#i like the idea that mortals who might catch a glimpse of this are struck with the uncanny valley

[whatifxwereyou]

The Oncoming Storm 01 - The Flood

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021

Liu Kang x Reader or Kung Lao x Reader

Summary: Reader is a woman in her late 20s who had a peculiar childhood. She worked in her family dojo that was attached to a shop! You wake up in an unfamiliar place, wounded, with a somewhat familiar man. These moments will change your life forever.

A/N: I’ve been a huge Mortal Kombat fan for years and I saw the movie the other day. This reader x fic will follow the path/story/idea of the movies!! I have never done one of these before. If anyone is interested in it, I will continue on. It will either be Kung Lao x Reader or Liu Kang x Reader (or both, depending, bwahaha) but I haven’t decided yet. This is just the beginning. There will be plenty of fluff/establishment/smut if I get that far! Enjoy! Remember this is only for fun. Thanks for reading! Edit- You might notice the writing got better suddenly. I'm going through old chapters to casually edit.

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Your head was spinning. When you opened your eyes, you briefly caught the outline of a small room before it spun around you. Vertigo. It took ages for your head to stop spinning even in the darkness of your mind’s eye. Something cold and wet was pressed gently to your forehead, applying the slightest bit of pressure. Small droplets of water trickled over your brow, down your nose and irritated your sinuses. Others traced down the sides of your face and nestled into the mat of your dyed black hair. It was naturally stark white but you’d kept up with the black to better blend in.

Shifting, the bed beneath you felt plush and foreign. This was not your bed. Your bed was a modest bedroll that often left your back aching. What had you been doing that you would wake up somewhere strange? Flashes of a fight rushed into your mind. That was right! You’d been closing up shop for the night when men had rushed in, donned masks, and dressed in black. They’d been armed with blades.

You sat upright, fists at the ready and prepared for a fight. Your arms were aching and constricted, bound in tight cloth. Pain radiated down to your elbows and up to your shoulders. Coughing, your mouth tasted like smoke- acrid and sickening. Worse than that, you felt your heart beating too hard and too fast. There was a deep, familiar pain inside of you, a pain you hadn’t felt since your youth. You could picture in your mind’s eye your shop in flames and the dojo attached to it catching fire.

“Move slowly.” A confident but quiet voice consoled you. He was Chinese, like you, and his voice was soft but commanding. “You have a fever.” Careful but strong hands urged you to rest back down. In a snap, you knocked his hands away. He removed them with such grace and control that you knew he was either a dancer or a fighter. You guessed the latter. The room spun again but you forced your vision to focus. “I knew you were a martial artist but I did not know the extent of your skills.”

You caught a glimpse of the stranger. His short black hair was messy and pulled back from his forehead in a top knot. He had handsome features, dark eyes, and he was nostranger. You’d seen him before but today he was not wearing the wide-brimmed hat that you associated him with.

“You’re handy with a blade. I’m impressed.” He complimented. It was likely that he thought you were still threatened by him. Smart. You were. He’d been coming to the shop attached to your dojo every few months for the last couple of years. Each time his purchase was drastically different. Sometimes it was a weapon, sometimes precious stones, or herbs. Most times he came in just to have you sharpen a blade that you never saw him with again. You had allowed him entry to the dojo to watch classes and observe goings on. Sometimes he showed up every day for weeks a time. Sometimes you didn’t see him for months.

He’d been harmless. The only words that he’d ever spoken to you had been kind and reserved.

“Where am I?” You decided that was the right question. You knew who he was and what had happened for the most part. It was the ‘where’ that puzzled you.

“Do you remember what happened?”

You threw him a glance with dark eyes and he offered a smile that clearly said you wouldn’t get any answers from him until you gave yours. He was worried that your memory had suffered. The dizziness made sense now. You must have struck your head.

“It was late. I was cleaning up the shop before close when a group of men entered. They were trouble, treating wares carelessly. I asked them to leave since I was closing up. They donned masks and things escalated.” Things had more than escalated but it seemed to you that this stranger already knew many of the details of what had occurred without you saying. The men had threatened you with drawn blades and made demands involving you and your dojo that you had refused to bow to. “I had no choice but to defend myself.”

“You killed them.” It wasn’t an accusation. He just understood how your story ended.

“They left me with no choice. I didn’t ask for violence.” You turned your gaze. The room had finally stopped spinning but in a word, you felt like crap. Coughing, you recalled the fire and snapped your attention back to the friendly stranger. “My shop… the dojo!”

“I’m sorry.” He bowed his head respectfully. “The fire spread too quickly. There was nothing to be done.”

“I have to go. I…”

“You can’t go back.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t go back. Hanging your head, you resigned to the truth. He was right. You knew it. “I suppose not. I killed those men. I’m a murderer.”

“Those men were cruel and deserved the punishment you dealt them. As far as I’m concerned your action were justified.”

Your brow furrowed. He so easily absolved you of taking the lives of others. You didn’t think the guilt would fade so easily but now was not the time to dwell on it.

“How long have you had the dragon mark?” That was what he really wanted to discuss. His eyes sparkled even in the darkness of the small room- a still completely foreign and strange place. He’d offered you no answers even after you’d given him his.

“Dragon mark?” You didn’t have one as far as you knew. You’d seen others with a dragon marking but had never asked what it meant or why it had been there. You’d once asked your sister about it but she had never noticed the mark on anyone before. Then you’d never spoken of it again. You’d seen things that others could not in your youth and were nervous about bringing things like that up.

“On your back.”

You turned with a snap but it had been foolish. There was no way for you to see it at that angle. Pain shot through you as you searched for it with your left hand. Your forearms had been wrapped tightly but blood was seeping through the gauze, staining it crimson.

“Careful. You were wounded when you offered those men mercy.”

Much to your surprise, he took your hand in his own, the size of his strong hands dwarfing your petite ones. Then he guided your hand carefully to the mark on your lower back. There it was, plain as day. Raised skin in a circle with a dragon head in the middle. It was like a scar, as though you had been branded with it some time ago. Yet, you knew that it hadn’t been there that morning when you’d bathed.

“That’s… new to me.” You didn’t know how else to phrase it and laughed beneath your breath at how silly it sounded not to know it had been there.

“Do you know about the Order of Light?” He was feeling you out, gauging what you knew.

You were hesitant to answer, nervous that what you knew would get you into trouble. When most people entered your shop, they spoke amongst themselves. You learned many secrets that way. You were usually paid little mind unless you were teaching classes or fighting. You’d heard of the Order of Light before. Your curiosity had given you much more than you’d bargained for. You’d learned of other realms, Gods, magic powers. They were the sorts of things you’d read about in fiction. You’d never thought there was much truth to them but part of you had always hoped there was.

“Why do you know so much about what happened to me?” You answered his question with one of your own. It was about time that you got answers instead of just giving them.

“I heard the commotion at your shop. I came to help.” It was his turn to hesitate. “I confess that I’m fond of your dojo. It’s a peaceful reprieve for me. You bring light to a place that has very little.” He bowed his head apologetically, handsome face stern. “It was too late for me to do much but I saw the end of your fight. It was a graceful dance. You offered them mercy and were punished for your kindness. Then the building caught fire. You won the battle but it collapsed with you still inside. I pulled you free before it was too late.”

Funny.

You hadn’t noticed any burns. You remembered fire. You could feel the smoke still in your lungs but the only wounds you remembered suffering were those on your arms and the back of your head. They had to have been terrible. The cold you’d noticed upon waking up had only worsened and now your vision was spotty and hazy around the edges.

“When the authorities came to deal with the fire, I brought you somewhere safe. I didn’t wish for you to be caught.” He lifted his gaze and placed his fist against his palm with a polite bow. “I’m Kung Lao. Forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself earlier.”

You laughed.

There was no way!

You hadn’t heard that name in years. He was confused by your laughter and cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. I haven’t heard that name in ages. It’s not a common one either. You can’t be Kung Lao.”

“…but I am.”

“The only Kung Lao I’ve ever known died years ago.”

“That’s what was told to people when I left.” Kung Lao’s eyes were shining with amusement. The flicker of the candle resting on the small table next to the bed you rested in danced in his dark eyes. “Do we know each other?”

“If you are, in fact, the same Kung Lao who grew up here then yes, we did. I’m Y/N but I used to go by Y/N.” You hadn’t used your full name in years. It had rarely been used other than to tease you so you’d shortened it. Back then you’d been ill and the other kids had been afraid of you. “Kung Lao was my friend. A stubborn but sweet boy. We played together. He was one of the only people in town not afraid of me. Teased me which… made me angrier than it should have but he was apologetic afterward. The last time I saw him he gave me a purple flower. They don’t grow here anymore. I honestly have no idea where he got it. I could never find them again.”

Kung Lao was completely taken aback.

You supposed you could see the similarities. He could have been your Kung Lao all grown up, about twenty years later. He had similarly shaped eyes. Perhaps the familiarity of him had been why you’d trusted him to sit in on lessons. The idea that he was the same Kung Lao from your childhood made your stomach tighten up in knots. That was too much to deal with right now.

“Y/N?” His voice was soft and thoughtful as if he struggled to find truth in your words.

You bowed your head politely in greeting but it ached so terribly that you held it in your hands. Every movement felt like ice flowing through your veins. When you opened your eyes again your vision went from spotty to completely black. You’d gone blind! Panic raced through your thoughts and you blinked your eyes closed tight. Praying, you opened them again and were grateful that you could see even if your vision was still spotty. The room seemed hazier than before.

“Careful. Lay back and rest.” Kung Lao placed his hand on your shoulder to guide you but you pushed it away again.

“No, no. I should get something to eat. And some water. That will help.” You were sure that your vision was fading from blood loss or exhaustion. Either way food would help. You carefully draped your legs over the side of the bed. Your clothing was singed and bloodied. Gravity disagreed with your arms and your aching head, so you wound up hunching over. Kung Lao helped you sit upright again.

“Your fever is too high. What you need is a doctor.”

“You asked me about the Order of Light.” You ignored his concern in favor of more answers.

“Yes.”

“Then you know about the other realms, too? Is it true?”

Kung Lao was again taken by surprise and stuttered on his words comically.

“I must sound crazy. A man in a coolie hat, well the fanciest one that I’ve ever seen before, came in a few times over the years. I always thought he seemed a little funny. He referred to China as Earthrealm and mentioned the Order of Light in passing. I was curious as to what any of that meant and well, the internet is a fount of information, even for things like that. Most of what I read was on forums and conspiracy sites so I put next to no stake in it. Is any of it true?”

“I’m not the one who should be telling you this.”

“Kung Lao.” You scolded which incited a confident grin from him.

“Have you heard of Mortal Kombat then as well?”

You considered those words. You’d never heard them before so you shook your head no. At least you hadn’t heard them the way that he’d phrased them, as though it were something associated with the Order of Light.

