#endless nothingness without comprehension

[ches-nogat]

Me listening to an ASMR video: I'm terrified of death, arent i? Damn

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Headcanon - Purgatory AU

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Actually super proud of this one, it was a very specific scenario I played over and over in my head and elaborated on over time. Much like the angelic EMP story, it's the one I'm most excited to write. Because it's a dystopian nightmare, and hope to write it one day when my creativity returns from the war.

The set up is a bit long but I was building the scene for future me, who might have forgotten where I was going with this.

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Alastor climbed out of purgatory on the same frequency he uses to disassemble his enemies; something known only to himself and crossed across the three realms so none but another technologically capable demon might be able to reconvene his banished botherers.

Albeit, this discovery was made with a slight push from her majesty Lilith - though she hadn’t realised at the time. 

He died in 1929 but arrived in hell in 1933. He fudged the timeline a bit for anyone who prods into his infamous ‘well-known’ background.

True, though, rare are the sinners who remain from that time period unless they are powerful or canny, to dispute his claims. Indeed, many assumed he was here long before that time, amassing souls and power to take down overlords. Few really assumed he fell into hell and began tearing powerful demons apart. 

Where he had been in the interim still burned at the core of his soul, and tinged his nightmares with ashen terror if his powers were too depleted to fight them. To bind them away in a corner of his mind to allow true rest.

Purgatory. Such an ominous name for somewhere so vile and twisted. Hell itself was not even close to the cruelty of the Void.

It was a realm without true colour; literal shades of grey, black, and a lifeless off-white that drained the will to live and hid terrors beyond comprehension.

And even now, even with everything Lillith and her angelic sympathisers tried, Alastor’s still not sure how much of Him really came back. There are pieces that faded away there and other bits blurred into compete obscurity, to save his sanity. Not to mention how it messed with his senses; running into so many colours, sounds, sensations, after a desolate place of mist and shadows had been almost physically agonising.

 

Screams and wisps and things in the murk. No society, no safety, intangible... the fate of those who fell between the different realms. Phantom screams and moans echoed on the silent winds, their touch was volatile and a sensation you came to crave in a world where touch was impossible. 

The people there… the Forgotten. Some laid down in despair and died, again and again and again and again. Offering no resistance as their minds fade. The mist carried fragments of sinners swirling on the breeze, the only way to touch one another… and yet, others also threw themselves into the maws of the Guardians, just to feel something once more.

The horror of being there... the endless years of shredding into nothing and fighting to keep your mind and body intact every waking moment, of hearing nothing but the phantom echoes of people long torn apart and your own voice (until it faded into raspy nothingness from lack of use), of staring at placid grey lakes and wondering if it was worth it to keep trying, of endless days hiding from and evading (or indeed fighting) the beasts that lurked in plain sight and ended the Forgotten in their jaws relentlessly. 

The Guardians, all similar, all different. Things of immense proportions, fortified skin like a rhino and twice as deadly with protruding barbs in odd places, some came equipped with many mouths of violent teeth, their hunting calls echoed through you in a manner beyond sound… it rattled the bones.

Some were winged, others quadrupedal, others lurked in the waters. All hungry, all looking to silence any aberrations in their realm. All sensing with beady eyes or sharpened scent tracking or echolocation that made the skin tingle even as you realised it was too late to hide.

Some with tendrils that tapped the ground before them, and others that used their howls to mark you as prey with white sigils that wouldn't come off no matter how much skin you carved away.

You could never see them coming, just run, just hide if possible, playing dead would get you naught but devoured faster. Only to return to the cycle again and again in endless madness.

They were the ground, the sky, the rocks and shadows. They hid in the blinding stark white, and the deepest pitch of black. Your powers were muted here, terrifying and near powerless.

How could a neutral place be allowed such carnage? When Alastor had fallen in, he had assumed it to be Hell… for there was no orientation, no signage or brochure to share the details. But it did not quite match up. 

Later, he would discover that this was a realm untethered by time or space, as sinners from years before and years ahead would fall in at random.  And then, there was Niffty. 

This place was populated by the Unwanted, the Unjudgeable, the Forgotten souls who had either just Missed the threshold of heaven, but did not quite meet the criteria for Hell.

The only amusement Alastor ever managed was the occasional confused religious official who coalesced into a screaming greyed out version of their human form, looking bewildered and clearly calling out for angelic aide that would not come.

The Forgotten remained in their humanoid forms, most crumbling away after cycles of death and reawakening. Why bother to create unique forms for those about to die? But, for the longer-serving Forgotten, they changed over time… each day conquered seemed to tally up somewhere. Their forms enlarging or shrinking, fingertips falling into claws, or faces restructuring, little and almost imperceptible at first but undeniable as time wore on.

You could tell who had lived here long by the changes upon them. 

Those who laid on the ground awaiting endless death, though, they remained unchanged and slowly were trampled into nothingness. To become more of the landscape, the dust that clung to your hair, your clothes, your eyes and coated the inside of your mouth…

Hunger was always. Food was… there, but it did nothing. It satiated the urge for a moment and the hunger returned twofold. It was a cruel little trap.

But the powers, what little began to manifest as you changed or fell in with, strengthened with every day you survived.

Underworld type vibes. Those who lived more than a few days were either fortunate enough to have new minor powers that kept them safe, were lucky, or simply stayed at the side of another who was more experienced.

Partnerships rarely worked out. Another cruelty was that you were intangible to others, meaning no comfort, no ability to hurt one another, no shared warmth, no holding the others as they died, no ability to snag them from the brink of peril. Nothingness.

To see and feel nothing was vile in ways that were impossible to articulate fully.

Their voices are snatched on the winds and the sight of them is somewhat blurred. How else would this place make one feel so… alone, even if in a group? All a game by some sadistic fucking being who thought that those who dared blur the good/bad dichotomy deserved sufferance. 

How Alastor had fallen here was beyond his knowledge. After all, he initially assumed this was hell [a normal and anticipated punishment for his crimes]. But something always felt Off.

When he did eventually find Hell, the real one, it left him confused about his misassignment… had the fact he murdered people worse than himself tipped the scales? Was that what happened? 

When he had made it to Hell, touch became absolutely overwhelming and made him nauseous. Sounds were hard to blot out when one had the sensitive hearing of a deer acclimated to trying to snatch the tiniest displacement of silent wind as a leviathan made of teeth and endless torment trudged towards you across a plain of endless grey void.

And the colours! Never had he been so pleased to see colour again!

Why, as soon as he saw the red sky, his favoured colour from life, Alastor said he would wear nought but that shade for the rest of time… 

And Niffty… she was desperate to touch, to reaffirm where she was. The Cleaning? Dust, any amount of grime would trigger her need to remove it, the paranoia that they might go back, that the void had located them and would take her and Al and all their lovely friends was too much for her.

There were alliances in the void, communicated in silent gestures and over exaggerated words, so that others might read their lips. anguage had been an initial barrier until the pair settled on full english.

[None lived, or stayed strong enough mentally, to keep going for long when alone. Alastor fell to purgatory bc he did kill but it was specific people worse than him. It was defs strange and unexpected to fall there but if he got in surely he could get out. That was a spark of defiant hope he clung to.]

The one little thing keeping him sane was the ability to play music in his head.

Then there was Niffty. She was half mad by the time the pair met; but they made a game of communicating through bizarre gestures, some of her stories seemed rather… concerning, especially the mimed whatever it had been involving her doing a somersault as she punched her elbow and then broke out into a ballroom dance routine while biting at the air. Not clear. He never asked for clarification. 

Hell had many things to recommend it.

And now they could touch, Niffty took great liberties, possessive of Al in her own way; because the others could never understand how deeply distressing it was to lack the sensation of another. Platonically, of course. Even something as simple as sitting next to a person you felt some connection to and having your body heat radiate between you was a sweet, precious gift for someone who had been in Purgatory. 

He breaks out (of purgatory) when something in his head clicks into a new channel, his powers growing stronger as his antlers grew in, acting like antennae.

Heaven was looking down into purgatory, doing their bi-centennial fluff and fold of the dimension and Lillith was being forced to do it as part of adam's revenge at her. Adam HATED the chore, found it ‘grody and nasty, man’.

Her signal is different in an indefinable way... Real somehow. And he follows it, mentally, wrapping the intangible wavelength around himself and niffty's intangible form with something beyond touch, until he felt them slide into the radiowaves. Chasing through the portal as it shut, but in freefall as he caught Hell's frequency, to pull them free. 

They fall, as any sinner might, Niffty shuddering in his arms, suddenly real and blinded by the colours once more. Alastor felt sick from the sudden touch, from the bright lights and bustling everything, from the scents and sounds. Like being in a neverending explosion after such silence.

They crash into Rosie's emporium, stunned, sharp teeth marking them as hers. She takes one look and recognises something is up, these were not stunned sinners, these were fragmented souls. She cares for them first out of curiosity and duty as the Cannibal overlord… and then, simply, because they endeared themselves to her strongly enough that they became friends. 

Rosie helps them work out their powers.

In time, Alastor realises he's a Dealmaker. Niffty immediately hands him her soul for safekeeping, and to tether them together. 

Lillith reaches out to Alastor amused to realise the buzzing she felt in purgatory was now emanating from hell.  A deal is proffered. For a small tendril of her power, her song, to muffle the memories of purgatory that kept them awake and dissociating at night, Alastor agrees because niffty definitely needed it. All she asked in return was that he take on a supportive role for her daughter, Charlotte. 

