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madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: The Siphon appears.
Word Count: 1850
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS.
This chapter is kinda Angel dark. There's definitely violence.
bitch is used to mean female dog, though the Siphon isn’t a good guy, either. Obviously.
again I have read bits & pieces of comics & wiki but i have different plans for the Siphon.
The Siphon himself doesn’t listen to the rumors, except to smirk. It feels almost as if he can subsist on fear as much as he subsists on the power.
He’d just arrived by boat. An old style of travel, he’s sure, but they’re not wrong about the Hunt. It’s the only thing that matters, the redemption of a bloodline tainted by decades of failure.
“…participating in the blood-hunt….” he hears from a nearby table and strides over quickly with a predatory grace, smoothly burying a knife in the table mere inches from hands human to lesser eyes before any of them have even seen him or registered him as a threat.
“I will join in.” He refuses to show them the proper respect, that it is technically their choice whether he participates. Demons respect strength, and he has no intention of showing them anything else.
“Who the hell are you?” one asks in shock and a little fear.
He’s just fed, of course he’s more powerful. But he doesn’t explain anything, either. It implies they’re owed an explanation. “Obsidian,” he answers, because it’s a name he’d used, once, when he’d been young and blind, before he’d been thrust into the war. That name earns a little respect, because he’d used that name before, as well, once he’d begun.
“There’s a beginner’s trial,” a creature he recognizes as a courtesan demon wearing a human face looks him over with approval, sensing the power he holds within. He’ll have to be careful, since her powers work vaguely the same as his, albeit at the level of child’s play. Still, the easiest way to blind her would be to keep her close. Just like humans, demons tended to frame things in terms of what they knew, and if he acts like an incubus, well…
“Try me,” he challenges, holding her gaze with heat and power, and feels rather than hears her purr from where she’s draped herself over one of the two demons appearing like sailors.
“There’s a demon nest that refuses to pay tribute, at this address in the northeast of town. Wipe them out,” one tells him, pressing a dirty paper into his hands. The other laughs harshly.
“Sounds like fun,” he agrees and easily enough disappears from their site.
He enjoys making them fall. He doesn’t even obviously use his Siphon powers, because he can’t know if they’re monitoring him in some way. He’s already full, so he uses the power to just tear them apart instead, light and power twining to destroy.
When he returns, only a little blood of his own on his cheek and the rest from the carnage, the courtesan comes to his side immediately, licking the blood from his face in a gesture he’s sure is meant to seduce. He won’t mind using her before she and the rest die when they fail to tell him what he needs to know or when they cease to amuse. One of the sailors twitches, and soon enough is charging, ready to kill.
He merely puts a fist through the demon’s chest, grasping the organ passing for a heart and forcing it up through its throat. It chokes.
There’s a theatrical clapping, and a dapper demon pretending to be a human steps out of the shadows, a cane tucked under his shoulder. “Well done.” He categorizes this demon as The Peacock, fluttering his plumage. The Siphon isn’t impressed, but only a little challenges his power by smearing three fingers worth of blood onto the demon’s cheek. He’ll kill him later.
“I pay tribute,” he states, and it’s enough, even as he ruffles Peacock’s feathers.
Time and time again he’s sent to kill more, meant to die himself, an irreverent interloper. Time and time again he dispatches the targets with a maximum of violence. It doesn’t hurt to learn more about the different breeds of demons, to better rid the world of their stain, to choose his power based on their own.
His bloodthirst draws attention from the others—Mouthless, though it’s difficult to understand what he thinks of the world or if he even understands any of it, Bonehead, Burn Victim, Shadow Crow, two vampires. And, of course, the courtesan demon, who’s attached herself to his side almost constantly, lapping the blood off his face much like a loyal bitch when he returns. She doesn’t make much of a dog in other respects, though. He does his best to not siphon too much of her magic just yet, though it seems as if she senses his hunger. The draining of her power seems to excite her, spurring her to greater heights. He alternates between amused appreciation, for he’s never had anything quite so much like a partner in crime, and the bittersweet transience only makes it that much more delicious, in the end, and sneering disgust at how she hasn’t realized, yet, what he is, that she should run should she desire to live. He wouldn’t track her down and leave her screaming and bleeding out pinned in some public place. Probably. The danger merely draws her closer, a helpless moth with him, the flame. He is, clearly, getting better at hiding his true nature, particularly in places where his ruthless nature is seen as a bonus. He’s never had so much fun holding back. Peacock alternates, at least, between annoyance (at least his lack of fear is due to arrogance, not necessarily ignorance of the level of his power even if the fact that he’s the Siphon is not known) and a preening pride to have such savagery at his disposal.