“The mark on your back means that you’ve been chosen to fight.” Kung Lao began on what you were sure would be a lengthy explanation of what would come next but you had tuned him out. Your vision was blurring again. It faded around the edges and the world spun. You felt like you were floating.

“Kung Lao?” You interrupted, grasping blindly for him but your hands had gone numb. There was urgency in your voice.

“It’s okay. I’ll take you to Raiden’s Temple and there you’ll be guided through…”

“Not that. I can’t… I can’t see!” Panic was thick in your voice. Your breath was suddenly short in your chest and you collapsed against him, falling into unconsciousness.

Next Chapter >>

[tiredthinkbucket]

Midas

Sodden is not the most private of places for trysts, but they make do.

It’s peculiar. Being so comfortable standing here next to Tissaia tonight, on an evening so abuzz with nerves and tangible mortality. They survey the mages and refugees around them, with a sort of small talk that has eased its way into more philosophical conversation.

Yennefer feels bitter. She cannot help it, it’s a feeling she knows too well. Because Tissaia has always managed to maintain an image of perfection. Everything around her has been close to impeccable, each situation is always under control, chaos is always ordered.

Meanwhile, despite always doing the utmost, all of Yennefer’s attempts fall short.

She is an expert at manipulation. She was manipulated by one of the greatest, thus she learned how to excel at it herself. But even that has never been enough. Istredd, Aedirn, Geralt, her best attempts at regaining her fertility. Everything that she touches shimmers briefly.

And it eventually fails.

Yennefer hates that Tissaia seems so satisfied with what she has, jealous that she could be content with so little. That when Yennefer sets her sights beyond Aretuza and the Brotherhood, and everything around her goes to shit, all she gets is Tissaia de Vries marching up to her and effectively declaring, I told you so.

But that is not their conversation. Yes, Tissaia clearly has sympathy for Yennefer’s lack of real satisfaction in spite of her several lifetimes worth of living upon the Continent. But she seems convinced of something that Yennefer is not.

You still have so much left to give.

Yennefer wants to scoff but falters in the face of such sincerity. Instead, she finishes her ale, setting the tankard down beside her with a thud. She glances at Tissaia, but the woman’s eyes have caught on the corner of her mouth. Yennefer swipes a tongue across her lip deliberately, tasting some remnant of ale, and Tissaia’s eyes track the movement before flitting back up Yennefer’s.

What could Yennefer possibly have left to give? How Tissaia can even claim such a thing with such certainty is absurd. She maintains eye contact with Tissaia, the expression on whose face is indecipherable. The Rectoress of Aretuza has always erred on the side of cryptic with her words and been less than forthcoming with her facial expressions. But after tomorrow they may be dead, and Yennefer is tired of being frustrated, never fully understanding her former instructor. So she reaches out and into her mind, curious. The noise all around them dulls to a hum as Tissaia opens up immediately, letting Yennefer in just a bit, but enough.

But Yennefer doesn’t find the answer she’s looking for, nor did Tissaia invite her in to give her one.

Instead, she’s overcome with a warm, solid tenderness, a fiery admiration, an overwhelming mix of emotions that she had no idea the sorceress was capable of. She realizes, as she lets the thoughts consume her, that Tissaia knows it too. That this is probably the end, if not for both of them, likely for at least one. There is no purpose in hiding anything any longer. The cards are laid out on the table now.

A tremor runs through Yennefer. She closes her eyes and closes off her mind. It’s rampaging now, the smallest taste of Tissaia’s mind has awoken emotions within Yennefer she thought she’d long killed and buried.

She wants Tissaia.

Has always wanted her, with a ferocious sort of wanting. As a girl, taken from her excuse of a family and thrust into a strange new world, the sole object of her hatred and desire had become the Rectoress. Touching herself at night in her room, sobbing as she recalled the words that no one would ever love her, conflicted by the tiniest appraising smiles that Tissaia afforded her. She’d never coveted Istredd’s affection the way she did Tissaia’s. Istredd was someone that she already had, but this woman, she was untouchable. Sleeping with Geralt had never come close to making her shudder the way she did when she pictured Tissaia between her thighs.

And perhaps it bordered on desperate, but Yennefer had not a few times cast spells when sleeping with another woman, enchanting them to look as she desired, with brown hair and sharp cheekbones, and that had worked for her. A little.

Tissaia is watching the goings on of the camp when Yennefer finally reopens her eyes. And if she had not just glimpsed the internal workings of the woman’s mind mere moments ago, she might be affronted with the apparent lack of attention. As it is, Yennefer wants those eyes on her, and her only. She takes a deep and steadying breath. Waiting, patient, for Tissaia to turn back to her, aching to know what comes next.

But Tissaia does not look back at Yennefer. Instead, she turns and walks away from her.

Yennefer watches her. The sound of the woman’s retreating footsteps are quickly swallowed by the noise of the encampment. Bewildered, Yennefer tries to make sense of what just transpired, when she hears it.

Are you coming, Yennefer?

Yennefer all but runs after her.

-

They find a quiet place, a small room that must have been a servant’s quarters. It’s dusty, but it has a bed, and after Tissaia whispers a few words in Elder, the room is adequate.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

Yennefer can’t help it, she can’t, her nerves are on fire and she’s wanted this for too long. She doesn’t wait for Tissaia to speak, she doesn’t look for any cues, she dives in and her starved lips find Tissaia’s soft ones.

At first, it’s gentle, despite the urgency. They only have tonight, but Yennefer has thought of this too many times to do it wrong. Her arms wrap around the smaller woman’s frame, drawing her closer, but not too tight. Tissaia’s hands come up to Yennefer’s neck, tugging her down just a bit more, then tangling in her hair. Her tongue swipes against Yennefer’s lip, and she opens up greedily.

Tissaia starts to move backwards, slow, and Yennefer follows after her, refusing to let go. When they reach the bed, Tissaia sits down and Yennefer nudges her softly so that she lies on her back.

And then Tissaia is staring up at Yennefer and the younger woman is struck with the reality of what is happening.

She looks down at the other sorceress, at the woman whose face has haunted her dreams for decades, her expression frustratingly calm for someone who has just had a tongue down their throat, the only indicator of which is slightly swollen lips and Tissaia catching her breath slightly.

She quells the feeling that surges in her chest.

It’s ridiculous, really. Yennefer is usually so quick to action, she rarely hesitates to simply reach out and grab what she wants. But something makes this different. It makes her feel weak, when she has always been obsessed with feeling strong.

Tentatively, Yennefer reaches out a hand and strokes Tissaia’s face, watching as she tilts slightly into the touch and smirks, a soft twist of the lips that Yennefer wants to kiss away and keep kissing forever.

But she waits, because now Tissaia’s hands are coming up behind Yennefer’s back to pull at the strings and loosen her dress. Yennefer enjoys the sensation for a moment before deciding that she also wants to unclothe Tissaia, and deftly begins to undo the buttons on her gown. Tissaia pulls Yennefer’s dress off her shoulders with a care that threatens to also lay bare her soul. When they both finally shrug out of their garments, Yennefer settles astride Tissaia, and the younger woman doesn’t know where to begin.

Tissaia is a masterpiece, an immaculate goddess, trapped between the bed and Yennefer’s body, and she is waiting on Yennefer.

But Yennefer can’t bring herself to move. Her eyes are riveted onto Tissaia’s, and in them she sees the whirlwind of emotions that she had glimpsed earlier, echoing what Yennefer herself feels. But her face remains still, her chest rises and falls with each breath, and Yennefer wants to know if her heart is beating as fast as her own is.

Yennefer marvels quietly as she begins to trail her eyes over Tissaia’s form. The pale, soft skin makes her mouth water. Her breasts have Yennefer’s fingers itching. She swallows.

She’s afraid, that if she touches her she��ll break. Not in the way that’s fragile, but in the way that explodes.

Tissaia seems to sense the indecision, the desire battling against apprehension, and perhaps she takes pity on Yennefer, because she places a hand on her cheek and cups it oh so gently. And then --

She is everywhere, her hands are on her neck, her lips are devouring Yennefer’s, their breasts pressed fully against each others’, her thoughts are reaching out and entreating Yennefer’s own, asking permission, and Yennefer thinks that perhaps she will be the one to explode with the flood of all the sensations.

Yennefer caresses Tissaia’s face, her hair, her breasts, with frenzied touches, and Yennefer can feel the soft sighs against her lips, can feel the goosebumps raise underneath her fingertips. She can’t help but love that, that she’s responsible for this.

“Yennefer,” quiet, barely heard.

She draws back, to look into Tissaia’s eyes. They’re wide and dark; there’s a bead of sweat forming above them upon her forehead. She feels her want, her lust, her love, their bodies are tangled together as much as their thoughts, and Yennefer has to kiss her to stop from thinking. And she doesn’t think she’s ever kissed anyone this passionately. She’s never felt so strongly.

Tissaia brings her hand on top of Yennefer’s and drags it down, down, down. And as it reaches the area between Tissaia’s thighs, she presses in, presses down, and moans so sweet that Yennefer clenches her own legs around Tissaia. The brunette releases the other woman’s hand in favor of gripping the sheet beside her as Yennefer sinks a finger into wet, wet heat.

“Oh,” Tissaia breathes out. Takes a shuddering gasp in.

Yennefer slowly draws out her finger, before pushing it back in with another. The resounding moan sears itself upon Yennefer’s mind, better than she’d ever imagined it. She watches her face as she slowly begins to fuck her, notices the way her eyebrows draw together, the shape her mouth makes, sees the tendons in her neck strain when she swallows. Transfixed, she continues to pump her fingers in and out of Tissaia, who has begun to writhe below her. She angles her hand just so, and Yennefer can’t get enough of the woman’s soft moans.

It’s not long. It’s some minutes before Tissaia is clenching hard around Yennefer’s hand and gasping, hands gripping her back hard and grabbing her close.

They lie there together, holding onto each other and catching their breath before Tissaia pulls back a little to look at Yennefer. A beat passes, and then she’s smirking and pushing the raven haired woman onto her back. She kisses her way down her body, and Yennefer has the feeling that despite the urgency of tomorrow, they will not be getting much rest tonight.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Seventy-Six: Drained ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, death ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ AO3 Link ]

Just because she isn’t technically human doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be careful.

Since she was young, Hinata has been...unlike most people she knows. While most humans are rather...well, mundane, she quickly proved to be anything but.

And that is because Hinata is a witch.

The term, of course, varies from land to land, sometimes even province to province. But all that truly matters is what it means. Neither human nor monster, she and those like her walk the delicate line between worlds.

Her mother had been one, having exhibited powers beyond the mortal. Before the birth of her second daughter, she’d begun versing Hinata in their ways.

But...she’d been young. And her lessons cut tragically short as Hanako passed not long after Hanabi’s unleashing to the world. Suddenly they were both without a mother...and Hinata without a hand (or knowing mind) to guide her.

