carefully observing the shadows’ movements as they danced across the floor. “They’re going to loop back round any minute now."

“Loop back round? Look, their probably just catering staff on the move. Unless they’ve dropped any napkins on the floor that I’ve missed here, they are going to be long gone any minute now-“

“And why exactly would catering staff move in groups of two?” Trish inquired. She had a point. Tonight had taught Dante enough to know he was barking up the wrong tree here. He’d been left to do stuff on his own, actively encouraged in fact. So yeah, for two people to be walking around together with no trolly did seem kinda strange to be honest. “They’re most likely guards on patrol no doubt. My men….the cults' guards have a protocol to move in groups of two. Means if one goes down the other can call for help. I know because I instituted it."

“Geez, thanks for making our lives harder I guess?” Dante joked.

“Oh I try my best~” Trish stated modestly. Removing her sword from his chest and lowering it back down to her side. “May as well make it up to you then, shouldn’t I Dante? I’ll only be a moment."

Sticking close to the wall, Trish swiftly began to make her way down the corridor. Disappearing around the corner moments later in one fluid, deadly movement.

Off she goes killing again. Dante sighed to himself, letting out air he didn’t even realise he was holding in. The relief that he was on his own again striking him in that moment. He was thankful for it. Any more stress, and his strained heart probably was gonna give out young. And let’s just say keeling over from a heart attack, wasn’t exactly on the demon's to-do list tonight.

The young man reclined his head back against the freezing wall. Maybe I should tell her to just keep to non-violent takedowns until we get out of here. Would’ve thought a trail of dead bodies is going to be pretty obvious to follow-

“What the-“ Cried a distinctly familiar, peppy voice. Followed by a surge of bright blue light streaking across the wall from around the corner. The crash of someone collapsing to the ground echoing down the corridor to Dante’s sensitive ears. Alerting him.

That can’t be good! Dante thought, imminently springing into action. Hurriedly sprinting down to check what was going on.

Only to be met at gunpoint by Lady when he rounded the corner.

———–

Click here to read more! :D

#devil may cry #dmc #devil may cry fanfiction #dante sprada #vergil sparda #dmc lady #dmc trish #dmc dante #dmc vergil

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years ago

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The Wedding (Part 3): Burning Bridges

More Ruri Action. @rurifangirl

Ruri Kazama has returned with the full force of his dragonblood. You know because you learned from your experience in the Genji Heavy Industries that Dragons have malleable bones. In that tall office building, when you had been fighting for your life against a deadpool horde, Caesar had tied Chisei up to make sure he didn’t try to leave the floor without anyone. You had been assigned to watch him. But Chisei had a trick up his sleeve. His bones moved around his body like he had grown dozens of extra joints. He easily wriggled out of the restraints.

Chime’s dragonblood was so high that his bones had fractured from the typical two hundred individual human bones to twice that number, each able to move independently of the other. When he saw that you were dying and seconds away from turning into a permanent deadpool, he formed two bonespikes in his chest and rammed those through your body. He said, his blood will keep you stable and heal you… for a while.

You were too weak to do anything about it but now you felt his strength invading you and you lift your head from his shoulder. Snowy white hair had appeared at the roots of his black hair and soon, his hair had turned completely white. The moisture on his body was starting to evaporate as the dragonblood heated him up. He threw back his head and howled mournfully. You flinch against the terrible scream that announced that a new beast had been born into the world.

Chime Gen lost the last bit of his humanity and stopped struggling to restrain Ruri. He couldn’t do it. Even if he could pull off a miracle, you would turn into a deadpool and die. He lost all hope of reuniting with his brother. Even Ruri Kazama felt it and cried out in despair. There are no words to describe the terrifying sound of that roar, as if an ancient urn had been uncovered, and with the breaking of the seal, the demon awoke from its slumber, its scream mixed with thousands of years of pain and resentment. You wanted to tell him not to give up and to keep trying until the end. But your throat felt tied with a knot. You weren’t as stupidly hopeful as Caesar Gattuso.

With his emotions released, Ruri Kazama fell silent.