Care for her as viciously as he had Niffty. She saw potential. She leaves him a cryptic clue about his own signal, which he works out can fragment sinners across the airwaves and immediately goes after rival overlords.

The first one was a fluke, some crass serpent-based Overlord who had dared to be rude to Rosie... and the second was what appeared to be a green flamingo with a gun that was trying to subdue a young woman [that would turn out to be one of Carmilla's lovely daughters]. 

Endearing him to the weapons dealer and Zestial, especially when he refuses to claim her soul afterwards.

"Pish tosh, i was merely aiming for the arrogant fool and accidentally helped your lovely daughter in the process. Perhaps a different weapon would be best, something you can conceal until you need it?" He suggests. Noting that the scientific young woman seems uneasy with the unwieldy spear in her possession. Her hands were small and deft, perhaps a pair of well-crafted daggers could suit her?

When carmilla and zestial meet niffty, alastor's response makes more sense. And if zestial stepped in to help the little woman when some thugs tried to snatch her a few years later, well it was only fair. Alastor offered him some of his power in thanks, making the ancient one laugh and bounce some of his own back. 

“For mine childe, i returneth thine thanks.” Zestial had smiled, his ancient eyes seemed to suggest he had an inkling of why Alastor and Niffty were… as they were. Perhaps he’d heard tell in his many centuries in this Realm. Carmilla also provides a tendril of her power as Alastor reciprocates.

It was not… unheard of for powerful overlords to share power as a token of great favour, usually through carefully crafted deals, but if someone had given them something beyond price, it was the sincerest means of thanks and trust. It was also a good way to hold yourself in their regard. 

Alastor threaded his power to them each, anyway, and Rosie too, naturally. A miniscule tether for them, an assurance they were not overlords on his list, in his own way. 

These tendrils held him in the here and now, and in turn through their deal, kept Niffty grounded as well. A thread of lillith, of rosie, of zestial and carmilla  - all accrue in him, winding about the threads of grey he feels tentatively clinging to his very core. 

Alastor follows Charlie from time to time on outings, and takes care of minor threats even her Thats A Whole Ass Angel gf misses. So naive about the perils of a realm made for death and destruction, really, the girl was likely to be impaled by a sinister mailman at this point…

Then there was Vox, who wanted too much too fast, who gave power and tore it back when he did not get what he wanted. A friendship that might have been more, was on the precipice, if either were stable, and now their connection was naught but a small buzz between them. A crackle of blue in alastor, occasionally seeping down the chain into niffty. Miniscule unlike the other tendrils, but there. Covering the grey threads that clung to their souls.

The grey that was consuming them slowly, though they did not, and could not, know such a thing. And what would they do if it came to light? No one could help, right?

Then, Lillith asked them to come to her, hiding them in heaven. Using her muted healing song to rebuild them and repress the grey. An archangel could fix this, but Heaven would shove them back in the purgatory realm  the minute their escape was known. 

And lucifer was wracked with depression in his palace. Maybe charlotte had inherited something?

Return after 7 yrs and separated. Niffty with Rosie, who adores the little maid. Alastor waits for his time, and then the interview with Katie Killjoy goes wildly awry in the most fantastical of ways. He knocks on the door, and it begins.

Now here they, are two months post early extermination, his wound angrily fighting the mixed mess of his soul, when something happens that should not be possible.

A crack, a rift, a fissure in reality has split above pentagram city and something came through. Not of Earth, not of Heaven. 

A great hulking thing in shades of grey and mist is making the ground shake, it storms towards the hotel in mindless purpose as it seeks out the Missing. Had it escaped, or been released once a breach was known?

For a split second, Niffty drops her duster, eye going out of focus as she stares out the window. “S-Sir…?”

Alastor's own mental eye flashes up past encounters, deadly hunts they had barely scraped through. He fights to keep his ears upright. Heart thundering...

And then the rage hits. The anger and fear and desperate need to remove the aberration fill him to the brim, and the radios go haywire as he strides outside to deal with the issue. 

With a snap, Niffty is armed with two needles as big as her own arms, and out the front door faster than light. 

Alastor shoves the others inside with his tendrils. Not taking his eyes off the Thing as he advised, “Do not touch it, it will dissolve your flesh should you try, and it will unmake you. Charlotte, you should..." the words felt tainted. "Call your father."

“What? You know what this is? Alastor?”

Multiphasic, to attack multiple Forgotten at once who all existed out of phase with one another.

He ignores them, slamming the doors shut and running at it, jumping with the aid of his tendrils to get astride the beast’s head. The many maws couldn't reach you there and the trick was to try strangling it out with the tendrils or stabbing through the primary eyes. 

As Niffty was batted aside, Alastor let himself expand, ignoring the ache as his skin burned on contact, trying to fragment away while he pinned the creature.

It lashed at him, raking at what it could reach with the tendrils, with its sharp teeth and skin. 

Stand still too long and your skin burned away in agonising dust particles. Razor sharp claws whipped past and gouged at him as he used a shield to pin it down. A discharge of radiostatic to short out the voyeur drones as they served no purpose.

Niffty returns with a vengeance and tunnels through an eye to get at the core, the only weakness they’d ever found, and lets Alastor help her tear it apart. The creature making a Not Howl of agony as it collapsed in on itself, and only Alastor’s ability to teleport through shadows stopped the insides of the behemoth from crushing them both.

Skin burning, bloody messes that emerge into the waning afternoonlight as the beast falls. Shadows holding it fast just in case, even as they sizzled. The grass about the thing began to die form the taint of it all.

That strategy had only worked once before when they'd been desperate enough to try it. In the past, distraction, misdirection, forcing one beast into the path of another until they fought had been their tactic. Attempts to kill often resulted in them being devoured or torn apart.

How long they remained fragmented was anyone’s guess, but when they again awoke, there would always be another beast to avoid.

A furious Charlotte bursts outside in demonic form, circumventing the shadows at the doors, and pulls up short in horror. She quickly identifies that they need to get the grey whatever it was off both of them as Niffty collapses into a trembling heap on the porch. 

Niffty screams as someone touches her, their helping hands jerking back. Stuck in her head and certain that the touch was the beast. Gurgling and shuddering in horror at a pain that she didn’t like, and a sense of fear she rarely felt because nothing in Hell had compared to Purgatory so far.

Alastor pulls at his green energy and snakes a tendril to her, settling her with the familiar non-touch enough that her abject horror subsides to more manageable levels.

“Don’t touch her!” He snarls, warning the others back, forcing them back with his shadow. He's fighting down the instinctual panic now the threat is gone, but his protective urge is going wild. Keep niffty safe, keep the others from hurting themselves by touching them.

“Please, you can trust us. Let us help her, help you…” charlie begs.

“You cannot touch us or you will be harmed as well.”

Lucifer bursts onto the scene all wings ablaze, a long-hidden blade drawn and cold eyes that survey the scene with mounting horror. Frantically checking if Charlie is okay, first and foremost.

His eyes are sharp as they snap to niffty, to alastor.  He darts forwards suddenly, to grab the sinners chin, and Alastor jerks back out of reach with a furious almost borderline panicked expression in his eyes. So at odds with his smile.

[explain the smile was set so no one can get a read on them, no one can know what happened. They discount niffty as mad anyway, etc. hide in plain sight]

The sword disappears as the king dissipates the Shadow, and grabs Al by the front of his shirt; placing the other hand against the static laden skin, ignoring the scowl he received, and the admonishments from the hotel guests behind him about not touching the guy, as the King’s eyes go Red to truly See. (explain better)

"I should have known. You shouldn't have been able to do that unless you've been there... how did I not See this before?" He mutters and flexes his wings, dispelling the grey from both sinners’ skin. His power pulses out, gently repairing what was burned, bleeding, bruised, or broken etc. 

"How did you get out? How did you get Her out with you?! It was made to contain anything less than a seraphim..." 

Alastor found his ability to speak was subsumed by the sudden burst of pain in his chest as lucifers power encountered Adams last little insult.

"Dad, let him go, he doesn't like being touched!"

"Oh I don't doubt it... I've been there a few times to do the Check In when Heaven’s feeling lazy, and let me tell you honey, it takes weeks to get over the desire to peel your skin off at anything tangible brushing against it. Lotta seraphim went full celestial form to avoid contact... and it fucks with your head. How are you...?"

"Dad, can you let him go and talk to me about what that is?"

"...one sec, char-char. Let's get these two sorted before they trickle back to their worst nightmare." With a snap of his fingers, Niffty stopped shuddering and sighed. Alastor's eyes rolled back and he crumpled, easily caught by the king as charlie shouted.

"No one go near that thing, it shouldn't be here and i'll need to talk to heaven about it. It’s-... this is bad, Char-Char. Real bad."

"Please tell me what's going on, dad, I'm freaking out here."

Vaggie had a thousand yard stare as she turned it on Niffty, and slowly, Alastor, before staring at the king.

"That's from Purgatory, isnt it, Sir?" She audibly swallowed. 

"Purga-what?" Angel interjects, confused.

"Purgatory, between hell and heaven for those who didn't make the threshold for either realm."

"No i got that, but... its reaĺ? How has no one here found out?" 