Most of her knowledge, therefore, has been hard-won: picked up from rare books, and fleeting conversations with strangers like her. Over the course of her growing up, Hinata has learned the truth behind her bloodline in bits and pieces...just enough to crudely navigate her way through life.

Her father had indulged her...oddities for a time before removing her from the household, fearing she would taint Hanabi in a similar way. Left to her own devices, with barely any coin or possessions...Hinata was made to fend for herself from the humble age of twelve.

A fairly decent age, all things considered...for hers was a time for rampant diseases, danger, and misfortune. War and roving bandits were common...and so were things humans barely dared to believe were real.

Monsters.

By some grace, Hinata found herself in the care and tutelage of another witch named Kurenai, one whose unique magic manifested in illusions. For each family - and at times, individual - carried their own special trait or skill. In Kurenai’s case, it was the ability to bend the mind to suit her devices, often passing unseen or manipulating others to her bidding. But she was a rather kind witch, doing so only to get by, and never maliciously.

But Hinata faced a dilemma. She had no idea what her line’s power was meant to be, or her own possible unique twist. Memories of her mother, by that time, were vague and foggy...and nothing was remembered to help her realize her potential. Try as she might, Kurenai couldn’t puzzle it out either, trying trick after trick, but with little to show for it. While Hinata could demonstrate basic magical ability...her true strength remained undiscovered.

After four years in the woman’s care, Hinata decided that there was little else to glean. And given that Kurenai had become rather...involved with a city guard, she felt a bit invasive remaining. So, she’d gone on her way, promising to write, but...no longer feeling right remaining in the woman’s care. She was nearly an adult by then, and had mastered enough basic arts to get by...or so she’d hoped.

Passing through a city, Hinata had stopped to rest, all while happening to overhear a fortune teller nearby speaking in riddles and prophecies to a group of young people. A quick glance told her, of course, that this particular woman was a fraud, exhibiting no true magic.

But it was that moment that changed everything.

In a flash, as Hinata looked to a young man among them, she was struck with a vision of his future. To her horror, it was anything but the romance the hag was spouting...but a rather grisly death. Startled and afraid, she’d fled...and reached a conclusion.

That was her ability. To see into the future. And once she realized it, an echo from the past had reached her: words from her mother, about how their eyes - so pale, and so...unusual - could see what others could not. The snippet had slipped through the cracks in her mind...but then, it all made sense.

Hyūga were seers.

With that knowledge in hand, Hinata knew what she had to do. Unlike the pretender in the city, she could offer true readings for those who wanted them...and, so she hoped, earn herself the coin to survive. Town to town she traveled, offering glimpses into futures. Of course...given their era, a great many ended in tragedy, but she managed to remind her clients that the future could always be changed...and it was that alone that kept her from being run out of town.

At least...not so quickly. As time passed, the era of her kind was waning - superstition and a shift in guiding morality had begun to paint her people in a cruel and predatory light.

So, with the coin she’d accrued, Hinata fled and found herself a small cabin just within the boughs of a forest. Close enough to town to take care of her errands...but far enough out to remain hidden, her arts offered only to those deemed trustworthy...and able to pay the now far-higher sum to amend for the lack of clients.

Otherwise, she kept to herself, growing a garden and befriending the locals enough to skate by with enough supplies to last the harsh Winters. Several have now passed, and she stands a young woman of her early twenties, well-versed in life’s struggles, and her arts.

...and it’s now that trouble is afoot.

Stepping from her front door, basket along her arm, she comes up short as a local man, farmer by trade, staggers up her walkway with a look of panic in his eyes. “Milady! M...milady, I -!”

“Slow down,” Hinata softly cautions, seeing his exhaustion. If he ran the whole road from his farm, no wonder he’d be winded! “Take a moment to catch your breath.”

“It...I…” Leaning forward to brace palms on his knees, he struggles for breath. “There’s been a body found, just north of the lake!”

“A body…?”

“Yes! But it, it was…” A deep grimace overcomes his expression. “...drained…!”

Dark brows furrow. “...what do you mean, drained?”

“There’s not a drop of blood left in him! As though some monster sucked him dry! There’s talk of a vampire roaming these parts…!”

At that, Hinata’s eyes widen. A vampire…? As times have changed and humans expanded, she’s heard less and less of the monsters lurking in the moonlight of mankind.

“You can see why folks’d be panicked - everyone’s afraid to leave their homes! And, well...we was wondering if you could...do something.”

“I’m not a hunter of monsters,” Hinata quickly cautions, raising a hand.

“But...was it not in the old tales? Of, er...your kind taming monsters?”

“...that was a long time ago.”

“But milady -!”

“I’ll go investigate...and you’re right, it’s b-best you all stay in your homes. You’ll be safest there.” In truth, she knows that weak wooden cabin doors are nothing to a vampire’s might, but...if they just fed, she can hope they won’t be keen to feed again so soon. “If you can, hang a string of garlic near your door. The strong smell should help ward them off. And if you’ve any silver, arm yourself.”

“Oh, thank you…”

“Go on. Wait for me to find you...I’ll see what’s going on.” Watching him go, Hinata can’t help a feeling of dread in her stomach. Her powers aren’t showing her the future now...and in part, she’s glad not to know. Leaving her basket, she instead takes a dagger of silver and hangs the sheath from her belt.

Time to see just what’s going on.

Following the vague directions, she takes a road that leads to the small local lake, and it doesn’t take long to stumble across the smell of rotting flesh. Nose wrinkling, she parts some forest thicket to reveal the body in question. True to the farmer’s word, it’s pale as death and almost looks...shriveled despite the lack of rot. Cautiously approaching, a hand to turn them finds a bitten imprint at the crook of their neck.

No mistaking it...this is a vampire.

But what to do…? Hinata’s never fought such a creature - never had to. While some Hunters do still track such monsters, there’s no telling if one is near enough to aid before someone else falls victim. Silver may give her an edge...but she’s mortal. Too slow, too weak compared to a monster of moonlight. And though she’s heard tales from her kind of their once-famed ability to manipulate the inhuman...she’s never tried it. Never encountered any such beast to know if she even has the skill.

But when the hairs on the rear of her neck stand on end...she knows she’s being watched.

Breath forced to be even and body tense, she grips the handle of her dagger tightly. She’ll likely only have one shot at this...best to make it count.

“Well well...seems I’m not the only rare breed around…”

Spinning, she relies on her hearing to gauge the distance, attempting to bury the blade somewhere useful. But like a bored parent subduing their child, the vampire catches her wrist, and with his simple grip, makes her relinquish the weapon.

“Bit rude to stab someone when you don’t even know their name, isn’t it…?”

“You’ve killed someone,” Hinata replies tersely.

“Eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. I needed blood, and he was there to provide. Besides...he stunk of sin. Not only will he not be missed...but I can almost guarantee that someone, somewhere, will be happy he’s gone. I try to only kill humans that deserve it, miss witch.”

As he speaks, Hinata looks the man over. He’s pale of skin, with flyaway dark hair and even darker eyes. Taller than her own build, he’s wiry and sinewy - a far throw from her short and stout anatomy. And there’s an aloof tinge to his expression, clearly bored of her.

“...a death is still a death. If he’d done wrong, he needed to be t-tried.”

“Well...sometimes we ought to give the courts a rest, hm? Besides, you humans rarely get this whole ‘justice’ thing right,” he drawls, releasing her wrist and flicking her dagger up with a boot, snatching it in midair and looking it over. “...fine blade. But you’re far too slow to use it.”

“...you need to leave.”

“Oh…?”

“I’ll not let you hurt anyone else.”

At that, the vampire scoffs. “Not let me, eh? And, ah...what, praytell, will you do to stop me…?” As if to prove his point, he moves in a blur. With a thud, her knife drives into a tree trunk, wrists pinned over her head as he effortlessly subdues her. “...I don’t want to hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it. I’m on my way through...I’ll not trouble your little gaggle of humans, witchy woman. Just remember...humans always need a monster in the shadows. They just might make one out of you, someday…”

Tensed and panting, Hinata feels a flicker of panic in her veins. And like a spark to tinder, it seems to alight something within her. Jaw setting, a kind of instinct drives her to bark, “Release me!”

As though thrown backwards, the vampire does just that, shock widening his eyes and flaring them red. Immediately, his body language changes from relaxed to battle ready.

Rubbing at a wrist, Hinata watches him warily.

“...what did you just do…?”

“What I had to.” Drawing herself up to her full height, Hinata stares at him. “...I want you to leave. Now. I w-won’t let you harm these people, or make them afraid. They trust me...and I them. It’s my duty to protect them. I don’t want to hurt you...but I’ll do what I must. Now...leave, vampire. And n-never come back.”

Slowly, he lets himself lose his edge, eyes fading back to black. “...I told you, that’s not why I’m here. Didn’t have to go and shove me with...whatever that was. Consider me gone, witch.”

“My name is Hinata.”

“...Sasuke. Not that you apparently care. Be careful with those powers of yours. I meant what I said. There always has to be a monster...and you’ll be first on their list.”

Her jaw tightens. “...I said, go.”

Scowling, he lingers only a moment longer before simply disappearing, rustling underbrush all that betrays his movement.

Only once she’s sure he’s gone does she relax with a sigh, sagging back against the tree behind her. She had no idea what to expect, but...it seems the old tales are true. The ones who walk the night really do obey a witch’s words.

...she’ll have to remember that. But for now, she has a body to bury...and people to reassure.

Beyond the lake, coming to a stop, Sasuke only looks back once he’s sure he’s clear of her. A hand smoothes irritatedly through his hair. He’s only ever encountered a handful of witches...and none ever treated him like that.

...nor did they exhibit a power over him.

Seems the old folktales are true. Well...he’s not keen to see her again, that’s for certain.

...and yet...he can’t help a flicker of morbid curiosity. It’s rare to see a human so plucky...even if she’s not completely human. A strange walker of the line between night and day...one who wanders the twilight between humans and monsters.

For now, at any rate, he’s not about to push his luck...and he’s got somewhere to be. But he nonetheless makes a mental note for a later date.

It just might be a little...fun.

                                                            .oOo.

     A slightly different twist on the typical Nightwalker story! Rather than modern, this one's more medieval based, a bit like SHM day two this year, only...well, not directly connected. This one's standalone...at least for now!      Anyway, it is SUPER duper late, so I'm gonna go sleep - thanks for reading!

[razieltwelve]

The Day Breaks (RWBY AU Snippet)

Note: This is set in the same AU as Night and Day, Emissary, I Am Become Death, Thunder and Paperwork, Ice and Fire, Apocalypse, and Origin.

X     X     X

Glory.

That was the word that echoed through Blake’s soul as the Goddess of the Day descended from the sky. It radiated from every fibre of her being, a wondrous, celestial glory that captured Blake’s gaze even as it made her want to avert her eyes. 