You see the black blood in your veins recede and the scales shrink and fall off. “You said… that your blood is able to restrain the evolutionary drugs…” You say with surprise. “But doesn’t your blood carry the drugs too? You should be full of Herzog’s poison. Shouldn’t your blood make me worse?”

Ruri Kazama was silent for a moment. He was still wearing his tattered tuxedo, you were still wearing your tattered and bloody wedding dress. Were it not for the blood, you would have seemed like you had just come from an extremely debauched wedding. With the blood and the bone spires rising out of your back, you both looked like a nightmarish distortion of marriage.

“You really don’t understand anything do you?” He asked softly, turning on his heel. You had taken great pains to cross a dance floor that was full of debris and bodies and had nearly died of your injuries. But Ruri Kazama cleared it in a single bound, flying through the air like a terrible angel.

“What you say is true. However, the blood that comes from the bone marrow is untainted by drugs. As Chime Gen, I could not save you. And even now, this is only a temporary solution. Once you’re free from me, your condition will rapidly deteriorate. Only the fetal blood of God can save you now.”

He stood in the gap created by the smashed wall that had brought the terrible wave into the Takamagahara. The ocean flowed freely and tranquilly through the gap. A moving river of debris carried barges of wood, luxury cars and wedding decorations. A banner still flies over the destruction announcing the marriage of the Dragon Lord and the Dragon Lady. But it’s soon torn away by a hurricane force wind and goes flying into the dark.

Lightning flashes in the distance illuminating the tilted spires of skyscrapers nearest to Tokyo Harbor. The streets around the Takamagahara were already cleared of everyone so, despite the destruction, everything was silent without cries for help. Distant thunder makes you both turn your head.

Mount Fuji burns like a crimson lighthouse in the distance. The earth movement from the volcanic eruption was likely the cause of the tsunami. “God has awakened. The one called the Light King. The King General knew this. In fact, he probably timed the awakening deliberately. To crash our wedding.” Ruri’s voice was dull, but you detect a slight humor in it.

“But I thought the mercury had killed it?” You say. Zero reported that the Hydra clan was celebrating its victory after diverting the river that served as a womb for the Light King into a giant mercury poisoned lake.

Ruri Kazama huffed. “Do you really think a pool of mercury will kill something that powerful?”

You suddenly bark out a laugh.

He turned to you, his eyes empty and cold.

“Then, I’ll consider this a gift for our wedding day. Didn’t we both dream of seeing Tokyo destroyed?” You look deep into the hypnotic flowing colors in his eyes, flowing in red and gold.

His lips finally quirked up but he doesn’t respond. He turns his face up to the upper floors of the building and takes a flying leap vertically from a standing start. He lands on an outdoor terrace of one of the rooms on the third floor and walks inside.

You can hear the screeches and slithering of Deadpool all around. People were yelling and crying out in their dying moments. The sound of gunshots was simply never ending. A war was on this floor. Ruri Kazama acted casually, like nothing was going on. “This is the place where we’ll meet my brother. Once he’s done playing Ultraman.”

“You brought your sword with you?” You ask, suddenly seeing him rest it on a table. It was the sword in the red sheath that you saw him wield when he rescued you from Hydra before.

“No. This sword is called Viper Fang. It comes when I call it.” Ruri approaches a luxurious divan and sits down. “We have a little time to wait and rest.”

Without a care in the world, he lays down next to you on this couch. You stare at him in amazement. He seemed completely unconcerned about anything, but your mind was racing. “Herzog will never share the fetal blood with you. You heard him already say that. He’ll give it to Erii. After killing you.”

He lightly strokes your hair and shushes you. “You understand Herzog very well. Your trap was good, too good, because he had to best you with a spectacular entrance worthy of your scheming. Do you think he would wield the power of God against just anyone? He views you as a true enemy.”

He gathers your hair to his nose and inhales your scent deeply. “What better woman to be my bride. I trusted you and now it’s time for you to trust me. I have no intention of losing to him. So sit back and watch. You’ve fought hard.”