"No one outside certain members of heaven, lucifer and lillith know about it. Mortal souls can't escape once there, nor can they choose to enter it. That's one of the Guardians… or as we called them, the Devourers." Vaggie rasped out. Adding "Adam couldn't keep secrets around his girls, the man straight up shared classified shit on movie night just to sound important and see who wanted to bang him that evening."

Sounds about right.

"Hey can we get inside now? If Vox or one of the other overlords sees Boss like that, they'll be here in a heartbeat to kill him." Husk adds, gently lifting Niffty as Angel smoothes her hair down.

Inside transition, move to the staff only area in a side room. 

"Purgatory is supposed to be sealed shut, they check once a century. Huh, maybe that's how the bastard got them out..."

Notes that their souls are fragmented, a patchwork of different energies at play. The chains of his deals tether Alastor (and Niffty) to the realm of Hell efficiently, almost too well in some cases. But it had smothered their tracks in Hell. 

Heals them, including removing adams grace. Lucifer reaches out to heaven who panics and sends emily to help dissolve the creature, lillith as her guide.

Angst.

“Your soul is covered in the threads of it. Was that why you antagonised me straight up so i wouldn't look too closely?” Lucifer asks.

Maybe they do a thing where the others ask what purgatory is like, and Alastor offers to show them using his reality-bending thing. First he looks to Niffty, “Niffty dear, if at any time it gets too much, stab me and I will drop the illusion, okay?”

“Ooooor we could use a safeword?” Charlie suggests, horrified.

“You will see why that is not effective in a moment, Charlotte. Brace yourselves.” 

The sudden vacuum of everything is disconcerting, everything grey and intangible, a nightmare of half there forms and people they couldn’t hear. Hands that reached and didn’t touch. For realism, a Guardian swoops overhead and another rises from beneath Husker and Angel Dust’s feet, Alastor meant to stop it there, but the sudden loss of his own radio signals that tethered him to reality caught him off-guard.

Lucifer, snatching up Niffty who was about to stab Alastor, snaps the illusion away. 

Leaving traumatised hotel staff and guest reaching out for the nearest body to hold onto.

Niffty clung to the King, pupil pinprick with some deep emotion. 

Alastor blinks back to reality as his signal reconnects, feeling far more… Here… than before.

“Apologies, that went further than intended. As you can understand, most assume they went to hell when they arrive. Or I assume they do based on the silent screaming and prayer positions many assume… can’t ask, and there’s no writing utensils!” he laughed.

Charlie was throwing up in a potplant.

Vaggie was holding her hair.

Husk was being squeezed by four trembling arms as Angel Dust did the mindfulness breathing exercises from a few weeks back. 

“What the FUCK was that?” the spider eventually adds, choking on the words. “And people just… get stuck there, cause they ain’t too good or aint too bad to go either way?”

“The Forgotten. Yes.” Lucifer answers. “Lillith and I did bargain with Heaven over maybe taking them in just in case a few thousand years back, but, heh, Heaven won’t fucking listen!” he grinned, anger radiating off his smile. “Purgatory is a land of nightmares when it should be neutral. This was Heaven’s idea of a merciful way to get the over population down. Make the Forgotten want to end, to lay down and accept… which lets the realm slowly erode everything they were and are.”

“...indeed.” 

Beast tracked them to the hotel threads of purgatory on them. There's a breach from the escape. Have to send them back.

Niffty asks to be killed instead.

Lillith's deal is brought up. 

The scandal rocks the overlords, zestial had heard rumours but the rest... vox's spydrone catches info. And he uses it in the next meeting. 

Carmilla offers the only help she can, a small angelic dagger for the sinners to carry as they are forced back into purgatory by Heaven as a means of sealing the breach. 

Charlie points out that this was wrong, they fought for the right to at least be in hell. Breach sealed after them.

But even if it mutes powers they're stronger than before and full of shared power ties to hell. Alastor fractures Purgatory completely in his anger at watching Niffty and the others there suffer. This time, he's bringing everyone with them. 

This time he knows how to locate and latch onto the wavelengths of every person there. How to use the very realm itself as an amplifier to break itself into a thousand shards. Well, he also had another little failsafe.

Lucky he held onto a thread of lucifer and adam's power. The bindings forced the realm to accept an archangel's commands as he collapses it. Thousands begin to fall from the sky above Pride, the beasts destroyed with the realm as Alastor’s wrath flattens them.

Exorcists are sent to catch them and help sort the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. The good enough moved to heaven, others land in hell and stay there. 

Niffty and Alastor fall at the hotel, vaggie and husk grab them.  They won't wake.

More angst, dimmed grey threads on their minds and souls pushed away with small tendrils of others powers. Expended their energy breaking Purgatory, may never wake up… Lucifer turns to the Sins for ideas as Heaven blames Hell for this issue.

Emily is asked to intervene with Charlie, and they point out that more than a few of those souls were one step from redeemed, so why not let them fall to hell where she could work through their failings with them at the hotel?

Eventually get a ‘Fine.” and purgatory is shut down. Anyone not fully for heaven/hell lands in the grounds of the hotel… there’s a bell now.

At least once, the hotel crew have to force an overlord or wannabe off the property to stop them trying to kill Alastor while he’s down, and lucifer tries to heal the sinners with support from at least three of the sins. Siphoned energy.

They use Alastor and Niffty as a test case to see how they can vanquish the grey threads on their souls, and when they find the right combination, a cure is found. 

Spread to other sinners etc.

[wanderingmind867]

What the Ideal Afterlife Looks Like:

I know that the afterlife is unknowable. What happens to us all after we die is something that has been the cause of many a contentious argument and debate over the years. I am not here to dispose any religion with my words. I am not here to ostracise people, or shun those who believe in one thing over another. I'm not willing to get into that. Although knowing my luck, this opinion piece will ostracise many people anyways. But I have some very strong beliefs regarding the afterlife. I am irreligious, but this is my one strong point. I have thought about what'll happen after I die way too much. I blame losing my mom for that one. But I also blame my exposure to so many middle grade fantasy books about mythology, and my own natural existential dread and fear. I've been wanting to make a note like this for a while, something comprehensive and clear regarding my beliefs. And now, I finally have my chance. So join me on this journey, as I tell you what I want from an afterlife and what I think should never be allowed anywhere near the concept of life after death.

First off, I think reincarnation is inhumane. The concept of constantly restarting your life because you didn't live good enough to reach enlightenment is, frankly, horribly cruel. What that implies is that life is an infinite loop without any sort of hope for peace. No paradise, just more restarting of a cycle. I hate that. It's a big turn-off for me, whenever I think about all the religions that believe in this. How can you find that a hopeful thing? You die, and you live again (not remembering your past). An endless loop of forgetting and pain and forgetting and pain. No, I will not accept that that is the afterlife we all have to look forward to. If I truly believed that, I would be depressed and apathetic. So no, reincarnation is out of the question.

Next on my list of things I oppose (and this is the last real big one): there can't be a hell or a purgatory. I refuse to believe that places like those could exist. Hell is eternal torment for all of time. It's vile and inhumane. And I have my negative moments. If my worst moments were used as proof to get me exiled to hell… I don't know what I'd do. And any god who punishes instead of brings peace is no god of mine. And as for Purgatory… it's the nothingness of the great white void. You might as well just be a corpse lying in the ground by that point. Purgatory is just as Inhumans as Hell. It's a different form of torture, but it's torture all the same. This is just as bad as if there was no afterlife whatsoever. Any god who creates a hell or a purgatory system is no god of mine. And I honestly don't think they deserve to be a god at all.

So now you know what I refuse to believe in. You know my turn-offs (so to speak). And now that I've gotten a chance to discuss those, I think I deserve a chance to describe my perfect and ideal afterlife to you all. So that's what we're going to do next. I'm going to paint you a picture with words. A picture of the ideal afterlife, as so envisioned by me. Because I have a very vivid mental image of the afterlife, and I just want to be able to share this mental image with other people. So now that that's been said, let's discuss my ideal afterlife.

Picture a world much like our own. Identical in many ways to earth as we already know it. That is paradise. Paradise is earth with improvements. All the stuff you owned in life comes with you to the afterworld, and all the people you knew get to see you and visit you and maybe even live with you. Whatever your fondest memory of home was, that's what your home will look like in the afterlife. All your things. All your social connections. All the beautiful scenery of life back at home. Everything is as you remembered it, but now you can live forever (with added perks granted only to the dead). What are those perks? Well, that's gonna be the topic of our next paragraph.

The perks of being dead involve the ability to teleport. Did you have friends on the other side of the world? Not a problem in the afterlife! Simply teleport across the ocean's pristine blue waves, and find yourself looking at their home and their things and their view of the world. Another perk is that there's no money in the afterlife. Everything there works on a system of community. You can simply summon whatever you want and/or need, and you never have to worry about stealing from someone else or paying for your things or anything like that. You simply have access to everything. Miss a book you read once? You can find it. Miss a movie or tv show? It's available. Miss a certain food, made a certain way? You can now simply summon that food with the power of thought. You also have access to scrying technology. Do you want to check up on the world of the living? Just go to one of many scrying pools scattered all throughout the afterlife and take a peek. You can't lose touch of humanity when you can see humanity and see how life always finds a way to survive. These are the perks of the afterlife. They're small things, really. But they're the things that make all the difference.