The time of the blood-hunt comes. It turns out all participating get their names put in a hat, and those drawn must either fight or be executed. As usual, he turns toward the event with indifference. Those shown to be stronger are more likely to be hunters or executioners.
Some, the cowards, watch, without participating. He’d love to start with gutting them, but alas. He’ll play by the rules, at least for a little while. He plans to kill them all, today, an unmatched bloodbath, the kind of risk that sets even his heart pumping, and get what they know about the Old One, his true prey.
Some of the executions are painless. He shows his contempt by becoming even more ferocious in his own strategy, leaving them to die slowly, bleeding out in agony.
At some point, Bonehead realizes that he’s planning on leaving none alive. While he’s sitting in the gallery, he’s tackled. Peacock yelps something about rules and civilization, and he grins and unleashes the beast within. He smashes the skull into the ground again and again until it crumbles, all the while using his Siphon powers without careful regulation. A vampire rushes him and without even looking back, he drives his elbow back through the demon’s skull, dusting it effortlessly. It’s no harder to catch the cane Peacock sends toward his own unprotected head. The demon attempts to pull away the cane, but he’s pretty sure he’s reached a new level of strength. It doesn’t move a centimeter.
“Who are you?” the courtesan asks, voice afraid but still interested, too. He understands now. She’d been waiting to see what he would do. She’d known the truth, as much as she could. She was just destined for a tragedy.
“The Siphon,” he responds, and feels the rush at the fear that accompanies his true name. The two vampires and Burn Victim try to take him all at once, but they’re unprepared for his true speed. He leaves them coughing in their own blood, bent bodies at his feet. “I want to know about the Old One walking the Mortal Plane. You might as well tell me. I could ease your passing.”
None answer him, not in the stands, not in the playing field, not when he starts systematically dismembering them, not when he begins to drain them. He’s brimming with power at the end, so he just obliterates a few vampires outright, just to prevent his body from overload. At last, it’s only the trembling courtesan, afraid but brave. She hasn’t run but is still in the same place as when this started, covered in the blood and viscera of nearby kills.
“Why did you leave me for last?” she wonders, hope in her eyes, and for once, he disregards the impulse to shred and maim. She’s earned the truth, at least.
“A courtesy, my dear. Destruction is easy enough to come by, but a poisoned withering rose? You are a rarity.” He caresses her cheek.
She smiles against the coming oblivion. “I’m glad I meant something to you as you meant something to me. I will tell you the whispers of mortal men in their death-throes. You have heard of Wolfram & Hart?”
He nods, reaching into a pocket to find a handkerchief and cleaning the blood from her face.
“Sometimes I will take their lawyers. It is not as if they do not serve even in death, of course. A former Watcher of the Shadows was drawn into their web. He said that an Old One or one of the First Generation was caught by the Shadow Men and infused into the girl called the Slayer. He himself seeks to become Ascended,” she explains, gently holding his hand.
He smiles. At last, a lead, and one she would have given freely. “Don’t worry. You will live on in my power.” He means it mockingly, but fails.
“The kiss of death?” she clarifies—begs, and far be it for a gentleman to ignore a lady’s request on the eve of death. He pulls her in, and kisses her gently, desperately, until all life has left her body. He picks her up, takes her to her bed, and arranges her to his satisfaction. He leaves a black rose, a token of his regard, changes into more suitable clothing, and bids his final farewell to his lady.
Jojo's Bizarre Adventure/Buffy the Vampire Slayer AU
Chapter Summary: The Siphon appears.
Word Count: 1850
Rating: Teen
Note: HERE THERE PROBABLY BE BUFFY/JJBA SPOILERS.
This chapter is kinda Angel dark. There's definitely violence.
bitch is used to mean female dog, though the Siphon isn’t a good guy, either. Obviously.
again I have read bits & pieces of comics & wiki but i have different plans for the Siphon.