Unworthy, the thought bubbled up from deep within her. She was unworthy of even looking upon the goddess. Blake had always thought that Yang was beautiful, but this goddess was beyond mere beauty. Light blazed from her, a conflagration of radiance so brilliant it should have blinded them and so hot it should have reduced the world to ash. Yet Blake was not blinded, and her flesh did not burn. Instead, she stared, utterly captivated at the divine version of Yang.

Blake had once wondered how anything could be described ‘inhumanly beautiful’, but now she knew. Every single one of the goddess’s features was impossibly perfect to the point that looking at her was equal parts enthralling and painful, and every single one of her movements was filled with power and majesty. 

The goddess’s hair was wrought of golden flame, a waterfall of solar fire that shifted endlessly in the maelstrom of her own power. Her eyes were lilac inferno’s with swirling currents of crimson within them. Even her skin shone, radiating a brilliance that both soothed and electrified.

Armour of molten gold flowed over the goddess’s body, wreathed in a mantle of flames and punctuated by runes and sigils of platinum and other precious metals. The goddess’s eyes swept over the group, and a memory that was not hers filled Blake’s mind.

Blake saw the goddess in the throes of passion, eyes almost entirely crimson with desire, that golden hair falling over her like a curtain of silken fire. In the memory Blake saw another Blake, this one a goddess, and their passion was a storm of shadow and light filled with such raw, unfulfilled hunger that Blake found herself struggling to even breathe as the memory faded.

How could the goddess stand it? Blake reeled. How could anyone want someone else so much and stand not being with them? She would have fallen if not for Yang’s steadying hand, and she gave the blonde a grateful look as the goddess’s gaze grew heavier, as though she sought to peel back every layer of Blake’s being to glimpse the soul beneath.

“You’d better back off right now,” Yang warned, stepping in front of Blake. “I don’t care who you are.”

The light and heat increased until they were almost painful, and Blake had a feeling that Yang would have found herself on the receiving end of some divine punishment if not for Death.

“You really should turn that down,” Death drawled. “Unveiling so much of your presence is a little excessive, don’t you think?”

The goddess, Day, turned to Death. Her eyes bled crimson. “You…”

“Uh…” Ruby nudged Death. “She looks kind of mad at you.”

“Hmmm…” Death continued to meet Day’s glare. “Well, given the way she was looking at Blakey over there, I’m going to guess that the Blake in her world was someone she loved very much but could not have.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like how you and Weiss end up meeting in just about every world. It’s the same with Yang and Blake. But who couldn’t the Goddess of the Day have? Well, how about the Goddess of the Night?”

“That’s awful,” Ruby whispered. “But why would she glare at you?”

“Because, Ruby, think about it. Day and Night can never meet, save for dawn and dusk, but if they do try to break the natural order, who do you think would be sent to stop them? Death, Ruby, that’s whom the other gods would send. And in so many worlds, a version of us is Death.”

“Oh.” Ruby stared. “So this could get ugly?”

“I have a feeling it will.”

“You…” Day stomped toward Death, and the ground at her feet ignited. In an instant, she was walking atop a lake of molten rock. With an almost casual flick of her wrist, Death moved the others away to safer ground. “Even here…”

BOOM.

Goddess Nora grunted with exertion as she struggled to hold Day’s fist back with her hammer. The other goddess had moved with incredible speed, and the resulting impact had shattered the landscape and sent waves of molten rock spilling outward in all directions. Goddess Nora had barely managed to get between Day and Death in time.

“You know,” Goddess Nora growled. “I really don’t like it when people try to punch my friends. How about you calm down?”

“You dare?” Day growled. “Little goddess, little storm, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. My light is the light of Creation, the fire of the first sun, of all suns. I am every star in the sky, every light that has ever been. I am the one who shines upon the Many Worlds, and there is no mortal in existence who does not know my name. I am the Day.”

Goddess Nora smiled toothily and shoved Day back before drawing her hammer back and bring it around in a thunderous blow that sent Day hurtling into the sky. “That’s great because I am Nora.”

X      X     X

“Are they going to be okay?” Ruby asked.

Death sighed. The sky above them was awash in flame and lightning. Day and Goddess Nora were all but invisible to the mortals, moving far too fast for any of them to see. All they could glimpse were the aftermaths of each collision, shockwaves of power and devastation that would have utterly destroyed Remnant if Death had not cast her power around the area to contain the damage.

“I hope so. Whatever is going on, it can’t be a coincidence that so many gods were brought here.” Death’s eyes narrowed as gauntlets appeared on Day’s arms. When Goddess Nora next swung her hammer, Day actually caught it in one hand. “Oh… that’s not good.”

“What isn’t?”

“Nora’s hammer has a name. In your language, it translates roughly to ‘The All-Smasher’. It shouldn’t be possible to simply catch it.”

“So… she’s hot stuff, huh?” Yang asked.

Death raised one eyebrow. “You know, I always though the Yang in my world made the lamest puns.” She sighed dramatically at Ruby. “But now I stand corrected. You have my sympathies, Ruby.”

“Hey!”

In the sky, Day used Goddess Nora’s surprise to land a blow to her chin that knocked her up beyond the clouds. A second later, Goddess Nora went crashing back toward the ground as Day appeared above her and struck her with a punch that hit so hard that the mortals could hear the thunder of its impact and feel the shockwave it created. Goddess Nora hit the ground with a sound like a meteor crashing to earth, and Death took a deep breath.

“I should probably step in. If Day is anything like the Yang from my world, she’ll keep fighting until someone stops her, and it looks like my friend might have bitten off more than she can chew.”

A massive sphere of light and heat appeared in the sky, and Day pointed with one hand.

“Did she just… summon a miniature sun to throw at the divine version of me?” Nora asked.

Death shrugged. “I suppose you could say that although it’s hard to call a sphere of heat hotter than the core of star that’s a mile wide miniature.”

In response, Goddess Nora gave a deep, booming laugh and raised her hammer. The entire sky ignited, and bolts of lightning crackled down to strike the weapon. The weapon shivered as though it could barely contain so much power, and still the lightning came, bolt after bolt after bolt, until the roar of the thunder was a single, sustained howl that tore the clouds and shook the ground.

“Come on!” Goddess Nora screamed. “Let’s see what you can do!”

“On second thoughts,” Death murmured as she moved the mortals even further away and reinforced the barrier she’d put around the area. “I really should do something.”

Day glared and hurled the miniature star at Goddess Nora. The red-haired goddess grinned from ear to ear and threw her hammer.

BOOM.

X     X     X

Goddess Nora laughed and turned her head to spit out some blood. How long had it been since she’d bled? Too long. This was what she’d been hoping for! A fight - a real fight - where she wasn’t sure if she would win. People were always saying she needed to hold back and show restraint, but here, at last, was an opponent she could throw everything at. Above her, Day was surrounded by a corona of blinding light and heat. Around them, the entire landscape was a blasted, ashen ruin. There were even ripples in space and time, tears in the very fabric of reality that had been created by the clash of their powers.

“Do you really think you can beat me?” Day growled. “Look at you. You can barely stand.”

“You think this hurts?” Nora leaned on her hammer. “I could do this all day.” She pointed. “Besides, I’m not the only one bleeding.” 

Sure enough, there was a small rent in the armour along Day’s shoulder. Through it, barely visible amidst the light that spilled off her, was a small cut.

Day’s lips twitched into what could almost have been a smile. She raised one hand to touch the wound. “All that for a drop of blood?”

“It’s a start.” Nora raised her hammer again. “So… are you going to stand there looking pretty, or are we going to fight?”

Day didn’t bother to reply with words. Instead, she streaked forward like a comet. What followed was two minutes - an eternity given the speed with which gods moved - of the most intense close-quarters combat Nora had ever experienced. Day was incredible. She fought with unbelievable strength and aggression, every punch or kick capable of pulverising a world. She was utterly relentless too, never slowing or tiring even as the force behind her blows only seemed to grow.

She really does live up to her name, Goddess Nora thought parrying a blow with her hammer and blocking another with her arm. After all, there was no stopping the day, was there? Night always gave way to day. Always. And Day had no intention of easing up.

A blow clattered into Goddess Nora’s shoulder, and her arm shattered. She ignored the pain that flared through her being and brought her hammer around to strike at Day’s side. The other goddess caught the hammer again - honestly, she had to be cheating because that wasn’t supposed to be possible - and somehow wrenched it out of Goddess Nora’s grasp. The weapon hurtled away, and when Goddess Nora tried to call it back, Day blasted it away before continuing her onslaught.

“You can’t beat me,” Day growled. “I am the Day.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time.” Goddess Nora drove her forehead into Day’s, but the blonde goddess barely seemed to feel it. “Because I don't care. I am Nora!”

“And I am Death.” Day leapt back as Death appeared, her scythe held at the ready. “And you two really need to stop this.” Death’s silver gaze pinned both of them in place. “Because if you’re not careful, you’ll destroy this world, even with the barrier I’ve put up to contain the damage.”

Goddess Nora grimaced as she realised that Death was right. She’d been having so much fun that she hadn’t really thought about the mortals and their world. Day, however, went right back to glaring at Death. It gave Goddess Nora the creeps. Their Yang was much more cheerful than this grumpy guts.

“You dare…”

“Are you going to give me the same speech as before?” Death asked. “Because you really shouldn’t bother. You might be the Day, but I am Death. You’re not going to beat me. We both know it.” Death allowed a hint of her displeasure to show. “Besides, we have greater concerns than any issue you might have with your version of me.”

“The Death of my world - my own sister - keeps me from my beloved!”

“And that’s awful,” Death replied. “But doesn’t it bother you that we’re all stuck in this world. That can’t be a coincidence.” She was about to continue speaking when she stopped, and her eyes glazed.

“What is it?” Goddess Nora asked.

Death scowled. “I had this world’s version of Salem imprisoned with my power.”

“They have a Salem here?” Day bared her teeth. “Is she a monster too?”

“Yes, but I stripped her of her power.” Death’s scowl deepened. “And now… something has stripped her of her soul.”

“Someone got to her despite your power?” Day asked. “Unless you are a good deal weaker than my sister, that should not be possible.”

“Yes. Someone did get to her despite her being in a prison I created. Worse, I can vaguely recognise the power responsible although it is… twisted and warped.” Death’s hands clenched around her scythe. “It belongs to someone who should be dead. Or rather, it belongs to someone I killed. Personally.”

“That does not sound good,” Goddess Nora said.

“No, it does not.” Death looked at Day. “Which is why we need to work together. You love Night, do you not?” Day nodded. “Then we need to work together. Otherwise, we might all be stuck here, and you’ll never get back to her.”

“A truce then,” Day offered. “Until the truth of this situation is known.”