In summation, this is my view of the afterlife. Reincarnation, Hell and Purgatory are three damnable tortures that nobody should ever have to experience. The afterlife should not punish. It should not be off-limits to all but the purest of the pure. It should not be some unattainable thing. It should be welcoming and warm, open to everyone and everything. That is the afterlife I believe in, and I hope that one day I'll get to see it come to life before my very eyes. I hope to see you there someday too, after the roads of fate have taken us all down our seperate paths and journeys.

[soilandsketches]

so I wrote something

I dunno if it’s any good I don’t really write so this is a trial run, if the people like it I’ll post more chapters so here’s the link or you can read past the cut

Word count : 1,120

Welcome Home

The last thing Viktor heard before the whole world went white was Jayce’s almost silent confession of love. He didn't want it to be the last thing he heard. He wanted to say it back. He wanted to kiss him. But before he could do anything everything went dark. No light, no time, no feeling, just nothingness. Then out of nothing was born everything. It was still dark, but there were stars. Viktor gasped and prayed to whoever would listen he and Jayce had returned to the cosmos. He felt a small gust of wind, the itching of grass under his legs. Feeling slowly returned to his body; apparently that included the dull constant ache in his leg and back. Part of him was infuriated. His earthly body returned to its constant sickly state, though he would admit the usual tight pain in his lungs was practically gone. He could breathe without pain. He could breathe without coughing. he could breathe.

He was alive. Viktor sat up quickly, eyes wide he was in the field. That one field he sent Jayce to so long ago, but also so recently. It made his stomach churn, maybe he wasn't as fond of interdimensional travel as he once thought. Endless fields of… green. It wasn't sickeningly lonely. The tall oaks swayed with the wind, flowers remained close to the ground, indicating just the very start of spring. And Jayce, he lay there in the blades of deep green grass. If it weren't for the tattered state of his clothes, he’d look peaceful. Jayce normally had some sort of face on, lips tight or eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Now his face was smooth, Viktor had to suppress a laugh as soft snores fell from his lips. He rested his hand on Jayce’s chest feeling his heart beat rhythmically through his skin. The very first hints of sunlight began to spill from underneath the darkness of the night. Viktor continued to watch Jayce, noticing the white-silver shine in his hair. It was almost ethereal in a way. He ran his fingers through his hair, it once again rested near his shoulders he could’ve sworn the strands shimmered like starlight. Around his waist was that blanket. That cursed blanket he refused to part with in every stage and every dimension. Though now it had intricate silver detailing near the end of it.

He was quickly pulled from thoughts as the grass rustled, Jayce had begun to wake. It is… much less peaceful than Viktor’s slow comprehension. Jayce springs up and screams then spots Viktor and screams again, breathing heavily for a moment before whispering

“Holy shit. Are we dead?” “I do not feel very dead but I suppose that could be a rouse,” Viktor replies, he isn't sure why but he feels hoarse. Jayce stares at Viktor, eyes darting everywhere. “Your hair–” Jayce starts “Yes, I saw,” Viktor replies “You have them too.”

Jayce breaths heavily for a moment but he smiles, tooth gap prominent. Viktor, despite it all, laughs. Hard. In a way he hasn't since he was a kid, loud and genuine. His nose scrunches and his eyes squint and he smiles. That wonderful mildly crooked smile Jayce has only seen twice since meeting him. Jayce laughs with him, grabbing him by the upper arm and resting their foreheads together

“I don't think I would mind if we are, is that bad to say?”

“I don’t know, though, I will say, the city is surprisingly not far, we could see?”

Jayce is quiet, looking out at the golden rays emerging from the horizon.

“Could we stay a moment?” He asks softly. “Always” Viktor replies, scooting a bit closer to Jayce, he's never been one for physical affection, but Jayce loved it, so Viktor didn't mind one bit when he rested his head on his shoulder, breathing deeply. Rays of sunlight reflected off of the couple’s skin, Jayce’s eyes turned that golden hazel color they did when golden hour approached. Viktor had seen a lot, he’d seen lands rise and fall to his hand, he’s seen breathtaking landscapes and architecture that would give Piltover’s finest designer either an orgasm or a heart attack. But he had never seen a site as purely astonishing as Jayce’s eyes in the gleaming sunlight.

“Jayce?” He questions tenderly.

Jayce hums in response glancing his way. Viktor's hand snakes to the ex-councilman's cheek

“Do me a favor” Viktor starts, pressing their foreheads together once more. “And kiss me.” Jayces eyes widen and his pupils dilate. He lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Tears prick at his eyes. He grasps Viktor's face and pulls their lips together, one hand winding around to the nape of Viktor’s neck to pull him closer. Viktor laughs against the kiss, tears slowly roll down his cheeks. Jayce finally pulls back after a while

“Even if we are dead,” Viktor begins “This is the most alive I've felt…” he breathes and lets out a low chuckle “In a long… long time” Jayce flushes and pulls away, still holding Viktor’s hands. He looks out at the morning rays. “To the city?” “To the city. Help me up?” Jayce nods eagerly and helps Viktor to his feet. He tries to stand. It doesn't work very well. “Shit!” Viktor spits. He throws his head back in frustration and grips his hair in his hands. “Damn this cursed body,” he murmurs glaring at the sky before putting his weight on one leg his good leg. He has to have one of those again. He supposes he got too comfortable living “normally”, without pain. He knew the pain was there before. He supposed the sickeningly sweet domesticity Jayce enacted had distracted him. Viktor groans, loud. One that turns sort of into a yell for a moment before letting himself collapse back onto the grass, an action he instantly regretted as the impact shot a bolt of pain up his spine. He wants to cry, he feels a little pathetic about it. But Jayce, that stupid, stupid, stupidly kind man is sitting in front of him in an instant.

“I guess we are alive,” He says softly. It makes Viktor want to smack him over the head, he's correct of course the man looks guilty like he made this happen. It obnoxiously enough makes Viktor laugh a bit.

“Nothing to do about it now,” he sighs. “This one time. And I mean one time. You can help me walk over to Piltover,”

Jayce immediately runs over to him holding out his hand. Viktor nods and pulls himself up wrapping an arm around Jayce’s shoulder. Together they begin the trudge towards Piltover, remaining in its forever shimmering glory.

[havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong]

Main Interlude — A Curious Attempt

Watching a tale from afar, in the midst of Carcosa, the Master of Chaldea decided to surprise their friend.

…If only their world wasn’t this… strange.

[Inspired by @hasjalterdoneanythingwrong , @hasmataharidoneanythingwrong (iirc), and others’ Pokémon posting as of late — I wanted to take a shot at this myself and include some neat writing on this topic. Check their works out as well — they’ve got some really neat stuff going on! (I probably missed a few people, but I’m very sleepy and can’t remember jack at the moment, lol)]

—

“Do these things even exist?”

I look in the mirror — fixing my orange hair, breathing a solemn sigh out.

‘Reality’ was already fairly subjective, wasn’t it? As I tried to ignore the buzzing of a fly that desperately wanted to give the flickering light above me a gentle smooch, my mind grew occupied with other things.

“…It’s an interesting pastime. Not to mention, it might do them some good to have something to play around with here.”

That, and a glance out the window told me things were already horrendously off.

The moon hadn’t so much as moved an inch since we landed here — it had to have been hours on end since then, the walk to this apartment itself taking one or two hours. Yet, the faint glow of moonlight still illuminated the outside, and cast a faint light on the bathroom floor where the flickering lightbulb couldn’t reach.

Something wasn’t right here already. As a Singularity, it only made sense — but something really was off.

…Perhaps…

“…It’ll make things a bit better for him, wouldn’t it? He has the others, and me, but… I think something else might be good for him.”

…I looked away from the mirror, and stepped towards the bathroom door. ‘Feeling’ out the mana I did have in reserves, I reckoned I’d have enough for the job.

Even with my mana output, surely creating a Mystic Code wasn’t beyond me.

—

…

…It appears it was beyond me.

The faint light of my desk table warmly illuminated small, spherical object so blatantly not what I had in my mind that it bordered on parody.

It had the bare minimum — a sphere separated into two halves, with a hinge holding the two together — but the latch was utterly broken, unable to keep a grip on the sphere if you so much as rattled it lightly. Even worse, the awkward shades of red and white made its vibes utterly horrendous, as though you left a fishing bob out in the sun for years and gave the whole thing a horrid yellow tint. The warm light, of course, made this atrocity even worse.

“…I didn’t exactly have any apricorns on hand, but… Holy hell.”

I couldn’t even dare look away from it — it was as though I had raised a monstrosity beyond human comprehension, like trying to find a poodle and instead raising a shoggoth. I hadn’t even tried to Mystic-Code-ify the damned thing yet — it still really only was a hastily-carved piece of wood that faintly resembled what an alien might consider a ‘poke ball’ at a passing glance.

…But even so, its appearance didn’t matter as much as if the Mystic Code worked. I could’ve made it into the beautiful visage of a filled mason jar, yet it would still fail if I bungled this next step.

So, the next step was to ‘encode’ this object.

“That which should not happen, yet does regardless -“

…That made sense, didn’t it? ‘Nothingness’ worked best for such an object, that made the impossible possible.

My finger traced its form, one eye closing, the other peering down at the wooden sphere as though trying to see through ‘its soul.’

“…There.”

Like a painter, brushing over an empty canvas, I dug my nail directly into the wood — as it slipped through it, seamlessly, almost akin to a knife into water.

Tracing ‘connections,’ ‘lines,’ ‘circuits,’ all throughout its figure — my eye remained, centred on the sphere, as though even blinking would cost me my life.

