madimpossibledreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2018-11-08 07:26 pm
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2018-11-08 07:26 pm
Entry tags:
Beautiful Hurricane
I wrote the below reaction first, but decided to include it with the story (sorry about the berserk button).
(just saw the trailers for devil may cry 5 which I didn’t even know was coming and maaaaaaan I am so hype it actually looks like a return to form, though we’ll see 2019. I can say I’ve been listening to devil trigger on repeat for…huh, it’s been a few hours now, probably. I still haven’t watched DmC on principle because one of my berserk buttons is being told “you have shit taste, but just listen to us, we know better than you what you’ll like and you’ll love this new stuff not that garbage” and I’m just like, uh, yeah, okay, I’m obviously not your ‘enlightened’ target audience. So I’ll just pass, thanks. And then they’re like “how dare you, you entitled scum, you’re supposed to buy our stuff just because we slap the series label on it and also because we tell you to” and I’m like, you told me to vote with my wallet so I am. If you wanna whine about something, whine about the fact that you ended up with a product I didn’t want.
be prepared for a lot of DMC crossovers coming here, because there are a LOT of them.
Also, is it actually a secret anymore that Mein Prinz is a dmc crossover? because it is, and should be obvious after this fight, although I don't think I got an SSS rank on the writing of the fight.)
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Ace Attorney AU (Mein Prinz)
Chapter Summary: Negotiations turn a little dangerous.
Word Count: 2371
Rating: K
Note: Apollo Justice spoilers. Probably spoilers for the rest of the series, too.
He jumps, not aiming, because he knows the platforms will appear wherever he lands. The touches have become less sexual and more just…supportive and sensual. Phantom touches, phantom hands, disappearing in and out of the fog. He’s missed this little game of tag, tries to move with the fog so she can’t follow him with her butterflies. Honestly, they’re the danger here, not her screaming. He’s more in tune with his demonic senses now than he’d been in the past, and, ironically, Kristoph might’ve made him a better fighter now than before (on the other hand, he realizes sourly, maybe that was the point). As such, a little lost hearing wasn’t really a problem, and as for the bleeding, well, that’s what happened in fights, wasn’t it? You took damage, you bled, you didn’t let it slow you down. He wasn’t fully human, so he didn’t have to worry about dying from her voice, and as for the idea that he was half-human, well, Matti was strong. As a son of one of the Generals, he didn’t have to worry too much about the damage she would do with that siren voice.
He bares teeth which at this point are almost fangs at the mass of butterflies coming at him from the right, blocking them briefly with both swords before swiping red streaks through their delicate, lacey wings.
He doesn’t honestly find her all that attractive, either, so her appeal won’t mean much. However, from everything he’s seen, her ability to possess others has only gotten stronger since he’d seen her last. He’s reasonably sure this isn’t even her own body. Just some poor girl that’s been possessed. He feels a little sorry for the human, but the last couple times he’d tried to leave one alive, they’d just had rotten luck until they died, so there’s probably also some sort of curse in play. She might even be strong enough to possess him at this point, so it’s worth watching out for that.
And then, because he’s spent too much time analyzing the fight rather than attacking, he didn’t notice the butterflies she’d sent behind him, just as one hits his spine. Instantly, he falls to his knees. Yep, biggest danger. It bursts into flames, and it feels like he does, too. The fire races down his spine, out into his limbs, inside his head like an itch he can’t scratch and wouldn’t want to for fear of drawing blood…
His image flickers. There’s a shadow of an impossibly long jaw and wings behind him. The agony resonates through his devil form, and he struggles to breathe, head pointing skyward…
You dare act against your—
Kristoph, blue robes which suited him, really, glowing white sword in hand, blackening his hand but oh, he doesn’t care, not when it comes to giving him pain, and there’s blood stains but the sorcerer doesn’t care about that, either, cutting pieces symmetrically through both wings, black ichor spraying and then dripping to the floor, staining in ways that will never really be cleaned, both for effect and because there is no way to do so, really…
You’ll be taught your place. There’s nowhere to escape, troubadour. You wasted your talents on music, not embracing your true—
He’d been ready for the pain. Pain had been a part of his life for so long, long enough that he can’t remember a life where it wasn’t there, lurking on the horizon. An old friend, a message his body was sending, but that was all. Not something to stop him, not something to be feared. Pain meant he was alive, that he had yet to run into something that could truly kill him.