You smile, hope filling your eyes. Ruri Kazama hadn’t given up! He was still going to fight Herzog! But doubt creeps in again. “But… What about your brother?”

His eyes suddenly glow with fury. “My brother and I understand that we cannot coexist. You should understand that too.”

You suddenly hear the splatter of something wet hitting the door. You turn and look. The door was running with a dark spray of black blood. Another gale force wind blasts into the room, knocking over lamps and throwing the paper doors off their hinges.

In the door stood Chisei Gen. When his eyes fall on you and Ruri, embracing on this couch, his eyes go wide. He sees the bone spikes sticking out the back of your ragged wedding gown. Ruri Kazama is still stroking your hair. It was the worst way to see his brother again because it was just as he was in the basement of the village gymnasium, only you were alive and not a corpse in a bathtub.

At this moment, time seemed to stand still. Only the sea pounded outside and Ruri's long white hair flew in the wind. He was so slender and so light, reclined with his new wife on the couch. This moment was so intimate and tender, but also bloody and disgusting.

Behind you, the black sea made a keening tidal sound.

Ruri slowly raised his head. His makeup was mostly dissolved in the water, but there was a stunning beauty to him regardless. In the depths of his eyes, there seemed to be golden mandarins swirling. He was as beautiful as an Ukiyo-E painting, but his stare was full of malice.

Chisei crossed his sword in a guarding position over his chest.

There was truly nothing you could say to Chisei. Your eyes were sad and filled with resignation. Chisei would try to kill Ruri just like he’d killed Chance. Chance was more innocent than Ruri was and begged for his life. Ruri’s hands were already stained with the blood of countless people and there were no regrets in heart. You couldn’t save Chance from Chisei. How could you possibly plead for Ruri’s life?

Behind Chisei were several men and women who were taken aback by the scene of these two devils in love at first, but they recovered and raised their guns to fire. You recognize Sakura Yabuki. You could see the regret in her eyes. She viewed you as a beautiful bride and a potential friend, but she was about to fill you with bullets.

They were stopped by Chisei who threw out his arm. "Stand down! Stand down!"

Your eyes widen in shock and hope lifts in your heart. “Chisei… I’m okay. Ruri won’t hurt me-” Ruri’s hand goes over your mouth. It’s a gentle gesture, but enough to silence you.

Chisei doesn’t say anything either. His eyes slide to the crimson sword. It was distant from the couch, too far for Ruri to actually reach out and grab without leaving the bed. But he’d already summoned that blade from thin air. The weapon now could be considered to be in his hand. You’d witnessed first hand the power of that sword. Just removing it from the crimson sheath stopped a speeding armored vehicle. Just bringing it down once split that car in half.

No wonder Chisei’s guard was up. In an instant, Ruri Kazama could kill all of them.

Chisei took a step back in retreat even though Ruri Kazama hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. But you could feel Ruri’s heart’s accelerated pulse against your ear and his hot breath on your neck. Ruri Kazama seemed relaxed but he was poised like a serpent that could strike at any moment. His killer’s aura reached beyond the room and down the hall where you could see Deadpool cowering on the floor. But this wasn’t the result of Chisei’s ‘Majesty’ ability. They were moving away from Ruri Kazama. The Deadpool were running from him.

Chisei moved slowly and deliberately into a more murderous offensive posture. He took a deep breath. His eyes were serious. Whatever attack he formed in his mind had to kill Ruri Kazama, or else it would be the last attack he would ever execute. You had no hope, being stuck between them. If Chisei succeeded, you would die.

Ruri Kazama sensed your fear and lightly kissed your head. You feel something tickle your nose and stare in astonishment as Ruri’s hair was growing so fast, it seemed to be crawling over you to cover you like a blanket. His long hair, white as snow, was growing at a speed visible to the naked eye. When the door to your room burst open, his long hair was just falling on the small couch, but a moment later it had fallen on the tatami floor.

You were held tightly against him and you could feel the incredible changes happening inside him, like snakes were battling under his skin. He looks so pale and so thin, but also divinely complete, like a king who is ready to mount his horse and go to war.

"Is it you?" Kazama Ruri's eyes suddenly lit up, as if a small spark were ignited behind his golden eyes.