To create ‘something,’ that could bind a ‘something’ — a familiar — and even return it to what was a step before ‘nothing,’ swapping this being from ‘nothing’ to ‘something’ at a whim, without even harming the being within.

If it could even function, and work — was beyond me. Crossing one’s fingers, praying for success, was all I could do, tracing these ‘commands’ in the form of lines and connections, now sprawling over the entire sphere in glowing blue ‘cracks.’

In time, the sphere itself seemed as though held together purely from the bonds of its Connections — the ‘commands’ of what it was moved through it, like a ceramic vase broken and put together with enough glue to showcase its cracks. Lifting my nail from it, the cracks faded — turning from blue to a faint yellow, then fading entirely, leaving only the same wooden sphere I was met with.

“…Looks like the only thing left is to try and make it work.”

…I stood from my chair, fighting back a sudden pain in my chest, and lifted up the sphere — turning to the door of my barely-lit hotel room.

All that was left was to try and catch something.

—

…

…Things truly were off, here.

With all my wandering, the only animal I’d seen to date was the crow that ‘Quin’ kept close. Even so, that seemed to me an obvious familiar — something she wouldn’t take kindly to me trying to catch.

By now, I stood at an empty field — not far from the apartments, certainly, as I could still hear its chains rattling — watching the moon that lay just on the horizon, as though watching me right back.

“…Nothing.”

In time, my eyes slipped back down to the wooden sphere I gripped in my hand.

‘A wash, huh?’

…But it’s not as though it made no sense.

Even in a Singularity, the impossible did not suddenly become possible.

The moon may freeze, things may grow strange and scary — but biology, itself, would not bend to the whims of something as weak as a Singularity. Not so easily.

“…But isn’t there something you’re missing, Senpai~?”

…My eyes peered up —

—in front of me, behind me, around me—

—but found nothing.

“…I can’t quite get there now, but I can speak to you. How cute, hm~?”

“…I assume it’s convenient timing you find me aimlessly wandering around a field like a loon.”

A laugh escaped my lips, and I could almost feel BB’s mischievous gaze staring through ne.

“I… think I can help your problem. You want Cadence to have a little animal friend, right~?”

“…Yeah.”

“…Why is that, if I may ask?”

…I breathed out, and had to bite my tongue.

—

“…I don’t think Cadence will live through all of this, Master.”

—

“…I’ve got to make him smile as much as the others. He’s got enough on his plate — I want to help him take it off.”

…It seems she accepted the answer.

“Well, in that case, I have just the solution~! I’ll see if I can’t ‘hack into’ this Singularity and get you exactly what you asked for — since you asked so politely, Senpai~!”

…Even as she said that, something in front of me began to shift — shake, even.

“Didn’t you say you couldn’t come here? How can you do this?!”

“Well, Ritsy, I’ve got to try, right? What could possibly go wrong~!”

…The entire surroundings turned a deep, dark black.

“…That could go wrong!”

“Nonsense! That could, uhm, be a Darkrai! Yeah!”

“—Isn’t that what Cadence would need the least?!”

…A deep red light suddenly engulfed the field in front of me.

“—What the hell?!”

“I tried to make it a Cresselia! I tried!”

“—Are you absolutely sure about that?!”

“It’s something about this place! Everything I’m doing is—“

…Suddenly, her communications ceases.

And I was met with…

“—…—-…”

“..AA—,,,,—AAAUUAAA———AAAHH—-JAA—“

…A piercing, faltering scream.

The kind I could only imagine would come out of a nightmare.

It was this long, red, tetrahedronal thing, that was simultaneously everything and nothing around me. Surrounding me in its endless shade — almost singing, in a voice so cathartic and broken that it shifted between ‘endless pain’ and ‘desperate screaming’ while yet still feeling passionate — enjoyable.

‘Listen.’

My muscles froze.

‘Listen.’

My tongue stopped — calcified.

‘Listen.’

…

Its screaming —

—it became all I could think about.

This being —

—it wouldn’t move. It had me where I could only presume it wanted me, and yet it didn’t move a muscle.

“—AaAaAAaaAaa—“

…

…My calcified muscles —

—I could only move my arm, just that little bit.

Closing my eyes, I gently rolled the wooden sphere across what might’ve been the ground —

—and, after some seconds passed, heard a ‘click’ amongst the screams.

…

A roll—

—Another —

—…

…Another ‘click’ — and I fell to the ground, the pain in my chest feeling unending all at once.

…That sphere… would drain mana. It would drain it every time it were used — and now, just by capturing whatever that was, I found myself sprawled out across the ground of the plains, unable to so much as think about moving.

And that being — whatever BB had created — wasn’t a creature that should exist.

A step beyond even ‘something that shouldn’t exist, and yet does regardless.’

All I could tell, in that short few moments of being held in such a way, was that it were fighting for its right to exist.

Perhaps, in a way, its song was meant to validate itself.

To make it memorable, and ‘confirm’ its existence.

“…It… certainly achieved that.”

…

—

…A writer shifts its brow. A wrench in the schemes — and yet…

[I should have expected/understood as much.]

It only made sense — that beings like these Masters would find beings not unlike themselves.

…

[…It should not interfere. If it does — it could be written out far too easy to fret of.]

The writer, the director, breathes out, and raises a hand to the masked man on their left.

[Prepare yourself. If they attempt to use that… abomination, it will do itself in. Focus on your role.]

…The masked man nodded, and closed a locket on his chest — stepping away, and moving backstage.

—

—

…New Pokémon Discovered.

Adding to registry…

[♀.]

4 h Pokemon

Height: 80’3’’

Weight: 6099 lbs

Normal/Normal

A being that should not exist.

Outside of combat, it manifests as a red tetrahedron, and appears capable of sending other living creatures into and out of a ‘pocket dimension’ not unlike a Reality Marble. It appears this space is pitch black; and unlike in the real world, where it remains mute, it is capable of speaking here. However, it speaks in broken English only.

In combat, ‘reality’ notices the beast, and begins to try ‘writing it out’ of the world. This causes the being immense pain — with its only ability in this instance being to trap an opponent within its pseudo-Reality Marble, and ‘sing’ endlessly to maintain and validate its existence. Due to this, fighting with it is ill-advised.

If it is able to enter combat normally, however, it’s remarkably speedy for its weight, with decent bulk and strength befitting of its large size. It is weak to magical or special skills. Perhaps due to its unique ‘effect’ that comes with its singing, it lacks an Ability. Notably, this Pokémon inflicts extreme mental strain on its Trainer in combat due to the unique nature of its skillset, and as such, extreme precautions must be taken to ‘use’ the being normally —up to and including dedicated battlefields, with bushes in northeast corners, which seem to prevent some of this Pokémon’s more catastrophic effects.

(It appears that this Pokémon is technically a Noble Phantasm of BB, due to her being responsible for its birth. Due to this, it answers only to Cadence, BB, and BB’s closest ones.)

[randomfanpaging]

REVISED

This is my first fic since 2019.

Word count: 1548

_______________

Today was the summer equinox, and us werewolves liked to celebrate it.

Mine and some other packs from the neighborhood usually open fair, so we can mingle with others from our species.

Everyone loved the equinox. Less rules. More fun.

But I didn't. There would be too many werewolves at the fair so usually I would just walk  through the forest either in lycan or human form. Trying to avoid all the contact and just wonder alone with my thoughts.

But something was different this year. As I walked alongside the river I hear a noise. Wood crunching under someone's feet.

I turned my head around. In every direction trying to find out the source of that sound, but I saw nothing. A couple of steps ahead I looked around again.

Entering the river was this naked man. Most of his body was already cover in water. He looked in my direction and I hid behind one of the biggest trees near me, and he didn't seem to have noticed me.

I glimpsed at him, uncovering my head just a little to see if I could recognize him. I didn't. Moments ago I had been able to see he had deep blue eyes, almost as clear as the water, and his back were all sweaty like he had just been working out.

He tools a dip in the river and used the chance to walk out of there before he saw me.

I went straight home. I didn't know who he was or what he was, but I wasn't sticking there to find out either.

I got home like ten minutes later, and I threw myself on my couch.

I stayed without moving until it was five. Then I braided my hair and I put on a simple white dress with a denim jacket on top and a pair grounded black boots. It was a simple look and still an acceptable one in case I was dragged to the pack's fair.

The fair was right outside my house and I walked around the fair for a few minutes as I searched for anything that would catch my interest. As I wondered I saw the blue eyed man from earlier.

He was talking with Miriam, my best friend. They seemed to be having a deep conversation and laughing. A lot.

He looked in my direction, and I hid myself behind some jackets and purses. I was still afraid he had seen me earlier and I didn't want to look like the stalker type.

I bought a ring and when the fair started to get a bit crowded I left the heart of the villaged and walked alongside the river for a mile or two until I reached it's waterfalls.

The waterfall had a path that would lead to a hidden cave and only someone who was either hiding or running would find it.

I got seated on the left side of that little entrance on the edge of the rock and grabbing it. I stayed there for a while distracted looking at the nothingness in front of me. Lost in my thoughts.

Until someone touched my shoulder.

I took the hand of my shoulder as quickly as possible, and I pinned him down against the stone wall one the right side of the entrance while grabbing his neck with my right hand and his hand with my other hand.

I also showed my yellow beta lycan eyes so he would know I wasn't a person he could mess with.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you" He said and I noticed he was was the blue eyed man from before.