You will serve me. Then, a change of tune. Rage, boundless, psychotic, irrational, burning all it sees. You already pledged your powers to another?
Smug. A time when he could still spit in his—his captor’s—face. When he’d still fought back against Kris’s schemes. Where he could fight against the path Kristoph had desired for him—and, in some respects, he still had managed to do so. It hadn’t been a pledge, not in the traditional sense, but it was strong enough to count for the magic, at least for a half-blood. A promise, to Thalassa, when she’d realized. Technically, when blood bonds counted, he had loyalties to two, but as far as anyone was concerned, Astraea was lost. He knew she wasn’t, because of the promise, but because of the same promise, he did not tell anyone, not even Kristoph with all his magic and will and spite.
I gave you a chance. You could have ruled at my side—lies, always, Kristoph thought about others, on occasion, but they were always secondary, tools to serve a purpose—
Pain. Pain was too poor a word to describe it.
His soul, every piece of his being was screaming. Screaming, screaming into the void, and nothing, no one could hear, screams falling on deaf ears, or—
But for you, it’s always been decisions to make your life more difficult, isn’t that right, Klavier? Sneering, seeming sad, sympathetic, but all the snake’s lies, all
betrayal
acting against him, sure, that’s just what he had to do, given the situation he could do no else, but really, this was kristoph, how could he, why would he, when kristoph was the bright one, the favored one, the perfect one, the one who understood justice, protected the world, protected people, a little distant, maybe, but he cared, in his own way, not messy like other people, but he had his own purpose, justice, and this, this was wrong, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—please kristoph
the pain, it’s fire and ice and stabbing all rolled into one, except worse, because he’s been through those, he’s been stabbed through the freaking heart and it messes with his equilibrium and breathing and tends to make him lightheaded, but this
it’s like slowly pouring acid over his skin, only it’s searing through, through, it feels like it’s tearing the very flesh from his bones and it’s all while he’s awake, and he can’t even make a sound, and kristoph, kristoph, supposed to be the only one on his side, supposed to look out for him and protect him, and he’s…
Rippling.
He’s not sure how he made it to his feet after that, to be honest. Not after the pain. But she’d gotten a little too close, gloating maybe, or maybe the shadows had brought him here, so his devilish instincts could act, even if he could not consciously. He feels the ache at his throat as his form switches back and forth, too fast for the eyes to follow or for his consciousness to catch up. Of course, quickly switching forms had been a favorite for him in battle, but usually that was a conscious act as he played with his toys. He feels his jaw change, baring his fangs in a grin that’s certainly not very, what’s the word? Ah. Human.
He’s holding her up with her hand, and she’s gargling. “A little forward for you, don’t you think, Siren? You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.” His voice comes out hissing, inhuman. It’s probably a side effect of…of things Kristoph has done, considering that he hasn’t gone back to his human form yet. There’s probably terrible pain. Kristoph had warned him that the devil form was only a measure of last resort, if he couldn’t protect Apollo—no, the Prinz—any other way. That pain would be there, as an incentive to look for another way. Right now, he can’t tell if he just can’t feel the pain, or if he’s feeling it and just not noticing it, not after her butterflies had hit.
He throws her away from him quickly, in the direction of some of her butterflies, which disappear from existence before she can hit. This time, he’s aware of the swarm of butterflies coming from behind and to the right, and merely takes a step, falling, falling, easily strapping Zerstörungschwertlied at his back. With his other hand, he reaches out and grabs onto a platform before he falls too far past, pulling himself up with a heave, standing up and dusting himself off in one smooth moment. He watches the butterflies fly down, the way he would’ve continued to go if he hadn’t caught the platform, and become lost in the fog.
It’s true, getting in close might be a mistake, but so is staying out of arm’s reach, where she can throw butterflies after butterflies and slowly wear him down. Time to take the fight to where it hurts.