"It is me." Chisei replied.

"Brother?" Kazama Ruri got up from the couch. The bone spikes hooked into you and lifted you too. When he called out to his brother Chisei, there was a hint of childishness in his voice. You raise your eyes and look up at Ruri, looking for a sign that maybe Chime had been awakened by the sight of his brother. You’d bet everything -- everything -- that you or Chisei could snap him out of it, but there was no warmth, no weakness. Chime didn’t return.

How could you have been so wrong? Chime’s spirit seemed so strong that even Caesar was convinced by his quiet confidence that he could convince his brother. You rest your head against Ruri Kazama’s chest, unsure of what to do.

Chisei did not answer Chime’s call either.

“It was you who killed me." Ruri Kazama cocked his head and looked at him.

Between those two phrases, that ghost of Chime’s voice left. It turned out that it was just how Chime and Ruri tended to speak. Even after he turned into an evil spirit, he was still able to say "brother" in that juvenile tone without thinking.

Chisei still didn't answer.

Ruri Kazama’s eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments. In that instant, you saw that Ruri was hurt by the silence. You were so attuned to him that maybe Chisei didn’t see it, but just like you responded to emotional pain with laughter, Kazama Ruri laughed, the kind of maniacal laughter he used on stage.

The laughter shook you on bone spires. It hurt so much you had to stop looking at Chisei and wrap your arms and legs around him to brace yourself against the rise and fall of his chest. No one else knows whether he is really laughing or acting. That laugh is too outrageous, as if the villain killed the hero and took over the country and finally got the world. He laughed as if he were standing at the top of the world laughing, unrestrained, laughing at those enemies who challenged him, who now have turned into dry skeletons. The laugh is so full of ambition, yet so empty.

The world is glorious! He now occupies the highest position! From now on, no one can stand in front of him and speak!

Ruri’s smile is still wrapped in so many years of resentment and poison. You’d underestimated the fact that Ruri’s resentment over his brother’s actions was just as deep as his love. Chime didn’t lie when he said that he wanted to reunite with his brother, but the hope was so fragile that a simple stone-faced silence from Chisei tipped the scales and called the resentment to full force.

The next moment you were moved so fast your hair pulled at your scalp and your face pressed into his ribs. When you gasped in the next moment, your nose filled with the smell of blood and you felt the sickly, sticky warmth of it soaking your white dress. You turn your head and look into the eyes of Sakura Yabuki.

Ruri’s blade had penetrated not one, not two, but several people! In the moment of the attack, the members of the Executive board jumped in front of Chisei and were skewered on the blade. They were even reaching out to Ruri as though the strength of their hands alone could somehow stop him. The fastest of them all and the most devoted of them all was Sakura Yabuki. You had saved her once before, but you were helpless to save her now. You could only stare in dismay as the light and smile in her eyes hollowed out and vanished.

Ruri Kazama, meanwhile, buried his head in the chest of Sakura Yabuki, listening to the sound of blood leaving her with a soft and pleasant sigh of someone hearing the sweet sound of a flute. You grit your teeth and pound on his chest in a fury. “Stop it!”

He laughed wildly at your irritation and withdrew the sword, splashing the dripping blood all over the wall. There couldn’t be a heartier laugh in the world. After so many years, he finally trampled the dignity of the emperor under his feet. He’d finally broken Chisei Gen’s heart.

You turn and look at Chisei fill with sadness. Chisei was kneeling, holding the uncontrollable bleeding from his chest, staring at Sakura’s limp body, unmoving. Chisei was unable to counterattack. He only stared blankly at Sakura, eyes dull. Despite her sacrifice, he was still wounded.

The actual gap between him and Kazama Ruri was absolute. Compared to Ruri Kazama, Chisei just like an ordinary person facing a hybrid. He was against hopeless odds. You recognize the truth. Stable and safe hybrids weren’t powerful hybrids. Erii was unparalleled in her power and so was Ruri.

And so were you.

With a bit of effort, you could have easily destroyed all of Tokyo under the Genji Heavy Industries building, no God required.