“Oh.” Goddess Nora grinned. “And a rematch too, you know, when we know what’s going on.”

Day looked at her for a long moment. “Very well.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

Divine combat is always fun to write because the divine versions of the characters can do some absolutely obnoxious things power-wise. That said, things are beginning to come to a head. The only one of the four we’re missing now is the goddess version of Blake, and she’ll be appearing in the next snippet.

Naturally, the big confrontation is also coming closer, and if you think things are bad with Fred (the heroic dinosaur and bureaucrat), then you’d better brace yourself. Remnant is going to come under siege too, and Team RWBY and the other teams are going to have to show their stuff.

Why? Because the gods are going to be busy with an enemy of their own.

You can find me on fanfiction.net, AO3, and Amazon.

[fuckinsteverogers]

Olympus Has Fallen: Chapter 3

Character Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Athena x Steve Rogers

Word Count: 2.2k

Rating: 18+ Series

Warnings: Fluff, Cute ass shit, also stalking.

Synopsis:  Athena works for a tech company that happens to find itself with a new client, Stark Industries. Her centuries of hiding are about to be thrown out the window, but will she find allies in the Avengers at a time of crisis or will she fight alone and risk destroying herself?

Author’s Note: I kinda wanted to post two today, or maybe I might post the 4th as well after this, I haven’t decided. Anywhoozle, feedback is always appreciated. I hope you like it.

I watch the sweat drip down my forehead through the mirror stretched along the wall in front of the Stairmaster. I rub the soreness in my thighs as I climb and climb and I imagine I’m climbing the steps of the Eiffel Tower. I imagine I’m far away from the upper east side and in a foreign country, basking in the sun or drinking hot chocolate in the cold, but I’ve run for centuries trying to escape the people calling me a demon.

I hear the grunts from the men lifting weights over Slayer playing through my headphones, and it occurs to me that if the Avengers wanted to kill me, they would have at least tried to stop me walking out of the tower. They probably wouldn’t have succeeded, but they would have tried.

I’d made a conscious effort to be more alert during the last fortnight since being confronted by the group of superheroes and had noticed black SUVS and people in black hoodies and combat boots trying to stealthily follow me. They kept a safe distance, but I was yet to determine whether they were keeping an eye on me to either protect me from others or protect others from me.

I distantly think about what I’m going to have for dinner as I lift my weights, and do my deadlifts, and I walk past countless restaurants on the way home and I notice the person in the black hoodie is remarkably bigger in muscle mass as of yesterday. I climb the stairs of my apartment building and groan at the ache in my thighs, and I notice the black hoodie actually come into the building today.

I climb the fifteen floors and the black hoodie stays two floors behind me, I regard them with clear eyes, and catch a glimpse of theirs. My brain begins to swim and ocean breeze flitters past my nostrils and I know who it is immediately.

I jam my keys into the lock and wait, turning the knob, flinging the door open, and wait for the black hoodie. He rounds the corner, sees me waiting and stops, head down, hoodie concealing the blonde hair.

“I know you all are keeping a safe distance, Captain Rogers, but please… Join me for dinner,” I invite, smiling to him. His shoulders square and he lifts his head, my eyes meet the oceans and I feel lightheaded, probably from the hard work out and my need for sustenance.

“I’m not sure I should, Ma’am,” Captain Rogers replies in the silky-smooth voice that I want to wrap myself in.

“Come on, you must be hungry from stalking me,” I say cheekily and walk over the threshold to my apartment. The room smells like lavender and I leave the door wide open for him to make his mind up. I dump my bag, slip off my shoes and pull the chicken from the fridge.

The chicken is diced and the oil is hot in the pan when Captain Rogers finally makes up his mind, entering and closing the door. He pushes down the hoodie of his sweatshirt and removes his boots, not necessary but appreciated.

“I hope you’re okay with a curry,” I tell him as he lifts his eyes to mind, he nods, mouth still in a hard line. “Would you like a drink? I have beer, I think?”

“Water should be fine, Ma’am.” I move and fill a glass with iced water from the fridge and place it in front of one of the bar stools, forcing him to come within touching distance of me. I notice how weary he is, careful with each step and each movement, almost as if worried that I might get angry.

He does as I expect him to, shuffle towards the breakfast bar and seats himself on one of the swivel chairs and sips the water leisurely. I watch the beauty of the man before me, so struck with how unbelievably breathtaking this man is even compared to the many Gods I’ve met. Eyes bluer than the oceans Poseidon controls, hair silkier than Aphrodite’s, skin more golden than even mine, and voice smoother than Hera’s as she nurses a child.

I throw the chicken into the pan to brown, and once cooked I put in the sauce to simmer. Regarding Captain Rogers who has awkwardly sipped through half of his glass, I press my hands into the counter and lean towards him, he looks at me alarmed.

“Captain Rogers, I was wondering if you could answer some of my questions?” I ask, moving my head to his level and searching the eyes that are bright and innocent. His mouth twitches slightly, enough for me to notice.

“You can call me Steve, Ma’am,” He replies, voice soaking through me, and causes my eyes to visibly flutter.

“And you can call me Athena, Steve,” I reciprocate the first name basis, he smiles slightly and I notice the weary fondness stretch across him as the tension in his shoulders loosen. “Now, are the Avengers following me because you think I might hurt someone?”

Steve’s eyes flash surprise, and his smile vanishes into confusion. “Tony has done extensive reading on your history, he doesn’t believe you a threat and nor do I,” Steve replies truthfully, I see the glint of trust in his words and I smile wide without thinking. I’d never heard trust in someone’s voice when speaking about me before, I’d been met with fear my entire existence.

“Then what’s with the security detail?” I ask, stirring the curry before turning the pot of water on to boil. Steve releases a breath and I hear him stand from the chair, I see him round the bench before I feel him. He brushes a hand on my hip and I have a very sudden urge to lean into the touch, but it’s gone within a second and he leans against the bench.

“Tony and I don’t believe you are a threat to us or anyone else, but that doesn’t mean all the Avengers agree,” Steve replies, I gather a glint of regret in his voice, regret for telling me that maybe. I understand where he is coming from, and I understand where the Avengers that don’t trust me are coming from, I haven’t given them any reason not to.

I pour the rice into the boiling water and stir the curry once more, I don’t bother replying as I grab plates from the cupboard and uncork a bottle of wine, and pour myself a glass.

“Do you drink wine, Steve?” I ask, taking a sip. He looks from watching the curry simmer to look at me, the corner of his lips raise.

“Only with beautiful women, Ma’am,” Steve replies, and I smile, and his eyes flash for a second, “Athena, I mean.”

“So, I shouldn’t pour you a glass then,” I insinuate, I place my glass down and stir the rice, turning the tap onto hot water to drain it once it’s fully cooked. Steve shifts and I feel his presence inch closer, turning I see I’m right with my body a few inches from his.

“You are spectacularly beautiful, Athena,” His mouth curves and I have to look down before I give myself away, the smile on my face still evident. “Many men have probably assured you of that over the centuries.”

“You’d be surprised. Just because they built the Parthenon for me, doesn’t necessarily mean that men aren’t intimidated by me,” I reply quickly, pouring the rice into the strainer. Swirling it through hot water, “I don’t date usually, I’m a terrible liar with those I feel connection to.”

I make the plates and pour another glass of wine for Steve, who takes it eagerly. I leave leftovers on the stove and just as I had thought, Steve questions whether he can have seconds, I nod eagerly and watch with a fondness growing in my chest.

“What did you mean when you said that you weren’t a superhero if history had anything to do with it?” Steve asks as I wash the dishes, leaning his head in his hands, I watch as his hair falls onto his forehead and note the way it tumbles.

“I haven’t always been so secretive with my origin. Apollo and I came to earth to help the mortals, with this ignorant idea that we could rid the world of war and famine and disease, we succeeded in some parts, but failed in others. We couldn’t stop the black plague, and were failures in stopping the extinction of integral species,” I sigh, draining the water from the sink and wiping my hands on my tights, my chest tightening but I continue for the sake of the man’s concentration completely on me. “I was naïve, and during the Salem Witch trial era, I revealed my existence to Salem, and was met with harsh words and pitch forks. I thought I could help these people, but they threatened to kill me. I ran and never stopped running, I move to a new city every few decades to feign off the questions about my age.”

“How long have you resided in New York?” Steve questions, enthralled by my story. I smile, and move to sit beside him, sipping on my third glass of wine.

“It has only been three years last month. I was in Rome before this,” I tell him, rubbing the muscles of my thighs as they ache, he follows my hands and his mind reels.

“How about we retire to the couch and I’ll massage your legs as you tell me stories of your life?” Steve offers, I meet his eyes in surprise, my hands stuttering as I dig my fingers into the muscles.

“You don’t have to do…” Steve interrupts me by grasping both my hands and tugging me towards the couch, obviously eager to hear more tales of my long existence.

I watch him sit, beautiful against the cream sofa, and I sit beside him, leaning against the arm rest, and drape my legs across his lap, the curve of my behind pressed to his thigh. He brings rubbing the sore muscles of my thighs and I begin talking, starting from a random spot in history, telling him about Apollo and I. This goes on for a while, he massages my thighs, then switches to my calves, then back up to my thighs, his eyes watching his hands and his ears listening intently to my words.

“We were in Brooklyn, Apollo and I, on July 4th, 1940 and we went to this dive bar. I remember that year, I had dyed my hair black and had grown it all the way down to my lower back, and was wearing this bright red dress that night. We were on vacation, and Apollo pulled me to this bar and we danced all night. I remember listening to the band and wishing that I could live and die in this era, instead of having to live through all the war and famine; it was the first year of the war, a war I couldn’t stop, but we danced, and basked in the dull lights and the laughing people. It was like there was no war in the world, like these people didn’t care what was happening on the streets, they just danced and laughed and drank,” I told him, remembering the night like it was yesterday.

“What bar was it?” Steve asks, I look at him and notice his eyes wide, and see that he has stopped massaging and his hands are motionless on my thighs.

“O’Connor’s. It’s closed now,” I tell him, feeling the clench of his hands on my thighs as I let the words slip my mouth.

“I knew when you said black hair and red dress, but I wasn’t sure,” Steve blubbers, I place my hand on his shoulder and he turns to look at me, shifting himself and my legs to almost pull me onto his lap. “It was my birthday and Bucky had taken me out to celebrate before I enlisted in the war, and there was this beautiful woman in a man’s arms and I had sat and drank my beer and wished that was me. She was so beautiful, I had thought, and it was you.”

My eyes widen and my jaw goes slack, I had been so invested in dancing that I hadn’t looked at anyone sideways, if I had I would have seen him. I remember the music that night as it floods my head, soft and carefree. I remember the happiness I felt and I’m transported to that time as I watch the beautiful man in front of me wish he had asked me to dance.