He sees a shadow rise out of the mist into place, and braces himself before running, jumping, running, jumping, every movement perfect, calculated. She sees him coming and feels herself moving closer and screams again, though given the look of her white, demonic eyes, it’s fear, not rage or an attack. Desperately, she gestures, and a horde of butterflies rise out of the ground, fluttering into position, a living shield, but he touches down, feet light like a cat’s, and begins to move, movements fluid.
When they charge his boots, he jumps, skimming over her head, swords moving with equal precision, cutting swaths through the swarm of butterflies. She’s desperate, true, but there’s only so many butterflies she can create. He appreciates this aesthetic better than her looks, though—the pure, innocent, deceptive white of the butterflies, the red of their fire and the fact that they bleed when his blades swipe right through them.
When they come at him from the side, he merely sidesteps, letting them pass through the blur of his blades of their own momentum.
She starts sending them from every side, but the butterflies are slower, drawing energy from a source that’s beginning to tire, and conversely he’s more energized than ever. It’s probably the usual boost of the devil form, even though it’s channeled through a means it’s not meant to go, which may hit him later on, but at the moment he’s just playing with her, whittling down the number of butterflies and jumping above her head to stand on a new platform, gesturing for the platforms to drop her (which they do; her screams of fear are delightful particularly since she’s broken his eardrums again and he can’t quite hear them) and cutting her butterflies as she falls past, or joins her in falling, which is almost as fun as the flying. He calls down lightning to strike, destroying a number of her butterflies even as she panics.
At last, the edge of Missile rests against her throat, cutting a little as she swallows, and he leans forward a little on the larger Song of Lightning, the very picture of casual.
“Are you going to become your brother?” she asks, voice trembling, and that—
He’d promised himself he’d never follow in his footsteps, and she’s not wrong. He does love a playful fight, the choreographed, dance-like nature of it all, but he’s not usually cruel like this, and he’s been teetering, the whole fight, on the bloodthirsty, animalistic side of things.
He drops the sword. It falls with a clang and then disappears into the mists. She curls up on herself, shivering, human form showing once again, the picture of fear—and yes, of course, she would be, given that he’s very capable of killing her, and no one knows what happens to a demon after it dies, much less a devil.
“I don’t want to see you hurting humans anymore. I do not care if it causes you to starve; you won’t die without. Get out of my sight.” He waves a hand at her, and shadowy hands grab her legs and yank her down roughly. Another hand rises out of the ground, holding out Missile carefully for him to take.
He does, reverently, form returning to fully human (aside from the fangs, which just won’t seem to go no matter how hard he tries; he’s probably too tired for his efforts to be effective—and his eyes don’t feel quite right, either). “Danke. For everything that you do. Being here is such a breath of fresh air again,” he tells it, and suddenly he’s surrounded by shadowy ground stretching as far as he can see through the drifting fog.
He chuckles and realizes it’s been so long since he’s laughed. It comes out hoarse, but then, the rest of his voice isn’t doing too hot, either. What his fans would think of him now…
He thinks of the exit through the fog, white and glowing like the sun that never visits this place, and takes a step and falls. It feels soft against his skin, like silk.
He’s once more in the room, and Dahlia…
Dahlia is whispering things into Apollo’s ear. She’s holding him up, like a puppet. He’s not really aware, despite the fact that his eyes are open, but they’re wide and horrified and pained.
“Really, now, I know Herr Stirn’s irresistible, but I gave you a chance,” he tells her, because he has no problem killing devils who only see humans as an inconvenient necessity, and throws with his left, skewering her in the throat and pinning her to the wall of the Gasthouse, gurgling her last as the black blood mixes with the red and slowly oozes its way down her perfect, pale throat. “Danke for the loan of the sword, Knight. I regret that I am unable to return it in the same condition as it was taken, but….” He shrugs. “Ah, well, these things happen. What’s a little blood among friends, ja?”
He smiles a little to himself and begins preparing for the next step along their journey.
