Hello, first fanfic on this site. However, not the first fic I've written. This story was requested as a crack pairing by my friend, to see if this pair could possibly work. Also, gaming universe (yeah, shoot me.) This takes place in the B2W2 era.


A crash of thunder shook the foundations of the wooden establishment, causing some oak shutters to be thrown open with a bang. A pair of gruff hands reached up and held onto them, allowing the texture of the cool oak panels and the chilly night air to encompass their being; a feeling the owner of said hands was using to wind down.

It was late out, nearly closing time, every light in the village had faded into the black rain save one. With an ached sigh, the owner of the single light left in town gently snapped the shutters back into place. He was about to make his way upstairs to his quarters, if it were not for the dainty jingle of a bell. The owner craned his head towards the source of the noise: the front door. A lone figure stood in the doorway who, if not for the dim light of the room, would have been absorbed by the empty streets. The owner simply rubbed the back of his head.

"Well, aren't you lucky, mister. I was about to turn in for the night. Welcome," he gestured around the room, a bar, "to the Hoppip Inn. Can I set you up a room for the night? Perhaps a drink?" The inn-owner's flamboyancy was met with a hardened stare and a low rumble of thunder.

The figure in the doorway stepped forward with agonisingly long steps, allowing the wooden floorboards to creek as much as possible. If he wanted to intimidate, he was certainly doing a fine job of it. The owner narrowed his eyes and felt his fingers brush handle of a pistol he concealed in his waistband; you could never be too sure. Although, the owner doubted he would need to use such measures against this man; if you could call him that, he could not have been over eighteen.

He was one of the more dishevelled-looking customers he had seen. The fact that he was soaked like a sponge was not helping his case. His black hair sprawled from his cap and clung to his face and neck. The owner glanced at his attire: a red and (now) see-through white shirt finished with jeans that had glued themselves to his legs like taffy. His sneakers made a soft squelching sound as they were pushed into the floor with heavy steps. The inn-keeper sniffed, and allowed his hand to fall gently fall from his waistband. He was definitely not going to need his 'friend' for this.

Eventually, the figure sat, or rather dropped, himself onto a bar stool. The owner, making his way around to his own side of the bar, raised an eyebrow when he noticed the seemingly endless amount of water that cascaded down the man's legs.

'Just how drenched is he? Better yet, how long was he out there for?'
His thoughts were interrupted when the soaked figure suddenly slapped his wet hand onto the bench; there was a bill crudely scrunched underneath it. The owner of the inn gazed at the owner of the hand.

"That's great and all," he crossed his arms and snorted, "but what do you want?"

As if he were pointing out the obvious, the man with the red cap indicated towards the line of alcoholic beverages that sat nonchalantly behind the owner. The owner stroked his thick moustache and frowned.

"Now, now. That's no way to be. God gave you a mouth and it was with the intention for you to use it." He leaned his arms on the bench, and slowly lifted his eyes up to meet the man I front of him. "Now tell me what it is you wa-"

He saw them. Those eyes. Those bone-chilling, horror-infused eyes. They seemed to burn from underneath the man's cap, punishing those who dared to cast a look upon them. The owner did not realise he had jumped backwards until he had collided with the wall, knocking quite a few bottles off of the shelf.

"O-okay, you made your point," he held up his hands defensively, "you made your point." He quickly lurched around and began to busy himself with the drinks. His heart and mind were racing a mile a minute, each new thought process bringing another horrific mental image to his head. He was aware of everything: the smoothness of the bottles, the sound of water dripping outside, the sound of his foot tapping inside and the absolute presence of the man sitting rock-solid behind him.

He was terrified, completely and utterly terrified. In that realisation, he noticed something odd.

'The room, it's-'

"-absolutely freezing in here!" exclaimed a light voice. The owner jumped and let out a small squeak, which he prayed later that no-one had heard, and turned a cautious head towards the front door. His cautiousness was immediately replaced with relief.

"Ah, Miss Lily," he exclaimed, hastily throwing a mess of drinks together and palming it onto the bench. There could have been draining fluid in there for all he knew (a small part of him wished there was,) but the farther away from the demon, the better. He made his way over to the woman in the doorway who was currently shaking a wet umbrella outside.

"Inn-keeper...?"

The man stopped in his tracks, somewhat afraid if not of the events that had occurred before. He studied her pale face.

"Yes?"

She threw him a wide grin and thrust the umbrella into his gruff arms.

"Thank you for this." She stepped around the inn-keeper as he sighed.

"Now, now, Miss Lily," he said, hanging up next to the door frame. "What sort of man would it make me if I were to to let a woman go out into a stormy day without an umbrella?"

The woman, if you could call her that, she was barely over eighteen, shimmied a black cloak off her lithe body. She then proceeded to fold it up, careful to not let it drip too much.

"I was very appreciative of it, nonetheless. Oh, and please," she giggled and stuffed the cloak under her arm, "Anabel will be fine, thank you." She visibly shivered. "And can I add, again, that it is freezing in here. I hope you haven't left the fridge open or something."

The inn-keeper frowned.

'She noticed too...? So, I'm not the only who thinks it suddenly got blisteringly cold.'

Anabel read his expression and traced it to somewhere behind her. She turned to face the dripping mess seated at the bar, taking occasional sips from his glass. She cocked an eyebrow and turned back to the inn-keeper who was making it crystal-clear, by throwing an exaggerated hand back and forth under his chin, that she should really reconsider interacting with the demon at the bar.

Anabel shrugged, much to his dismay, and confidently walked herself over to the bench and plonked down next to the raven-haired man.