There’s been rumors. Ripples through the demonic underworld. There’s one of the Old Ones on Earth again, but it has not been making itself known, acting to conquer the world in the ancient ways of worship and blood. The Siphon, prophesied for aeons, is on the prowl, on the hunt. Its motives are unknown, but the bodies left motionless, with no animating power, the results are there for all to see. It’s rumored that the Siphon is more dangerous than the Slayer, even the Slayer, Defier of Prophecy. A new type of vampire, one that is immune to staking, one with strange new powers over its own body, has appeared and begins destroying everything that will not cooperate with it with the powers of a New Slayer. They chose to taunt the Passione in their choice of base, though, leading to a large number of them dying by humans with strange powers of the soul. Memories of these Humans with Fighting Souls are (probably) inserted memories, but the truth of their presence is undeniable. The fear is palpable on the air, leading to slaughter. Leading to blood.
The Siphon himself doesn’t listen to the rumors, except to smirk. It feels almost as if he can subsist on fear as much as he subsists on the power.
He’d just arrived by boat. An old style of travel, he’s sure, but they’re not wrong about the Hunt. It’s the only thing that matters, the redemption of a bloodline tainted by decades of failure.
“…participating in the blood-hunt….” he hears from a nearby table and strides over quickly with a predatory grace, smoothly burying a knife in the table mere inches from hands human to lesser eyes before any of them have even seen him or registered him as a threat.
“I will join in.” He refuses to show them the proper respect, that it is technically their choice whether he participates. Demons respect strength, and he has no intention of showing them anything else.
“Who the hell are you?” one asks in shock and a little fear.
He’s just fed, of course he’s more powerful. But he doesn’t explain anything, either. It implies they’re owed an explanation. “Obsidian,” he answers, because it’s a name he’d used, once, when he’d been young and blind, before he’d been thrust into the war. That name earns a little respect, because he’d used that name before, as well, once he’d begun.
“There’s a beginner’s trial,” a creature he recognizes as a courtesan demon wearing a human face looks him over with approval, sensing the power he holds within. He’ll have to be careful, since her powers work vaguely the same as his, albeit at the level of child’s play. Still, the easiest way to blind her would be to keep her close. Just like humans, demons tended to frame things in terms of what they knew, and if he acts like an incubus, well…
“Try me,” he challenges, holding her gaze with heat and power, and feels rather than hears her purr from where she’s draped herself over one of the two demons appearing like sailors.
“There’s a demon nest that refuses to pay tribute, at this address in the northeast of town. Wipe them out,” one tells him, pressing a dirty paper into his hands. The other laughs harshly.
“Sounds like fun,” he agrees and easily enough disappears from their site.
He enjoys making them fall. He doesn’t even obviously use his Siphon powers, because he can’t know if they’re monitoring him in some way. He’s already full, so he uses the power to just tear them apart instead, light and power twining to destroy.
When he returns, only a little blood of his own on his cheek and the rest from the carnage, the courtesan comes to his side immediately, licking the blood from his face in a gesture he’s sure is meant to seduce. He won’t mind using her before she and the rest die when they fail to tell him what he needs to know or when they cease to amuse. One of the sailors twitches, and soon enough is charging, ready to kill.
He merely puts a fist through the demon’s chest, grasping the organ passing for a heart and forcing it up through its throat. It chokes.
There’s a theatrical clapping, and a dapper demon pretending to be a human steps out of the shadows, a cane tucked under his shoulder. “Well done.” He categorizes this demon as The Peacock, fluttering his plumage. The Siphon isn’t impressed, but only a little challenges his power by smearing three fingers worth of blood onto the demon’s cheek. He’ll kill him later.
“I pay tribute,” he states, and it’s enough, even as he ruffles Peacock’s feathers.
Time and time again he’s sent to kill more, meant to die himself, an irreverent interloper. Time and time again he dispatches the targets with a maximum of violence. It doesn’t hurt to learn more about the different breeds of demons, to better rid the world of their stain, to choose his power based on their own.