(just saw the trailers for devil may cry 5 which I didn’t even know was coming and maaaaaaan I am so hype it actually looks like a return to form, though we’ll see 2019. I can say I’ve been listening to devil trigger on repeat for…huh, it’s been a few hours now, probably. I still haven’t watched DmC on principle because one of my berserk buttons is being told “you have shit taste, but just listen to us, we know better than you what you’ll like and you’ll love this new stuff not that garbage” and I’m just like, uh, yeah, okay, I’m obviously not your ‘enlightened’ target audience. So I’ll just pass, thanks. And then they’re like “how dare you, you entitled scum, you’re supposed to buy our stuff just because we slap the series label on it and also because we tell you to” and I’m like, you told me to vote with my wallet so I am. If you wanna whine about something, whine about the fact that you ended up with a product I didn’t want.
be prepared for a lot of DMC crossovers coming here, because there are a LOT of them.
Also, is it actually a secret anymore that Mein Prinz is a dmc crossover? because it is, and should be obvious after this fight, although I don't think I got an SSS rank on the writing of the fight.)
~Dreamer~
Main Points:
Ace Attorney AU (Mein Prinz)
Chapter Summary: Negotiations turn a little dangerous.
Word Count: 2371
Rating: K
Note: Apollo Justice spoilers. Probably spoilers for the rest of the series, too.
It’s a simple matter to hit the butterflies with the sword before they hit, particularly dual-wielding Gumshoe’s sword Missile. He’d always had his eye on it; it was a nice sword, and he’s not sure whether or not he can actually return it at all. Of course, Gumshoe wouldn’t take it from him, think it was a trap or something, and it would serve its intended purpose, helping to protect the prince.
He jumps, not aiming, because he knows the platforms will appear wherever he lands. The touches have become less sexual and more just…supportive and sensual. Phantom touches, phantom hands, disappearing in and out of the fog. He’s missed this little game of tag, tries to move with the fog so she can’t follow him with her butterflies. Honestly, they’re the danger here, not her screaming. He’s more in tune with his demonic senses now than he’d been in the past, and, ironically, Kristoph might’ve made him a better fighter now than before (on the other hand, he realizes sourly, maybe that was the point). As such, a little lost hearing wasn’t really a problem, and as for the bleeding, well, that’s what happened in fights, wasn’t it? You took damage, you bled, you didn’t let it slow you down. He wasn’t fully human, so he didn’t have to worry about dying from her voice, and as for the idea that he was half-human, well, Matti was strong. As a son of one of the Generals, he didn’t have to worry too much about the damage she would do with that siren voice.
He bares teeth which at this point are almost fangs at the mass of butterflies coming at him from the right, blocking them briefly with both swords before swiping red streaks through their delicate, lacey wings.
He doesn’t honestly find her all that attractive, either, so her appeal won’t mean much. However, from everything he’s seen, her ability to possess others has only gotten stronger since he’d seen her last. He’s reasonably sure this isn’t even her own body. Just some poor girl that’s been possessed. He feels a little sorry for the human, but the last couple times he’d tried to leave one alive, they’d just had rotten luck until they died, so there’s probably also some sort of curse in play. She might even be strong enough to possess him at this point, so it’s worth watching out for that.
And then, because he’s spent too much time analyzing the fight rather than attacking, he didn’t notice the butterflies she’d sent behind him, just as one hits his spine. Instantly, he falls to his knees. Yep, biggest danger. It bursts into flames, and it feels like he does, too. The fire races down his spine, out into his limbs, inside his head like an itch he can’t scratch and wouldn’t want to for fear of drawing blood…
His image flickers. There’s a shadow of an impossibly long jaw and wings behind him. The agony resonates through his devil form, and he struggles to breathe, head pointing skyward…
You dare act against your—
Kristoph, blue robes which suited him, really, glowing white sword in hand, blackening his hand but oh, he doesn’t care, not when it comes to giving him pain, and there’s blood stains but the sorcerer doesn’t care about that, either, cutting pieces symmetrically through both wings, black ichor spraying and then dripping to the floor, staining in ways that will never really be cleaned, both for effect and because there is no way to do so, really…
You’ll be taught your place. There’s nowhere to escape, troubadour. You wasted your talents on music, not embracing your true—
He’d been ready for the pain. Pain had been a part of his life for so long, long enough that he can’t remember a life where it wasn’t there, lurking on the horizon. An old friend, a message his body was sending, but that was all. Not something to stop him, not something to be feared. Pain meant he was alive, that he had yet to run into something that could truly kill him.