I suddenly don’t want anything more than to be here with him, and I pull myself up onto his lap, his hands finding my hips, and I look into his ocean eyes. I fall deeply into them, and press my thighs to his, and wrap myself in the man I wish I had met in that 1940’s dive bar, but we are in the 21st century and neither of us can get drunk off of wine, and I press my lips to his.

And suddenly we are dancing, and I feel weak and his hands are on my back and in my hair and I feel more like a goddess than I have in millennia.

Permanent Tag

yoursupernatural   |   niallandsebastianaremylife

Feedback are always appreciated and tags are open!

[creativitytoexplore]

[HM] - 6 Thunder on the Horizon https://ift.tt/3iec93Z

6. Maggie’s Revenge

Herb Withers watched in horror as Jeremiah raised his hitherto unused pistol. The barrel was pointed right at Herb’s chest, and before there was any chance to react, a deafening thunderclap rocked him backward. He wondered for a brief, confusing moment if he had been struck by lightning, but the warm sensation flowing from his back said otherwise. Shock and confusion ran through him in waves as he tried to keep his balance on his horse. If he could just stay upright, maybe they could get him back to town and do something about it.

Darkness surrounded the hill, closing in on all sides. He looked up at the ominous, bloated sky above him. “I just wanted to see that man hung.” Blood bubbled from his mouth as he said it, choking him and making the words barely audible. In a snap, any and all sensation was gone and he was floating midair next to his horse. Staring at him were two men, both with hangmen’s marks around their neck and one with a neat bullet hole in the middle of his head.

“Where the hell am I?!”

Otis, still in shock from the events unfolding, shrugged. “You’re dead, but I don’t know if that’s going to be a problem for long at the rate she’s going.” He pointed a finger toward Maggie who was already recovering from her run-in with the barrier and headed back toward the fray.

The horsemen spun around wildly, drawing their guns.

“What the hell have you done, Jeremiah?” asked Reggie, with more annoyance than anything.

“I-I don’t know. It just—”

Reggie cut off his explanation by shooting Jeremiah in the head.

“NO!” shouted Jeremiah as he appeared midair. His hands stretched out, still trying to block the shot that had sent his body flying backward off his horse. The damp desert floor soaked up his blood greedily, happy for the extra moisture.

“Jeremiah, you son of a bitch!” yelled Herb. “Why’d you go and shoot me like that for?!”

“I-I don’t know what happened.” Jeremiah’s eyes were wide. “Am I dead?”

Maggie streaked past them, trying to enjoy the newfound chaos in the spirit realm and pointed herself at Reggie’s right-hand lieutenant. He held a repeating rifle and had good positioning on the other two men. His name was Hugo, and Maggie shuddered at the idea of sharing a body with him even for a second. She swallowed her disgust and shot forward. Like before, there was the elastic pull and sudden disorientation.

The first thing she noted was the sourness of Hugo’s breath and the soreness radiating from his lower back. Maggie counted herself lucky that she didn’t have to stay long. She raised the repeater, aiming for the man on Reggie’s left. Her first shot caught him in the shoulder, sending him spinning. He fell off his horse but wasn’t mortally wounded.

Maggie spurred Hugo’s mount, riding over to finish the job, but a splintering pain took hold in her left arm. She hadn’t even heard the gunshot but knew it was Reggie that fired. Pain throbbed through the point of impact, just above Hugo’s elbow. Hot blood ran down his arm in a wave, coating his fingers in the sticky mortal substance. Maggie fought desperately to hold on to Hugo’s corporeal form and managed.

She looked up and saw Reggie turned to the native man, still tied up on horseback. “Don’t go anywhere. Apparently, I’ve got some other business to attend to.”

Rain fell heavy now, mixing with Hugo’s blood and running in small rivers down the hill. Lightning flashed, casting Reggie in shadows as he dismounted. The world spun around Maggie and her mind shook like an overworked muscle. Holding onto Hugo when he wasn’t dying was hard enough, but this was torture. She willed herself to stay and turned her head to look for Hugo’s pistol, lying on the ground a few feet away.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” Reggie had his pistol drawn, the black barrel a gaping maw.

“You think that scares me?” It was strange to hear Hugo’s voice with her words. “Pull the trigger and be done with it.” Maggie wasn’t sure she had another possession in her, but she was sure as hell going to try. The edges of Hugo’s skin pushed at her like a thousand needles, trying desperately to shed the bodily invader. “I’m not done with you yet, Hugo.” She clenched his hands into fists, wincing at the pain in his left arm.

“Now, the Hugo I know is a coward and would never try shit like this.” Reggie turned toward the Hangman’s Tree, then back to face her. “This is crazy, but I don’t see another solution. I’m not talking to Hugo, am I?”

“You catch on quick.” Maggie spat blood. “You deserve everything you have coming.”

Reggie cocked his head to the side. “Who is that in there? Someone we hung here before?”

“Hard to keep track of the atrocities you’ve committed on this hill?” She crept her right fingers toward the gun.

In a blinding flash, Reggie aimed his pistol and blew Hugo’s fingers off.

Maggie cursed, screaming in pain.

“Yeah, see, Hugo wouldn’t do a fool thing like that either. Sounds like I’m dealing with Maggie Brown.”

Maggie made no effort to hide the pained smile she spread across Hugo’s face. “In the flesh, back for my revenge.”

Reggie whistled. “Never thought I’d have to kill you twice, but today has already been quite the day. Reggie checked on the native man who still sat patiently on his horse. “Suppose you feel it’s wrong of us to be killing savages?”

“Do you really need an answer to that?”

“What was it I told you before? It’s just bad for business. That’s right, and it’s still true. I’m a man of dollars and cents, and these uncultured folk coming into our fine town aren’t good for my business, or the town for that matter.”

Maggie felt control slipping away but pushed to hold on. The pistol was out of reach, but she didn’t want to give Reggie the satisfaction of winning again. The man deserved to die. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie spied movement as the other man she had shot got slowly to his feet.

“You alright over there, John?” asked Reggie.

“Yeah, the pissant just winged me.” The man was wrapping a makeshift bandage around his shoulder.

“Well, as it turns out, this pissant is none other than our good friend, Maggie Brown. You’ll remember her.”

John walked over to get a better look. As he got closer, he stumbled and his eyes went wide.

“You good?” asked Reggie, never letting the pistol barrel leave Maggie.

John recovered, but Maggie could see the difference in his expression. “Yeah, think I’m just a little low on blood.”

“Well, let’s finish our business quickly and get you back to town. We’ve lost enough good men to this bitch today.”

Maggie smiled through the pain and blood. “Anything for you, Reggie.”

“How sweet of you. Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of a hurry now, so I’m going to have to cut our little chit-chat short. I think I’ll send you back to where you belong. Any last words? Don’t think I gave you the chance last time.”

John winked at her and dropped a hand to his pistol.

Maggie smiled. “Yeah, payback is a bitch.”

“Ain’t that the tru—”

John raised his pistol and shot Reggie in the side of the head. The bullet passed clean through, sending a red spray into the growing wind. Reggie fell to his knees, mouth opening and closing slightly. In the same moment, John’s body shook violently, and his eyes were wide once more. “Oh god, what have I done? Reggie?!”

Maggie didn’t wait for him to get his bearings she rolled to her pistol, picked it up with her good hand, and used the last of Hugo’s strength to fire it. The force of the pistol rocking back threatened to tear Hugo’s wounded arm off. Hot pain bloomed, but the shot hit. John dropped to the ground.

Buzz saws ran down every inch of Hugo’s body, trying to forcibly cut Maggie out. The world blurred between the grey of the spirit realm and the churning darkness of a dying man’s last vision. Hugo was losing a lot of blood. Maggie took what remained of her resolve and stood. Waves of nausea and dizziness swept over her, but she stumbled toward the native man all the same. Each step was a marathon task. Hugo’s legs moved like they were dragging fifty-pound weights behind him.

Maggie pulled a knife out of Hugo’s belt, wanting to cut the native man free, but dropped it through his bloody fingers. “Shit,” she muttered. It was hard to remember anything through the haze of agony that surrounded every movement. “Help us,” she managed in broken Shoshoni. “The dead are trapped.” The world went dark and a force shot Maggie from Hugo’s body. She caught a brief glimpse of the spirit world and the cavalcade of new arrivals. Then. she hit the barrier. Everything went white.

Epilogue

Things were tense on Hangman’s Hill. With all the commotion, even the Dirt Nappers came up to see what was going on. As it turned out, letting bygones be bygones didn’t apply to the furious deceased faced with their murderer. Of course, no one could do anything to Reggie, but they sure tried. In the end, they settled on making his life a living hell, floating in a tight circle around him, wherever he went, the ghosts were a constant reminder of the sins he had committed in life. They took turns speaking to their deaths, repeating the stories to drive the man mad. Reggie never got so much as a moment’s rest.

Otis and Adam sat on the edge of the commotion, wondering if anything would come out of their great experiment. The native man had been able to cut himself free, but whether from fear or self-preservation, rode off immediately. To say they felt disappointed was an understatement, and had it not been for the entertainment that was Reggie’s misery, they might have become Dirt Nappers themselves.

“What do you think happened to her?” asked Adam one day as they watched white clouds passing by on the horizon. “She can’t be gone, right?”

“I don’t think I know anything worthwhile about this place,” replied Otis. They had watched Maggie shoot out of Hugo with such force that it was impossible to discern her form. She had been a streak of light, careening toward the barrier. When she hit, her energy dissipated, and she wasn’t seen again.

“Maybe she hit it so hard she got out.” Adam hoped it was true.

“I hope so, too. Either way, we both saw the grin on her face when you possessed that man and shot Reggie in the head. I like to think that would have put her at peace no matter where she ended up.”

Adam nodded. “I didn’t think I would, but I miss her.”

“Me too, kid.”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed. The desert was implacable as always, but on the third week, a wind kicked up. Hoofbeats carried through the air as twenty riders appeared on the horizon. Every single soul that had been trapped on Hangman’s Hill came out to see who it was. At the lead of the riding party was the native man they had saved from certain death, and while Reggie and his men weren’t too happy about seeing him again, the rest of the group was elated.

As the group approached, horses fanned out in all directions and men with bows and arrows stood sentinel along the edges of the hill. From the center of the pack, an old woman emerged, garbed in elaborate clothing decorated with beads and quills. Her hair hung in long braids that swayed in the wind as she approached the base of the hanging tree. She ran her hands over the carvings and muttered words to herself while the others looked away. Most stood outside the edge of the hill, instinctively knowing the boundary.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, there was a muted glow in the ground, like light reflecting off metal. The brightness grew, making its way to the sky. Otis felt warmth spreading through his ghostly limbs as the barrier above him dissipated. His spirit floated upward, not of his own accord, but he felt safety in the movement and didn’t fight it. He looked down and saw the other spirits experiencing something similar. Most were floating up toward the sky but several, like Reggie and his men, were earthbound.