Perhaps since ancient times, Hybrid society have been making the same mistake over and over again. The so called ‘Ghosts’? Those are the descendants that the White King expects, and the so-called Emperor, the so-called stable half-breeds, are just boring weaklings.

“Protect everyone! Hold back that madman!" An old man in a robe yelled as the surviving operatives rushed towards Kazama Ruri, forming a seemingly impermeable but incredibly fragile human wall trying to protect him.

“Run…” You breathe shakily. “Run!” You scream again and again. “Run! Run!”

But they weren’t running. “What are you doing?! RUN!”

The old man grabbed Chisei. Sakurai Nanami retreated to the other side of the corridor as fast as she could. Ruri Kazama was in no hurry to pursue, he strode down the corridor without a care in the world, waving his long sword casually, turning those samurai-like loyal members of the Hydra into corpses as easily as he was mowing the lawn. In the darkness, his long, pure white hair undulated, and his golden pupils came closer and closer. Blood splashed on a poster warning young women of Ruri the Ripper.

Chisei, the old man, and Sakura Nanami disappear to go up the stairs at the end of the hall. Likely headed for the roof.

Ironically, Ruri ignored the Deadpool still in the hall. They press themselves against the wall as you pass them, shivering in fear. “Stop… Ruri… please stop… Stop!” You reach your hands into his hair and pull like you were on a horse that was galloping out of control.

Much to your shock he does stop! But when you look around, it’s because all of the Hydra operatives in the hall are already dead. He looks deep into your eyes and blinks. “MC… this is how they killed the members of the Devil Clan.”

Your heart stills remembering Chance’s words in the park. Even though they lived quietly in an apartment block, the Hydra, in their frenzy to invade and break up the Devil Clan, killed all the adults in Chance’s family who were there and took the children captive. The apartment block burned bright that night, according to Chance’s retelling.

Ruri Kazama lightly strokes your hair again and you release his hair in silent acknowledgement. “There are no good sides and bad sides of this war. Only the winner and the loser. The winner will completely devour the loser without mercy. Tonight… you and I are the winners. So tonight… we will feast!”

You grit your teeth. You didn’t want to be included in this slaughter. You didn't want to be included in Sakura’s death! But if you freed yourself from Ruri, you would just die like an animal. Like these deadpools in the hall.

Together you climb the stairs and you end your protest. You had no intention of dying. Ruri was a monster, but he was all you had.

At the top of the stairs, you’re met with a simple iron door. Ruri’s skeleton deforms. You can feel it even though no visible change takes place. Ruri rears back and slams his fist into it and it deforms like aluminum foil but doesn’t fly off the hinge. You hear the old man yelling in Japanese. He’s right behind the door, holding it. You hear the roar of the helicopter engine very nearby, the rotors pushing the rain into the openings around the door.

The walls of the Takamagahara are starting to crack. You can feel the whole building shudder. It’s groaning like a dying beast. Ruri peered out the crack in the door curiously and then he reared back again and this time the door flew away like paper.

The old man stood alone on the roof, surrounded by deadpool. He faces Ruri who’s still cradling you in his arms. He’s holding a burning barrel of gasoline over his head. You just shake your head at him. What in the world was he supposed to do with that? Why was he being so stupid?

The old man rushed towards Kazama Ruri with the burning gasoline barrel held high, throwing the flaming lighter in his hand into the barrel, but Kazama Ruri casually pulled over an iron I-beam that was sticking out of the crumbling building without even touching it and swung it to smash him like a star baseball player, sending him crashing off the rooftop into the water along with the gasoline barrel.

Ruri giggled quietly. “You didn’t think that was funny?”

You just sigh and rest your head against his chest. “It was pretty dumb. No lie.”

The explosion of the barrel sent a pillar of fire rushing up from the sea water in the street, and the group of deadpool in the water was illuminated by the fire light, swimming around that pillar of fire like sharks.

Ruri Kazama looked up at the sky and laughed again. He opened his arms wide, as if giving his brother high in the helicopter another chance to embrace him.

#Dragon Raja

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