You will serve me. Then, a change of tune. Rage, boundless, psychotic, irrational, burning all it sees. You already pledged your powers to another?
Smug. A time when he could still spit in his—his captor’s—face. When he’d still fought back against Kris’s schemes. Where he could fight against the path Kristoph had desired for him—and, in some respects, he still had managed to do so. It hadn’t been a pledge, not in the traditional sense, but it was strong enough to count for the magic, at least for a half-blood. A promise, to Thalassa, when she’d realized. Technically, when blood bonds counted, he had loyalties to two, but as far as anyone was concerned, Astraea was lost. He knew she wasn’t, because of the promise, but because of the same promise, he did not tell anyone, not even Kristoph with all his magic and will and spite.
I gave you a chance. You could have ruled at my side—lies, always, Kristoph thought about others, on occasion, but they were always secondary, tools to serve a purpose—
Pain. Pain was too poor a word to describe it.
His soul, every piece of his being was screaming. Screaming, screaming into the void, and nothing, no one could hear, screams falling on deaf ears, or—
But for you, it’s always been decisions to make your life more difficult, isn’t that right, Klavier? Sneering, seeming sad, sympathetic, but all the snake’s lies, all
betrayal
acting against him, sure, that’s just what he had to do, given the situation he could do no else, but really, this was kristoph, how could he, why would he, when kristoph was the bright one, the favored one, the perfect one, the one who understood justice, protected the world, protected people, a little distant, maybe, but he cared, in his own way, not messy like other people, but he had his own purpose, justice, and this, this was wrong, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—please kristoph
the pain, it’s fire and ice and stabbing all rolled into one, except worse, because he’s been through those, he’s been stabbed through the freaking heart and it messes with his equilibrium and breathing and tends to make him lightheaded, but this
it’s like slowly pouring acid over his skin, only it’s searing through, through, it feels like it’s tearing the very flesh from his bones and it’s all while he’s awake, and he can’t even make a sound, and kristoph, kristoph, supposed to be the only one on his side, supposed to look out for him and protect him, and he’s…
Rippling.
He’s not sure how he made it to his feet after that, to be honest. Not after the pain. But she’d gotten a little too close, gloating maybe, or maybe the shadows had brought him here, so his devilish instincts could act, even if he could not consciously. He feels the ache at his throat as his form switches back and forth, too fast for the eyes to follow or for his consciousness to catch up. Of course, quickly switching forms had been a favorite for him in battle, but usually that was a conscious act as he played with his toys. He feels his jaw change, baring his fangs in a grin that’s certainly not very, what’s the word? Ah. Human.
He’s holding her up with her hand, and she’s gargling. “A little forward for you, don’t you think, Siren? You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.” His voice comes out hissing, inhuman. It’s probably a side effect of…of things Kristoph has done, considering that he hasn’t gone back to his human form yet. There’s probably terrible pain. Kristoph had warned him that the devil form was only a measure of last resort, if he couldn’t protect Apollo—no, the Prinz—any other way. That pain would be there, as an incentive to look for another way. Right now, he can’t tell if he just can’t feel the pain, or if he’s feeling it and just not noticing it, not after her butterflies had hit.
He throws her away from him quickly, in the direction of some of her butterflies, which disappear from existence before she can hit. This time, he’s aware of the swarm of butterflies coming from behind and to the right, and merely takes a step, falling, falling, easily strapping Zerstörungschwertlied at his back. With his other hand, he reaches out and grabs onto a platform before he falls too far past, pulling himself up with a heave, standing up and dusting himself off in one smooth moment. He watches the butterflies fly down, the way he would’ve continued to go if he hadn’t caught the platform, and become lost in the fog.