“What the hell is this?!” yelled Reggie. “As if Hell couldn’t get any worse.” His spirt grew dark until it was almost pitch black as a shadow.

A pale horseman rode up from the edge of the hill, brandishing a shining scythe and approached those remaining on the ground.

Otis looked away but heard the screams of terror from below. He focused his mind on the sensation surrounding his body and the overwhelming sense of safety he felt. In the distance, he saw Adam moving upwards as well. “All’s well that ends well then.” As he floated past the highest branch on Hangman’s Hill, he felt a familiar presence tugging at him. There were no words, but he knew the feeling of companionship and peace in the energy.

“Rest well, Maggie.” Otis smiled and the world went white.

The End

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Thank you all for reading this story and for your kind words along the way. I enjoyed the hell out of writing Maggie's tale and I hope the journey was fun for you all!

submitted by /u/mac_ashton [link] [comments]

[therearemonstersinthedark]

Astronautical || Ch.1

A Guardians of the Galaxy Fanwork

Pairings: n/a

Genre: Adventure, general

Word Count: 4k +

Rating: T to be safe, minor violence and swearing

Links: Fanfiction.net || Ao3

Summary: When Thanos finds himself losing ground in his war he steps outside of the timestream and rewrites himself a better universe. Somehow Peter seems to be the only one who recognizes the wrongness and he's determined to find his friends and set it right again. The problem is he has no clue where they are. Now he has to track them down and rally them into a family again, all while dodging bounties on his head and trying to avoid being strangled by Nebula.

Author’s Notes: This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction so helpful reviews and any support would be very appreciated! It started as my trying my hand at NaNoWriMo by getting down a story idea that had been bouncing around in my head for a while. Although due to technical errors I only made it to 10k words by the end of the month, I am still planning to finish this somewhat ambitious project. I am also planning to have this posted on Ao3 once I get my account set up there.

Something in his knuckle popped and shifted as he dragged himself forward. Yup. It was definitely broken again. A haze of dust and smoke, and a few things that were much less pleasant to think about stung his eyes and burned in his already aching lungs. The crazed thought filled his head that he would somehow drown in it out here in the open air. A giggle bubbled in his throat at the irony but he swallowed it down. No. It was just the concussion. Ignore it. Focus. What was he doing again? Oh yes. Through the film of smog and tears he could just make out his destination; a small form just ahead of him crumpled up like a discarded child's toy, grey fur tinted red in the harsh glare of this unforgiving lighting. His other hand reached out and he dragged himself another foot closer. At least, he hoped it was the lighting that was flooding his vision so red. Nails dug into the dirt as he heaved away another piece of the distance between himself and his target. Almost there. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the battle raging on without him. Screams, crashes, explosions; all so far away, swirling in and out of focus like the smog. Gamora was somewhere out there. The flash of her sword and the ice in her eyes somehow the only thing his mind could see clearly. She had vanished in a swell of soldiers with Nebula close in pursuit and he hadn’t seen her since. She was alive. He had to believe that. The most fearsome woman in the galaxy couldn’t fall here. Closer. Closer. He realized the horrid rattling he was hearing was not the sound of a failing ship as he had thought, but his own ragged breathing grating in his ears. That could not be a good thing. He’d lost track of Drax almost as soon as the fight had started. A battle cry the only warning he gave before diving headfirst and weapons drawn into the fray. It was an act so stupid, so reckless, so brave and just so… Drax, that Peter could hardly find it in himself to be mad even as he cursed the impulsive fool. He could really use him right now. Four feet had never looked so impossible, not in any of his wildest benders or worst bar fights – and oh, there had been plenty of both. He’d give his right arm to wake up on the floor of some unknown tavern- all of this just a horrible dream brought on by too much of a strange liquid Yondu had warned him against (which, of course, would have only made him down that much more). But Yondu had left to fetch help, And help had never arrived. And now he crawled through the dirt and debri, trying not to focus on how the world tilted and swayed even under his prone form. The twig in his jacket pocket dug into his bruised side as he slid across the dirt. Groot's parting gift. The thought was almost enough to give him pause. He couldn’t focus on that now. He would be okay. Like Gamora, Groot was tough. And while he might be naive, he wasn't stupid. Either the smoke was getting thicker or his vision was failing him as the light distorted futher, spots dancing at the edges and patches mysteriously missing. It didn’t matter. He was almost there. One thought playing over and over- like his tape player playing on repeat in the background- as all the other thought drifted in and out at their own accord. He would not let Rocket die wearing that god damned muzzle. His annoying, infuriating, impossible best friend would not die like an animal. Caged and chained. Like the experiment 89P13 that he had always so feared becoming. Panting and gasping, he reached out, stretching desperately across the distance, his fingers brushing against the smooth metal that covered his friend’s face. Was he even still breathing? He couldn’t stop to check, his arm already trembling and going numb from the strain. Slowly, haphazardly, he searched blindly for the strap. Why couldn’t he see? Had he closed his eyes without realizing it? He should open them but he was just so tired. Unconsciousness was calling in the sweetest siren song he had ever heard.   There! His fingers brushed across a thin strip of the same metal. That had to be it. A surge of hope gave him the adrenaline he needed to drag himself another inch forward and search down the strap for the clasp. His concussion must be worse than he feared because he couldn’t find it. More tears gathered in his eyes, not entirely due to the smoke and pain as he desperately grabbed at where a clasp should be, only to lose it entirely in fur. No. Nonono! He was so… so close… blood rushed in his ears, deafening, as light pierced through the veil of blackness. Was this it? He was dying, and he couldn’t even do this one last goddamned thing.

◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊

Time is a funny thing. From the perspective of most mortals it was an inescapable part of reality; Imperceptible, uncontrollable, marching on endlessly. Trying to hold back time was much like dipping your hand into a river in hope of halting the flow. No. Stopping time was the pipedream of madmen. It could be diverted, though. One could pull themselves from the river entirely, climb onto its bank and dig their own channel, suited to their own liking, and guide it to the destination of their choosing. And that is just what Thanos was doing now. He was building himself a new reality, another chance. Too much had gone wrong in this reality. The orb had been lost, by none other than his own general turned traitor. His daughters had both been disappointments in turn. Too many battles had been lost and too many foes grown bold. But he could fix this. Here in Limbo, in a realm outside of time, he strode in no particular hurry along the timestream, looking for the moment that would best suit his means. There would be work to do along the way. Players to rearrange and redraw. It would all work out in the end. Of this he was certain. The orb would be his again, and then the rest of the Infinity stones, and everything would be in place. Ah, here. This would do. The titan dipped his hand into the stream, and began digging. It happened one trickle after another and all at once. Without the passage of true time, perspective was skewed. Digging the trench and dragging the time onto another course took an eternity and a blink of the eye. Time screamed as it was ripped and torn apart. The many threads came undone and rewound into the new stream, the better stream. A smile split the Titan’s face. All would be as it was meant to be.

◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊▫◊

“…when the grass got a little greener on the other side I'd just tear out that page But then I fooled around and fell in love…”