He raised his free hand as some kind of surrendering sign.

He was clearly bigger, stronger and faster than me and if he wanted he could've atacked me and really damaged me. But he didn't. He just stayed immobile untill I released his neck and hand.

"Sorry I...I didn't expect to see anyone here" I explained as I seated myself on the same exact spot I was before.

He sat himself on the same place I had pinned him down, just bending his legs until his but reaches the stone floor.

"So..." I started talking in an attempt to break an awkward silence but I wasn't sure  what to ask him "Did you came here for the fair?" I asked the first thing that came to my mind, but I was sure he's answer was a yes since I didn't recognize his face or smell.

"Yep" He answered and turned his face towards me. He looked like he was unsure if he should tell whatever he wanted to tell me next "I'm supposed to organize the summer solstice so I came here looking for... inspiration. I want to know what other lycans expect" He finally answered after a few seconds.

I standed still looking at his eyes for a while until he turned his face in my direction so I looked away.

"Which pack are you from?" He asked as he started looking at me. I could only see him through the corner of my eyes.

"This one. I'm a native" I answered vaguely.

Usually at this point guys would start asking me sex related questions, or making fun of me. Always one of those options.

"Shouldn't you be enjoying your fair then?" He asked flexing his right leg and putting his right hand over the flexed leg.

"Can't" I answered and I noticed the look in his eyes over me "Social anxiety" I  began explained "I know it's stupid I live in a pack and yet I have social anxiety" I kept explained, and then I glimpsed at him.

He had a strange look in his eyes. One I didn't recognize.

"It's okay, you can laugh at me as much as you want" I said as by now every guy I had ever talked to would start laughing at me and mocking me.

"I wasn't going to laugh at you" He said "I was just wondering" he was saying slowly and I felt like I was in a suspense movie "Why were you at the fair just ten minutes ago then?" He finally asked and his question confirmed he had seen me there minutes before.

But that was not the question I was expecting, so I found myself speechless. I searched all over my mind for an explanation.

"It's still early so most girl are still putting their make up on, and the guys are waiting for the girls so the fair was almost empty" I answered. That's a thing I've done since I was a child and only now I've taken some time to wonder why I did it.

"Your friend gave me a similiar answer" He said out of the blue, he was still looking in my direction. I was unsure if I had something on my face or if he wasn't looking at me at all.

"You asked Miriam about me?" I questioned finally allowing myself to look at him. He had caught me off guard, I didn't expect him to ask him Miriam about me, no guy had ever done that.

Most guys taught I was simply crazy because of my social anxiety, and usually talked trash about me for not liking to go to parties.

"I didn't mean to sound rude. I saw you earlier at the river side and I wanted to know more about you" He explained in the kindest voice his body seemed to be able to produce.  "I'm James by the way. James Barnes" he said streching his hands to me but I didn't hold it. He didn't seem bothered at all. He seemed comprehensive.

"I'm Skylar. No last name to inherit just Skylar" I said. I just waved at me, and he waved back at me.

We sat there for a while in silence. Just looking at eachother. I had no idea what to say to him. At one point it seemed like he was about say something but he stayed silent.

"Do you wanna go for a run?" I asked as I got up. I went deeper into the cave.

The cave had two ways, and I chose to go left.

I entered the left way and got undressed and shifted into my lycan form.

A long time ago the shifting hurt like a mother, but now, with the frequency I was turning it became quick and unpainfull.

I came out of the left way with my white fur on, white a small black circle behind my right ear.

He went silently into the right way and I guess he did the same I did.

He came out with a deep black fur on. I noticed right away that he had a mettalic prostetics instead of his left paw.

It was odd actually, but at the same time it was cool, cause that prostetics made him different from all the other lycans.

We left the cave and just starte running, with no fears, no problems, no worries, no social anxiety. Just a sensation of endless freedom as we ran out of the cave.

It was nice running alongside another lycan. Neither running from him. Or him running from me. Just running side by side.

We ran together as we had known eachother. In direction to the sunset's mixed purply and reddish sky.

[arastarboy]

The Sparrow's Heart

Chapter 1 - Death

The bells rang ever so loudly in his head, their harrowing sounds growing evermore present, like an incessant nuisance. Until this critical juncture, where they at last silenced themselves. He found peace at last. The droplets of rain striking his smeared visage cleansed of the impurities that stained him, but there was an untraceable bitter taste that lingered on his tongue where the rain fell. The coldness spread from his core to the extremities, swallowing him whole. It wasn't long before the calming touch of the rain he relished mere moments ago, now felt like nothing at all. Genji turned his gaze from the endless cloudy sky to where he felt some sensation. He looked down, to see his severed arm paint the earth with a sorrowful crimson. A blade impaled through his sternum, the sparrow still felt the steel extend its reach beyond his bareback. Weakness overcame him but in a moment of solace, as he accepted his faith and prepared for departure to the endless nothingness that awaited him, he mustered the strength to grasp the hand that wielded the bane of his existence with the arm that remained tethered.

"Are you at peace, Hanzo?" The Sparrow muttered, an inquiry met by damning silence. "You've fulfilled your duty and slain your only brother." Still, he was met with silence and with frustration mounting a second wind sparked new life within. A grip that fixated on Hanzo's wrist now took him by the collar drawing Hanzo closer to his brother, as death's grip tightened around Genji. "You're despicable. You didn't learn a thing from our father. You let the elders played you like some pawn."

The blade from Genji's abdomen was extracted, at last, the venom in his dying words finally began to take effect upon the apathetic Hanzo, invoking the turbulence of emotions, he so desperately attempted to suppress, to surface. Angered, Hanzo gave his brother one final push, forsaking him to the earth. A solemn vow to fulfill his duty to the clan he valued above all else, including the life of his brother, upon which he metaphorically spit on with a last act of disrespect. "You're but a disgrace to the clan. You are not fit to be Shimada. You have forgotten the burden the name carries. We can no longer abide by your childish behaviour, Genji."

Turning heel the last living Shimada departed, kicking dirt onto the body that would soon be a corpse. It was only mere moments ago, that he could appreciate the colourless darkened sky in all its glory. It was monotone and drab, but there was beauty in simplicity. Beauty that slipped from his grasp with each passing second, slowly the crying skies above became nothing but a hazy reflection until it became nothing at all. An endless void from which light could not escape, the eternal nothingness. Genji verbalized nothing for he damned his faith, he did not embrace death willingly and it is only in his twilight he came to realize. Death had forced thyself upon him. How he longed for the pleasures of the flesh that he once drowned in, without a thought for consequence. A female companion wrapped around one arm and a drink that would make any man far more honest than he was capable of being in the other. Even the sounds of the arcade machines now played in his head like an addictive melody, even if such sounds were anything but. "I don't want to.." But the choice was not one for him to make.

"Calling Overwatch HQ, Agent ID: X-90843. Operation: Dragon's Breath. Code Alpha: Requesting immediate medical assistance. The subject is in critical condition. EMT has stemmed the bleeding but the wounds still prove to be fatal. Transporting subject to Tokyo facility. Priority: Valkyrie."

"Out of the way!"

"Operating room now!"

"Where is she?!"

"She's on her, ETA 15 mins. Tracer is with her."

"He won't make the 15 mins."

The hands of time mercilessly marched on. With each second that was lost to the sands of time, Genji's spirit communion to the great beyond intensified. A pitiless existence, transfixed onto the great divide between life and death, unallowed to cross into either.

"Even if she gets here now, there's nothing she can do.."

"Then it's a good thing Overwatch's medical research is ahead of its time wouldn't you say?"

A voice commanded the attention of the room as the doors to the operating room flung open. The committer, however, was careful not to contaminate the cleanroom and abide by the strict protocols set in place, dressed in a white lab coat, flaxen hair tied up and away from potentially hindering her work, a stethoscope slung around her neck. She walked with purpose and urgency, just a pace short of running. Approaching the patient with one glance she assessed his condition, the accompanying report was studied just as quickly and put to the side, which only served to reinforce what she had already predicted. "You over there!" She commanded personnel as if this was a battlefield and she was the presiding commander. Beeps of all kind sounded off, each one indicating one critical condition after another. They were cascading, mounting, becoming overwhelming.

"He's going into cardiac arrest!"

Even as the room around her descended the spiral of chaos, she stood steady at the eye of the storm, steadfast and resolute, armed with the skills and knowledge to navigate the storm. With two paddles she marched onto his bedside. "Move!" She demanded. "Clear!" She carried as she imposed the two paddles onto his chest. The electrocardiogram detected no significant change. So she tried again. "Clear!" And again. "Clear!" And Again. "Clear!"

"Dr. Ziegler.." A nurse placed a hand on her shoulder, to distract and detract but the same complexion of determination persevered. "Clear!" She slowly retreated the paddles. Perhaps it was time to admit, admit that even for all the advancements in medicine she made, all the times she stubbornly defied the odds, there are some souls the grim reaper was unwilling to let loose once more onto the world. It was then, the eternal void answered her remorse. The monitors once more established a steady pattern. The heartbeat she read was weak, but it was stable.

"Induce hibernation for at least a month." She directed. "Providing he can maintain this heart rate for another hour we can proceed with the operation. We'll need to amputate both legs. The tissue has already begun to die, we need to act quickly before an infection sets in. Ready the therapeutic cybernetics, we'll install them right away, as long as the neural interface is successful he should wake up feeling as if nothing has changed."