It’s true, getting in close might be a mistake, but so is staying out of arm’s reach, where she can throw butterflies after butterflies and slowly wear him down. Time to take the fight to where it hurts.
He sees a shadow rise out of the mist into place, and braces himself before running, jumping, running, jumping, every movement perfect, calculated. She sees him coming and feels herself moving closer and screams again, though given the look of her white, demonic eyes, it’s fear, not rage or an attack. Desperately, she gestures, and a horde of butterflies rise out of the ground, fluttering into position, a living shield, but he touches down, feet light like a cat’s, and begins to move, movements fluid.
When they charge his boots, he jumps, skimming over her head, swords moving with equal precision, cutting swaths through the swarm of butterflies. She’s desperate, true, but there’s only so many butterflies she can create. He appreciates this aesthetic better than her looks, though—the pure, innocent, deceptive white of the butterflies, the red of their fire and the fact that they bleed when his blades swipe right through them.
When they come at him from the side, he merely sidesteps, letting them pass through the blur of his blades of their own momentum.
She starts sending them from every side, but the butterflies are slower, drawing energy from a source that’s beginning to tire, and conversely he’s more energized than ever. It’s probably the usual boost of the devil form, even though it’s channeled through a means it’s not meant to go, which may hit him later on, but at the moment he’s just playing with her, whittling down the number of butterflies and jumping above her head to stand on a new platform, gesturing for the platforms to drop her (which they do; her screams of fear are delightful particularly since she’s broken his eardrums again and he can’t quite hear them) and cutting her butterflies as she falls past, or joins her in falling, which is almost as fun as the flying. He calls down lightning to strike, destroying a number of her butterflies even as she panics.
At last, the edge of Missile rests against her throat, cutting a little as she swallows, and he leans forward a little on the larger Song of Lightning, the very picture of casual.
“Are you going to become your brother?” she asks, voice trembling, and that—
He’d promised himself he’d never follow in his footsteps, and she’s not wrong. He does love a playful fight, the choreographed, dance-like nature of it all, but he’s not usually cruel like this, and he’s been teetering, the whole fight, on the bloodthirsty, animalistic side of things.
He drops the sword. It falls with a clang and then disappears into the mists. She curls up on herself, shivering, human form showing once again, the picture of fear—and yes, of course, she would be, given that he’s very capable of killing her, and no one knows what happens to a demon after it dies, much less a devil.
“I don’t want to see you hurting humans anymore. I do not care if it causes you to starve; you won’t die without. Get out of my sight.” He waves a hand at her, and shadowy hands grab her legs and yank her down roughly. Another hand rises out of the ground, holding out Missile carefully for him to take.
He does, reverently, form returning to fully human (aside from the fangs, which just won’t seem to go no matter how hard he tries; he’s probably too tired for his efforts to be effective—and his eyes don’t feel quite right, either). “Danke. For everything that you do. Being here is such a breath of fresh air again,” he tells it, and suddenly he’s surrounded by shadowy ground stretching as far as he can see through the drifting fog.
He chuckles and realizes it’s been so long since he’s laughed. It comes out hoarse, but then, the rest of his voice isn’t doing too hot, either. What his fans would think of him now…
He thinks of the exit through the fog, white and glowing like the sun that never visits this place, and takes a step and falls. It feels soft against his skin, like silk.
He’s once more in the room, and Dahlia…
Dahlia is whispering things into Apollo’s ear. She’s holding him up, like a puppet. He’s not really aware, despite the fact that his eyes are open, but they’re wide and horrified and pained.
“Really, now, I know Herr Stirn’s irresistible, but I gave you a chance,” he tells her, because he has no problem killing devils who only see humans as an inconvenient necessity, and throws with his left, skewering her in the throat and pinning her to the wall of the Gasthouse, gurgling her last as the black blood mixes with the red and slowly oozes its way down her perfect, pale throat. “Danke for the loan of the sword, Knight. I regret that I am unable to return it in the same condition as it was taken, but….” He shrugs. “Ah, well, these things happen. What’s a little blood among friends, ja?”
He smiles a little to himself and begins preparing for the next step along their journey.