With a strangled gasp Peter shot out of bed. Dirty laundry and trash was sent flying around his room as he flailed and hopped about, the blanket clinging stubbornly to his legs. His arms pin wheeled, grasping for anything to keep him upright, but he only succeeded in catching a small shelf and taking it down with him, sending the items crashing down on top of him as he landed with a heavy thump. In the stillness that followed he could hear the jubilant voice of Elvis Bishop as “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” played from the headset still miraculously wrapped around his neck. Well, good. At least nothing important was broken. Slowly, Peter uncurled, groaning out a string of curses as he checked his limbs and probed carefully at the back of his head where the corner of something particularly heavy had struck. No blood, but he would have one heck of a goose egg for a while. Satisfied that he was relatively alright, and honestly he had woken up in much worse states after a night of a little too much fun, he rolled over and began carefully peeling the blanket from his legs. As he worked he tried to think back to the dream he had been having, but all he could recall were glimpses of a blinding light and a lingering sense of urgency and wrongness that clung to him like a layer of sweat. It was somewhat akin to suddenly remembering that you had left the oven on only after you were lightyears away with no way to fix it, but worse. So much worse. Trying to calm his hammering heart, Peter stood and stretched dramatically before switching off his Walkman and placing it neatly on his now empty bed. In the resulting silence he was met with only the calm steady thrum of the Milano’s engines. Still the sense of wrongness would not leave him. Perhaps a shower would help. That was usually a great way to reset himself after a particularly nasty nightmare and this was no different, even if he couldn’t remember enough details to say whether or not it was, in fact, a particularly nasty nightmare. Opening the door to the rest of the ship, however, only left the alarms in his head screaming louder than ever that this was WRONG WRONG WRONG. The Milano looked exactly as he had last seen it. That is. It looked EXACTLY as he had last seen it just before being destroyed on Xandar, being rebuilt as a gift for saving the galaxy, being nearly destroyed again on Berhert, and being again painstakingly rebuilt from the rubble. Suddenly the undercurrent of surrealism on his bedroom floor made sense. He hadn’t noticed at first, perhaps because of the years that it had spent in that state, or perhaps because he was not known for being a particularly observant person when first awakening, but it was his old room, from before the first crash had mangled it. Burned up so much of his already sparse belongings that all of Dey’s efforts couldn’t truly replicate it down to every haphazard detail. For a long time he stood in his doorway and tried to process what was going on. He was still dreaming right? That must be it. Whatever he drank last night had one hellova kick. But it felt so real. And the details were so perfect, right down to that same old soft rattle in the Milano’s engine- that he was totally going to get looked at before it exploded!- which was never present in the remade Milano. So not a dream, then. A hallucination? Maybe, but why would a hallucination be so… mundane? A trick of the mind? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pissed off a psychic, but this was hardly the kind of punishment he had become so very unpleasantly accustom to. Well, staring at the empty core of the ship wasn’t providing him with any clues. If he wanted answers he’d have to find them, and that’s just what he intended to do. A quick scope of the ship’s compartments only confirmed his initial theory that this was somehow a version of his ship from before the other Guardians had come into his life. No extra lofts or beds, no sunlamps for Groot’s pot, no bombs rolling dangerously around the floor, threatening to blow them all up at any moment, no tools for sharpening weapons, or strange heady aromas of Drax’s attempts at cooking, though sometimes one had to use that term very loosely.   “Okay guys,” He called out to no one in particular. “This isn’t funny, come on out.” Silence, save for the distant k-thunk k-thunk of the old Milano’s engine. “HAHA! You got me! You really pulled one over on old Starlord there! Now why don’t you show yourself so we can all laugh about this together?” Still nothing. “Come on Gamora,” He appealed with what was definitely not a crack in his voice “You’re better than this. Don’t stoop to their level.” K-thunk… k-thunk… k-thunk… Disturbed, Peter made his way up to the cockpit and slid into the pilot’s chair. Through the windshield only empty space greeted him. So he wasn’t docked on a planet. Peter wasn’t sure if this made things simpler or not. A quick check of his navigation system didn’t help much either. He was drifting through a star system that was familiar enough to him. He had passed through here plenty of times delivering liberated goods, looking for jobs, and even just stopping by one of its many rest locations for a little break. The problem was… he couldn’t recall how or why he would have come here now. Turning away from the navigational readings he pulled up a new screen and sent a hail to the Eclector. Since the repairs had been finished on his beloved ship (again) the Guardians had unanimously moved back into it. The old Ravager’s ship had its larger size, but the Milano was home. Emphasis on was right now- what the heck was going on here!? Peter didn’t have long to puzzle over this before a series of beeps alerted him that his call had been accepted and all thought vanished from his head. A long silence reined over the Milano as Peter stared, slack jawed and wide eyed at the screen before him. Slowly a cold indignant rage boiled up from somewhere deep within his gut. Oh this was too much. He could take a good prank as much as the next guy but there were LINES. And those lines hadn’t just been crossed, they’d been trampled and spat on and…. The arm rest creaked under his white knuckled grip. “Lookee here boyo.” The dead man leaned into the camera, every perfect detail becoming even clearer. “If you just called me as another one of yer damn pranks I'll have you thrown out of the airlock of that damned ship of yours!” “I-I, uh...” Peter swallowed thickly, struggling to find a single coherent thought. “Speak up boy! You get yourself paralyzed again? I told yah to stop-” “You're alive.” Just a whisper, and suddenly the damn broke and the words were spilling out in a desperate jumble. “How are you alive!? I saw you-you-In my arms and I-Your funeral! How are you not dead? Don't get me wrong, I am so happy! But. But HOW?!” Peter slowed to a stop, panting, and wide eyed, and grinning like a fool. Yondu, however, seemed less than impressed by his ramblings. In fact, this cold expression looked startlingly similar to the look he'd worn whenever he'd lost patience with what he referred to as Peter's tall tales and 'exaggerations.' “Boy.” He deadpanned. “I don't know what your playing at here, but you better quit wasting my time with this nonsense.” As Yondu reached for a switch to end their communication Peter panicked and leaped foreward. “WAIT! Wait! I swear I'm not messing with you! Just ask the other guardians! Where are they, by the way?” He'd almost forgotten after seeing the dead man's face, but his friends were all still missing. “The who now?” The ravager captain still looked nonplussed, but his finger was no longer hovering over the disconnect button so that had to be a good sign. “You know, the Guardians of the Galaxy? My friends? We only, you know, saved the galaxy twice now.” Any trace of patience was lost in the captain's scowl now and Peter rushed to stop him from leaving before he got any answers at all. “Come on man,” He pleaded “You have to stop messing with me. Did Rocket put you up to this? The Guardians. You know – Drax, big, scary, walking thesaurus. Groot, galaxies most personable houseplant. Rocket, biggest asshole you've ever met, and Gamora, most feared woman in the galaxy! We stole the infinity stone, Kicked Ronan's ass and saved all of Xandar. Does any of this ring a bell?” “THAT'S ENOUGH!” Peter's jaw snapped closed so fast there was an audible click. Yondu's expression had morphed into something dark and serious. “Whatever game you're playing at here I think it's best that you stop right here and now. And watch your damned tongue. Those kinds of jokes are liable to get you into all kinds of trouble in these quadrants, and I don't want you dragging me into it, ya hear?” “But I-” Peter stammered, thoroughly confused again. “I said no more. Now you best knock these silly games off and let me get back to work.” With that yondu pressed down on the button and the screen winked out of existence, leaving Peter once more staring blankly into the empty space beyond his windshield. Somehow he was even more confused now than before he'd made the call. What was going on? Yondu was somehow here, but his crew was missing. And what the flark did he mean 'in these quadrants'? Sure it wasn't exactly a hubble of law and order, but this was hardly what a ravager would consider a dangerous area. And anyways, what did it even matter? Ronan was DEAD. Peter groaned and rubbed at his temples. This was all just giving him a gigantic headache and he was no closer to figuring out what was going on. For a while he just sat there letting his ship drift through space on autopilot as he mulled over his options. He didn't dare risk hailing the Eclector again. One of the very first lessons he had learned after leaving Earth was to never bother the Ravager captain once he was in that state. Not unless he wanted to spend the next month scrubbing every toilet on the ship between some very one sided battle lessons. Just the memory left him wincing and wanting to rub at imaginary bruises. Eventually his stomach made its own priorities known and he settled for heading to the nearest establishment which offered a hot meal and the chance to pick up on some local gossip. If his friends had been through here he was sure somebody would be talking about it- after all, where they weren't known for their heroic deeds or mercenary work, there were still a couple smaller bounties on several of their heads. This was usually enough to catch somebody's interest. – The establishment he chose was loud, dark, and just a touch chaotic; exactly what he was hoping for. He slid into a booth near one of the busier corners of the bar and made his order with an easy grin and a wink that sent the pink hued waitress blushing and giggling back to the counter. Oh yeah. This would do just fine. As he waited for his food and feigned interest in a little mini menu displaying today's specials he listened to the chatter around him. For a long time he caught nothing much of interest; old friends catching up on family stuff, arguments over some upcoming game or tournament or whatever, some old guy complaining about new taxes on his wares, yadda yadda. The food came, with a flourish and a 'here you are, sugar,' and for a time he was happy enough to just eat and relax into the familiar chatter surrounding him. “Is there anything else I can do for you, hun?” The clatter of his dishes being gathered eventually brought him back to his own booth. His food had been finished and whatever they were passing off as coffe had been drunk, but he hadn't overheard a single useful thing. “Oh uh, yes... Lenna.” He drawled, leaning forward to read her name tag. “I was hoping you might be able to help me find my friends, they seem to have gotten lost.” “Well that's just too bad.” She had an answering gleam in her silvery eyes. “I'm sure if you stick around they'll show up. Seems like everyone comes through here nowadays.” “I'm actually hoping they might have come through already. They're hard to miss. Big tattooed mountain of a man, hot green lady who looks like she could kill you seven times before you hit the floor- and she could, trust me!-, trigger happy raccoon, and a very friendly tree. And ah, oh yeah, you may know them as the Guardians of the Galaxy.” He finished with a wink and a finger gun. “I'm sorry, the what?” The look on Lenna's face was not the one of awe that he had been hoping to inspire. “You know, the Guardians of the Galaxy.” Peter leaned even closer earnestly. “We battled Ronan the Accuser and saved the galaxy.” “Wh-what?” She gasped, pulling back and eyes darting around as though he'd just told her he planned on robbing the place. “Ronan.” He repeated. “Angry guy with a flare for too much eyeliner. All like 'I am your judment day' yadda yadda. Carries around this giant hammer like he's compensating for something. And oh yeah, dead. Got blown up by me and my friends?” “That's not funny!” She hissed, snatching the rest of his dishes up now. “You shouldn't talk like that, you're going to get yourself into a lot of trouble.” With one final glance around herself she turned and swept away with a flick of her short skirt. Peter groaned and leaned back in his seat. So much for getting answers out of her. And they had such a good thing going and everything. His pouting was disrupted by the realization that something had shifted in the atmosphere. It was a subtle shift, but years of frequenting some of the worst corners of the galaxies with even worse populations had left him with a kind of sixth sense for these kinds of things. Right now that sixth sense was screaming at him to make a quick and quiet exit while he still could. Without looking up he slipped the units onto the table and slipped out of the booth, walking casually towards the exit. He could feel eyes on him as he went, but no one seemed to follow him out of the bar and he made it back to his ship without incident. A gusty sigh left him as he slumped back into the pilot's seat. Well that was... disturbing. And if he didn't get some answers soon he was probably going to start pulling his hair out. Without bothering to straighten out of his slump he pulled up a screen and typed in a search for “Guardians of the Galaxy.” Nothing. Nada. Just a big empty screen with 'No results found' glowing in the center. He tried again. “Starlord.” Just the same old pile of old police reports and witness accounts that had always been there even long before the standoff on Xandar. A search for “Gamora” was met with a big [CLASSIFIED]. This was hopeless. It was almost like... Like the Guardians had never existed. Like they had never had their standoff on Xandar, never traveled across the cosmos and formed into a tight-knit family; like they had never met at all. A cold and heavy dread settled over him as he considered this possibility. How was this possible? Who could possibly have the power to do this and why? And if the Guardian's had never met, what had become of Xandar? With renewed energy and a destination in mind, at least for now, Peter quickly departed the not so helpful outpost and sped towards Xandar's co-ordinants. - “Oh no.” Where the Nova Prime capitol should have been, he was met with only a blackened and burned up husk of a planet. Peter checked his coordinates for what must have been the hundredth time, but the screen remained unchanged. This was the correct place. Without the Guardians to protect it Ronan must have made it to the ground. After that it was only a matter of touching the infinity stone to the planet's surface and it was all over. The Milano pulled closer, details along the scarred surface becoming a little clearer as he circled the planet. He was pretty sure he could make out places where the land dipped drastically lower. Even the oceans had been burned away. Bile rose in his throat as he thought about all the Xandarians he had met after the battle. The tentative friends he'd made with some of the Nova Corps, Commander Dey and Nova Prime, and the smiling faces of the civilians that had come out to cheer the Guardian's and show their appreciation for all the lives they had saved. Except now they were gone. Bodies probably scattered among the blackened ashes down bellow. Peter floated silently among the stars for a long time. They looked so much colder now that he was the only one watching them. What was he supposed to do now? He was too late. As he pondered his next move an alarm signaled the hailing of another craft. What now? “You are unauthorized to enter this zone,” The voice snarled across the communication line. The cockpit darkened slightly as an unmistakably Kree kraft loomed over his ship and blocked out the stars. “State your business and prepare to be destroyed.” “I'm just passing through, no trouble here!” Peter replied quickly, “and um, wait, don't you mean 'or'?” “Identify yourself.” Peter gripped the weapons controls and sized up his options. It would be okay. There was just one puny little Kree ship. He was an excellent pilot and could definitely take them on in a one on one fight. “Peter Quill,” His fingers moved to the triggers as he took aim at the kree ship's weak points. “But you may better know me as Starlord.” There was a pause as Peter gave them a moment to let the name sink in and then he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “What?” He squeezed the trigger again, jiggling the joystick a bit when it produced no results. Seriously, could just one thing not go terribly wrong today? “IDENTIFIED: Star-Lord.” Came a booming mechanical voice. At the same time the empty space behind the Kree fighter kraft vanished, replaced by the hulking form a much much larger vessel. This new ship was also clearly Kree built, and it had an active tractor beam pointed squarely at the Milano. Well, shit.

End Ch1.