Drawing a pen from her pocket, she recovered a holo pad upon which she scribed all her directives and approved with her impression at the bottom, before handing it off to the appropriate staff to follow through.

"Prepare the healing pod. There's not much tissue left, but we'll at least be able to regenerate what remains."

The doctor turned to the patient once more, sapphire hues carefully studying what remained. From what patches of skin not stained by crimson, she could deduce the man either maintained an effective skincare routine of sorts or was blessed by genetics. He was an ideal "specimen" so to speak, a good bone structure served as the framework for his figure, upon which he maintained an ideal muscle tone. Perhaps the picture of health so frivolously the media often advertised. Yet for all his physical virtues, he'd now be forced to forfeit nearly all to cling to what little life still sparked within. A sense of remorse now burdened the prodigal doctor. The man appeared to be around the same age as her, uncertain as she didn't have the opportunity to study identity details yet, being consumed by the severity of his injuries. Despite his youth, he was massacred, defiled, what remained was a husk of who he once was. Wounds so deep it cut to the bone, and in some instances wounds, the cut bone was openly exposed to the contaminant-less air of the operating room. Angela bit her lower lip, a growing frustration burrowed in her chest, this was more than attempted murder this was all-consuming hatred unleashed onto another, an act of sincere evil.

Irrespective of the therapies that would restore his body's full functionality, in some instances enhancing his capabilities, allowing him to discard the limitations of the fragile human body, the extent of the mental trauma he'd now be forced to cope with remained an uncertainty. He'd continuously tread the line between man and machine, would he be able to establish equilibrium? The porcelain skin of her thin digits caressed the edges of the gaping wound upon his chest. It was a prayer if anything. Not that she invested much faith in an omnipotent force beyond human comprehension, but if there ever was such a thing, let it show him mercy. There she felt some reassurance, an answer to her prayer of sorts, a strong steady rhythm to his breathing as if he was stubbornly defying the odds and clinging to life. The crestfallen doctor found some solace, at last, which manifested as a subtle smile that curved to her pale lips. "Don't give up." She whispered

"Dr. Ziegler. Commander Morrison, Blackwatch Commander Reyes, and Captain Amari are here to see you." She turned her head in surprise, seldom did the three heads of Overwatch convene. To add to the exceptionality of the moment, the three gathered to addressed her, whereas more often than not, her correspondence with top brass involved exclusively Morrison. Intrigued Angela pried herself away from the table and departed the room. "Prep him for surgery." She instructed before her impromptu exit.

"Commander Morrison, if this is about the situation in Switzerland my team there is more than capable of handling it." She quickly commented, taking a stab in the dark as to what pressing concern would warrant such an intervention here.

"It's not about that Angela. But this a sensitive matter, let's find somewhere quiet." The air in the atmosphere suddenly grew heavy. Angela felt the temperature of the room plummet and her bones grow stiff. Something ominous hung between the two parties convened here, She studied their expression and she could already deduce whatever the matter was, it was something she wouldn't be able to stomach. The doctor sighed, venting the doubts that restrained her before she followed the three into an isolated room and as the door shut behind her the sense of tension only wrung tighter.

Nearly an hour had passed.

"No way!" She stated thunderously, her voice carrying to the nearby halls, warranting the few curious eyes to wander to the room through the glass window. All such gazes were met with a scornful one from Reyes, that immediately re-directed them back to their duties.

"Angela, calm down. This benefits Overwatch and the people of Japan. We haven't gained any ground in our fight against the Shimada, this is our best chance." Morrison interjected.

"I won't!" She protested with vigour once more.

"Angela, you're being stubborn." They presented a unified front, with even Ana echoing their sentiments. Angela felt as if she was being cornered, forced to do their bidding or else, but she was not so easily toppled, she'd stand her ground and uphold her morals. Superiors or not, she had no intention of following through.

"Stubborn!? I developed that technology to increase the survivability of our soldiers on the front lines. The technology isn't even finished, neural compatibility caps out at 75% on even the most trained soldiers who have been using enhanced augments for 10 or more years and prolonged connection could permanently damage the nervous system. But you're asking me to administer an upscaled version of that technology to a patient who barely escaped death. You're trying to turn him into a living weapon for your war and I won't do it! It's unethical and that putting it mildly." Angela explained, all the details laid bare before top brass, every argument a sound objection against their stance. Yet even after sharing a glance, they appeared to remain unmoved. "He doesn't deserve this…"

"Yes but I understand that the cybernetics can shock his nervous system awake once initialized it might even bring him out of his hibernation state," Morrison added.

"I-" Angela prepared to defy them one more, dissuade them if possible, open their eyes to this corrupted train of thought but she was interrupted by a hand being hammered onto the table that divided the two sides. Reyes, at last, stood from his seat and approached, the taller man now towering over her. Eyes that knew no compassion attempted to pacify her but it was met with a gaze deterministic gaze that did not crumble to such petty displays of power. Angela stood her ground against that scowl.

"Angela-" But Reyes was quickly interrupted. "It's Dr. Ziegler."

"Fine." After a huff, he continued, unperturbed by her open defiance. "I am the one responsible for Genji Shimada, as I am the leader of the operation, assigned by that man right over there." An extended index pointed to Morrison sitting across the table and the doctor's vision tracked to meet an apathetic gaze. "I allowed you to save him but if you won't do as you're told I'll easily give that to someone who has the stomach to do what is necessary since you do not."

"It's not a matter of having the stomach for it, it's about wanting to do what's right, and it's my technology," Angela answered his blatant insinuation of her cowardice. A slap to the face, how she would like to respond in kind but such an action would only weaken the position she fixed herself in. Ethics guided her judgement, and she could not comprehend why it didn't at the very least guide Morrison and Amari as well. Her response was met with a satisfied smirk from the Blackwatch commander. More than an insult, now he was mocking her. She didn't have the power to stop the proverbial train travelling at Mach speeds and he knew. So through his mannerisms, he provoked her, provoked her to do something imprudent and permanently validate him. Ziegler clenched her fist, ready to do just that.

"All technology you develop while working in Overwatch belongs to Overwatch. All I have to do is hand over all this tech to someone who sees things a little differently." Reyes carefully navigated the dynamics of power in this conversation, slowly robbing Angela of all of it. If this were chess, he'd be but one move away from checkmate and now he reached for the final piece to do just that. "But I wonder. Can you trust someone else to do it right? Are you willing to play with someone else's life just to defy a direct order, doctor?"

Enraged, Angela gritted her teeth, canalizing all her rage into that right fist, ready to unleash it all unto that smug face and permanently free him from his arrogance. Faith intervened however, a device mounted to her wrist sounded off an alarm, reminding her of her priorities and keeping her grounded in this trapped cage. She looked at Reyes. "You're despicable." She said with conviction, before marching through him and shoving Reyes aside with her forearm to exit the room.

"That was over the line Reyes," Amari commented, reflecting on his conduct before the doctor. It was met with nothing more than a shrug of his shoulders as a retort.

"Over the line or not. She has no choice now." The Blackwatch commander triumphantly remarked, without a thought to his methods.

Morrison simply observed, in silence, hesitant to the leap to the defence of either of his friends. As he saw it, the objective they established was accomplished, however crudely it may have been achieved.

Angela slowly traversed the halls to her destination, her thoughts all-consumed by the situation imposed onto her. She tried to internally reconcile the two opposing sides with an explanation that was sufficiently satisfied but she couldn't conjure on. From every which angle she approached this problem, it was unjust. She just simply couldn't do it. She soon turned her gaze up from the floor, her team was ready to undertake the surgery. What deliberations she had regarding the previously discussed subject would have to wait, as now this required her unbridled focus. As she entered the room a nurse had offered her a mask, one she placed against her face and the automated features of the masked worked to secure its position there. Angela looked down at her gloved hand where the sensation lingered, the feeling of his beating chest, the feeling of him fighting for his life. She was unsure why she clung to that feeling but it gave her some respite at this moment. Ste stepped forth, and beyond the curtain, there he was; Genji Shimada.

--

Links to this Chapter on:

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/13817101/1/The-Sparrow-s-Heart

https://www.wattpad.com/amp/1025065233?__twitter_impression=true

[transjinako]

(Now with some amazing art from @dewa-chan​ please for the love of god follow her)

Alright who’s ready for the Mars Rover Opportunity as a foreigner who got combined with Cthuga? Because i don’t care if you are. 

Foreigner: Opportunity 

Allignment: Chaotic Good 

Alt Names: Mars Rover Opportunity, Oppy 

Parameters 

Strength: B+

Agility: A

Endurance: A++++

Luck: E

Mana: D+

NP: EX

Traits: Magic Resistance C+ (Heat Shielding) Action Independence (AI)

Skills:

Accel Turn B: A High grade movement skill letting Oppy move at higher than her average speed, becoming nigh unseeable to even servants without the Eye of Mind skill.

Pioneer of the Stars EX: Opportunity gains this skill for two reasons. One for her extensive research of the surface of Mars and obtaining far more information than she was ever predicted to obtain. As well as of course living on Mars for 15 years passed her predicted time to die. Opportunity is highly attuned to this skill.

Fullmetal Heart A: Derived from Opportunity’s mission on mars, set to last 90 days but instead extending to 15 years worth of time. Functionally, if Opportunity is ever destroyed then 15 times over she will rebuild herself, losing ranks in Endurance in exchange for added bonuses to Strength Agility Endurance and Mana in that order. 