His bloodthirst draws attention from the others—Mouthless, though it’s difficult to understand what he thinks of the world or if he even understands any of it, Bonehead, Burn Victim, Shadow Crow, two vampires. And, of course, the courtesan demon, who’s attached herself to his side almost constantly, lapping the blood off his face much like a loyal bitch when he returns. She doesn’t make much of a dog in other respects, though. He does his best to not siphon too much of her magic just yet, though it seems as if she senses his hunger. The draining of her power seems to excite her, spurring her to greater heights. He alternates between amused appreciation, for he’s never had anything quite so much like a partner in crime, and the bittersweet transience only makes it that much more delicious, in the end, and sneering disgust at how she hasn’t realized, yet, what he is, that she should run should she desire to live. He wouldn’t track her down and leave her screaming and bleeding out pinned in some public place. Probably. The danger merely draws her closer, a helpless moth with him, the flame. He is, clearly, getting better at hiding his true nature, particularly in places where his ruthless nature is seen as a bonus. He’s never had so much fun holding back. Peacock alternates, at least, between annoyance (at least his lack of fear is due to arrogance, not necessarily ignorance of the level of his power even if the fact that he’s the Siphon is not known) and a preening pride to have such savagery at his disposal.
The time of the blood-hunt comes. It turns out all participating get their names put in a hat, and those drawn must either fight or be executed. As usual, he turns toward the event with indifference. Those shown to be stronger are more likely to be hunters or executioners.
Some, the cowards, watch, without participating. He’d love to start with gutting them, but alas. He’ll play by the rules, at least for a little while. He plans to kill them all, today, an unmatched bloodbath, the kind of risk that sets even his heart pumping, and get what they know about the Old One, his true prey.
Some of the executions are painless. He shows his contempt by becoming even more ferocious in his own strategy, leaving them to die slowly, bleeding out in agony.
At some point, Bonehead realizes that he’s planning on leaving none alive. While he’s sitting in the gallery, he’s tackled. Peacock yelps something about rules and civilization, and he grins and unleashes the beast within. He smashes the skull into the ground again and again until it crumbles, all the while using his Siphon powers without careful regulation. A vampire rushes him and without even looking back, he drives his elbow back through the demon’s skull, dusting it effortlessly. It’s no harder to catch the cane Peacock sends toward his own unprotected head. The demon attempts to pull away the cane, but he’s pretty sure he’s reached a new level of strength. It doesn’t move a centimeter.
“Who are you?” the courtesan asks, voice afraid but still interested, too. He understands now. She’d been waiting to see what he would do. She’d known the truth, as much as she could. She was just destined for a tragedy.
“The Siphon,” he responds, and feels the rush at the fear that accompanies his true name. The two vampires and Burn Victim try to take him all at once, but they’re unprepared for his true speed. He leaves them coughing in their own blood, bent bodies at his feet. “I want to know about the Old One walking the Mortal Plane. You might as well tell me. I could ease your passing.”
None answer him, not in the stands, not in the playing field, not when he starts systematically dismembering them, not when he begins to drain them. He’s brimming with power at the end, so he just obliterates a few vampires outright, just to prevent his body from overload. At last, it’s only the trembling courtesan, afraid but brave. She hasn’t run but is still in the same place as when this started, covered in the blood and viscera of nearby kills.
“Why did you leave me for last?” she wonders, hope in her eyes, and for once, he disregards the impulse to shred and maim. She’s earned the truth, at least.
“A courtesy, my dear. Destruction is easy enough to come by, but a poisoned withering rose? You are a rarity.” He caresses her cheek.
She smiles against the coming oblivion. “I’m glad I meant something to you as you meant something to me. I will tell you the whispers of mortal men in their death-throes. You have heard of Wolfram & Hart?”
He nods, reaching into a pocket to find a handkerchief and cleaning the blood from her face.
“Sometimes I will take their lawyers. It is not as if they do not serve even in death, of course. A former Watcher of the Shadows was drawn into their web. He said that an Old One or one of the First Generation was caught by the Shadow Men and infused into the girl called the Slayer. He himself seeks to become Ascended,” she explains, gently holding his hand.
He smiles. At last, a lead, and one she would have given freely. “Don’t worry. You will live on in my power.” He means it mockingly, but fails.
“The kiss of death?” she clarifies—begs, and far be it for a gentleman to ignore a lady’s request on the eve of death. He pulls her in, and kisses her gently, desperately, until all life has left her body. He picks her up, takes her to her bed, and arranges her to his satisfaction. He leaves a black rose, a token of his regard, changes into more suitable clothing, and bids his final farewell to his lady.