There was a long and quiet pause as the tension in the room rose ever-so-slightly. It froze when Anabel leaned an elbow on the bar and spoke.

"So, what's biting you?"

There was a deafening pause. The man slowly twisted his head to meet hers, eyes blazing. The owner had long since abandoned the room, feeling another spike in the temperature as he fled to his quarters. Anabel sat seemingly unaffected by his immense presence, either that, or she was doing exceedingly well in disguising her fear. She bit her bottom lip.

"W-well, I can see now you aren't a people-person." Her fingers twitched in the cold air. "Perhaps we could just start with your name?"

The man suddenly snapped his head back to his glass, grunting as he did so. Anabel was amazed that the cup remained intact, judging by the amount of pressure he was applying to it. She swallowed and breathed slowly, slightly hopeful that he would answer her. Several silent minutes later, she received her answer.

Nothing. He did not even flinch.

Anabel pouted and sat back on her bar stool.

'This is going to require a bit of strategy. But I'm confident I'll get him speaking sooner or later.' She paused for a moment. 'Why am I even bothering?' It was a good question, however, Anabel soon reasoned with herself that, any person that can flip the temperature of the room with a mere glance is probably worth investigating. She spared a look in his direction.

'Even if he is a bit frightening.' And so, with a sudden flare of confidence, Anabel spun around and hopped off the stool.

"Fine, be that way," she said, with a tinge of smugness in her voice. "I guess we'll have to wait it out," she threw herself onto a large couch, adjacent to the bar, "until you answer."


The man in the red cap gripped his cup even harder than before, to the point where he felt the first signs of cracks creeping their way across the glass. He loosened his grip, slightly, deciding that the current situation was not worth cutting up his hand over. The first thought that seeped its way into his mind was:

'Where does she get the gall to speak to me like we're...' he visibly grimaced, '...equal? I could tell she was scared when I stared her down, but...' His grip tightened again, but he released it just as quickly. 'She's not worth it. This bar isn't worth it.' He stood up sharply, letting the cup tumble its way out of his white, jagged fingers; the sudden smash of glass on the floor earned a gasp from his onlooker.

He stride towards the door but was unable to reach the handle, a certain female stood defiantly in his way.

"Wait a second!" she exclaimed. And wait a second he did...before pushing her aside and clenching the door handle.

He had not even begun to pull before his hand was slapped away and he was shoved aside himself.

"Just because you have had a rotten day, it does not give you the right to act like a child!"

The man in the red cap stared at his hand, teeth clenched and eyes wide, simmering.

'She dared...to...' He did not finish that thought. He was already occupied with burning this woman into his memory. Every follicle of every stupid strand of stupid lilac hair on her head. Every eyelash of every stupid lilac eye on her stupid pale face.

The person that had dared to strike him.

Anabel did not have to read his body language twice to understand that she had messed up.

Bad.

Letting the flight part of her brain take over, she wrenched open the door and fled into the black, rainy night.

The rain was plummeting to the ground faster than when she had entered the inn. Thick drops of icy water hammered her body like furious birds attacking an intruder. Anabel thumped her legs harder into the muddy street, not daring to steal a glimpse of the man that was likely mere footsteps behind her. However, she could not make out any other sounds besides the heavy rain and her own aching feet. She shook her head; she dared not chance it. She kept moving.

After what seemed like hours, she stopped moving her sore limbs and leaned on her knees to prevent them from buckling. She allowed the air to flow back into her burning lungs; the taste of dry spit caked her mouth in volumes. Anabel listened once more, alerting herself to any unusual sounds. Several seconds past by.

Nothing. She allowed herself to take another breath.

That was when she heard the most terrifying sound of her life.

A pair of of wet, heavy footsteps, growing louder in volume but slowing down in speed.

They stopped.

Nothing moved, as if the earth stood still. The only thing that existed was a predator and its prey.

'Why...isn't he...doing anything?' It was at that moment that her brain flashed her a couple of frames of memory that made her face curl up in despair.

"I guess we'll have to wait it out, until you answer..."

Anabel wanted to shrivel up and die. The ungodly silence and tension was beginning to suffocate her, the unforgiving rain drops were crippling her and her aching limbs and body were set to collapse at any moment. Anabel swallowed, and spluttered, dry and sickly. She had no saliva left in her mouth.

Gathering what resolve was left in her body, the lilac-haired woman turned her white head around.

A meaty hand carved its way into her face, sending her slender body sprawling across the muddy ground.

Anabel felt the soft earth crawl its way around her body. She could not see anything due to the shadow that hovered above her, and she could not hear anything due to the ringing in her ears. She could, however, feel the tears that streamed from her eyes.

'This is it.'

Suddenly, an almighty bang exploded through her senses.

And everything went white.

The man in the red cap was blown to the ground from the force of a bolt of lightning striking a nearby telegraph pole. His mind was swirling with thoughts and emotions, however there was one image that flashed continuously in his mind.

An image that he had burned there himself.

Except, it was not of the defiant woman that had blocked his way, but, the image of the woman that had been lying defenseless on the ground, hands up in a feeble attempt to protect her red, tear-soaked face.

The man looked at his own hands. He felt a jolt burrow through his spine and into his quivering arms. The image flashed in his mind again.

He realised what he had become.

His now, soft, weak eyes darted towards the spot where he had left her. What he saw caught him off-guard.

She was staring right back, head cocked to the side, analysing him. He could feel her stare pierce his skin, and for the first time, in a long time, he felt vulnerable.

Anabel could only stare as the man in the red cap fled into the night, like a scared animal.


And there you go. I will be adding more, but I'm not expecting many people to like this story. In any case R&R.