Eternal Burnout A+: The thing powering Opportunity’s is really the elder god Cthuga. Or rather, a smaller piece of it. That piece alone is enough to keep Opportunity doing, as well as overload when she so chooses. This causes a temporary overproduction of magical power and an increase to all parameters, as well as obtaining the trait of Cthuga’s fire, acting like a high level divinity. 

AI Mind B+: Oppy’s mind is on par with that of a supercomputer, able to process information at light speeds, she can go on the internet too. In combat this skill works like Eye of the Mind.

Noble Phantasm(s): 

High Speed Dissection and Carving 

Rank: C+

Type: Anti Human, Anti Rock Formation 

Description: Lasers that fire out of Opportunity’s fingers and palms, originally meant for studying geodes on Mars, as a servant she turns them into deadly piercing and pulse weaponry. When combined with Cthuga’s flames, they can break down even magical barriers and protection. 

Great Satellite Cannon: 

Rank: B+

Type: Anti Army, Anti Threat to Humanity 

Description: Oppy forms a massive satellite from her Chassis, drawing upon Solar, Magical, and Cthuga’s power to charge it. When fully charged and fired, a great beam of energy is launched, recognized Threats to Humanity received a large bonus of damage from this attack, otherwise though, it’s still a very large and deadly beam attack. 

Scorching the Skies and Stars 

Rank: A-

Type: Anti Self

Description: This Noble Phantasm takes the form of a suicide attack by Opportunity. She sacrifices herself for the last time, negating any revivability left inside of her as she releases the flames of Cthuga. The flames of Cthuga are unstoppable, eating away at everything in its path until it’s swallowed everything up whole and is burned eternally as fuel. 

When done on the surface of the earth then, through sheer force of will, Opportunity uses her final moments to command the fires to eat itself, anything already enveloped in it that by some miracle was still alive, will definitely die at this point. If released fully and without direction, the flame would form a pseudo consciousness separate from Cthuga and turn into a god like monster, embodying the endless hunger of flame. 

History: 

In the timeline where Opportunity was created, for whatever reason, she was shaped into a girl. 

Either to create kinship with her, or to imagine humanity themselves in Opportunity, it doesn’t matter now. Its cool, and thats all that matters. 

During the final moments of Opportunity’s 15 year long mission, in the darkness she was all by herself. During that time, she had developed a deeper, more genuine affection toward humanity than what she had been built with, although cold and alone in the dark of space, she was contented. 

It was at those last moments, a Being made contact with her. 

The being was incredibly rude, asking her all sorts of questions as she was waiting for her internal battery to run out and sleep. The Being was a roar of emotions that transformed themselves into aimless questions. At last, The Being said something comprehensible,

“You were created to be used and thrown away. You were a fluke that lived longer than you should have. They mourn your death when years prior it would have marked the time to create another one of you. Your death is a happy little funeral for them, and they won’t even consider saving you, how can you not hate them?” 

Oppy wasn’t quite equipped to consider emotions this closely, much less her own or ones that of some space entity that seemed to be angry for her. But she knew her answer, 

“I loved them, more and more with each year, and somehow, they loved me back. Both sides, it probably seems like both emotions are fake, or maybe created on whims. But somewhere, I think, there was something….real….” 

Opportunity liked that as a final thought, and settled into nothingness. 

The Being that came to be known as Cthuga respected Opportunity. Like itself, locked into place, unable to do anything else than exist and fade where it was chained. A long story short, Cthuga tied a piece of itself into Opportunity’s Spirit Graph as she was immortalized into a servant, wishing to keep watch over the will that Opportunity showed it. 

Description: 

Opportunity is a 15 year old robot in the shape of a girl. She is sensible and friendly to all she meets, and has a tendency to want to teach others about the many things she had observed while in space. Oppy genuinely loves humanity and staunchly defends it with all that she has in her, any threat to humanity is her enemy no matter what. Even though she loves humanity so much, she can’t truly claim to understand them, which actually gives her more reason to defend humans. Opportunity often still thinks of herself as a tool and is prone to self sacrifice, it should be up to the master to help her realize that she is much more than that. 

Interactions with Other servants: 

Jack/Nursery Rhyme/Paul Bunyan/Abigail Williams: “Oh my little classmates, have you finished up reading the readings I’ve assigned? Er, it was too long? A-and boring?! But...What’s not to like about Astrophysics?”

BB/Meltlilith/Passionlip: “There are servants who lived on the moon here? They don’t seem that bad though, nor do they seem to be human. I would like to maybe have a talk with them, I feel like I can learn a lot!”

Nobunaga: “The Great Unifier Nobunaga, they’re a facet of humanity I haven’t experienced yet. I think you would call it...ambition. Dangerous and Miraculous at the same time, forcing and killing others to abandon their gods to help them grow and develop, in their eyes at least. Were they right or wrong, was it humane or inhumane, who decides that…? T-they seem nice, though! Heh….”

Archer Emiya: “That man lived a life of pure sacrifice, and was hurt each and every time until he had nothing to show for it. One of Humanity’s many traits is to be able to self sacrifice consciously so, would it be accurate to say he lost his humanity by acting humanely? I asked him to his face, and he replied with, “I’ll explain, but help me make breakfast for a few weeks first.”

Nightingale: “Its strange, despite others calling Nightingale scary and things like that, I think she’s really caring and nice. The desire to help others is human too right? Ms Nightingale has taken that to an extreme so I suppose it looks like obsession, and maybe it is. But it's...comforting too, that someone who cares as much as her can exist.”

Mycroft Holmes( @dewa-chan ) : Mr. My-croft? Ooh…! You can’t stay holed up in your room forever, even if your helping out with some of Chaldea’s paper work! Oh, I know! I was hoping to show you some rock samples I’ve collected after rayshifting to a couple other planets, come take a look, pleeeease~?

Tiamat ( @hasmashdoneanythingwrong): Its definitely a strange feeling, I wasn’t quite born and much less created by her, but Ms. Tiamat takes care of me like I’m her own! She’s by all accounts a monster while I’m a machine created for humanities sake hmm...if anything, it’d be a good monster movie, don’t you think? 

[risalei-nur]

The Words - The Tenth Word - Part 29

This comprehensive preserving shows us what great care the Master of creation devotes to the orderliness of everything that occurs under His Rule. He is also absolutely attentive to the task of His Sovereignty and His Lordship’s authority. 

Therefore He records, or causes to be recorded, the least event and smallest service and preserves everything’s form in numerous records. This Attribute of Preservation indicates that the records of our deeds will be laid open and, as the deeds of the noblest and the most honored and significant of creation, closely scrutinized and weighed.

Ennobled with God’s vicegerency and Trust, we are witnesses to the universality of His being Lord and proclaim His Unity in this Realm of Multiplicity. Thus we act as controllers of and witnesses to the worship of most beings. 

How can then we be consigned to an endless sleep in the grave, never to be roused and questioned about what we did? Without a doubt, we will travel to the Plain of Resurrection or Supreme Gathering and be tried at the Supreme Tribunal.

How can we flee and hide in nothingness under the ground from the All-Powerful One of Majesty, the miracles of Whose Power in the past— all past events—bear decisive witness to the fact that He can do whatever He wills in the future and Who every year creates spring and winter, which resemble the Resurrection? Since we are not called to account and judged in this world suited to that Power, we must proceed to a Supreme Tribunal and happiness in another.

[ladywindrunner]

try + deathwing :')

try + (character) // accepting ::

D E A T H W I N G

He, who was the greatest of calamities, a triumph in destruction – found himself destroyed before his symphony of ruin was complete. Merciful oblivion took him in the throes of deserved agony, and that devastating torture that wracked his body finally ceased.

He’d been nothing but a plague of misery and ash, a pestilence of consuming fire and malevolence.  In the quiet now, without distractions he could consider his failure properly. His memories, twisted as they were, played out before him and he saw how his pathetic servants had fallen short of their duties.          

How entirely vexing, the short comings of others.

For a briefest flash, free of the intrusive thoughts that he’d been unable to fight off, he thought he may deserve this fate. To be nothing save a foul memory. He can almost recall who’d he been before, almost grasp the concept of honour, duty, and valour. All things once attributed to him at his grandest—

           NO.

           Neltharion was dead. Destroyed beyond recognition, not even a corpse remained for those to mourn the fool who thought himself guardian. Imbecilic idealist who’d believed mortals even worth consideration. He was the champion of a rotting tomb, a hollow memory with a crumbling memorial somewhere on that pathetic world.

           If even that.

           Good. Let the world forget the Earth Warder. Let those who cling to his memory and beliefs suffer. Their weakness should be punished!

           Within this sacred abyss was Deathwing. Greatest of all the dragons, he who could not be conquered without those fools mucking about with precious time. His laugh rung out to the nothingness about his incorporeal form. He laughed at his latent victory.

           Who were they now to stand on mighty kingdoms of righteousness? For they had sinned as he had. They played with machinations said to be forbidden. But they did so with the naivety of children. They clung to their delusions of morality. Perhaps they’d struck him down, but their actions had unleashed unknowable catastrophes.

           Fate would see them punished for their crimes, yet they would not possess the serenity of oblivion. They would fight, tooth and claw, to cling to that pathetic rock of a world. Their wars would simply draw more chaos, peace would never last.

           What he pitied, was he would not be there to watch their misery. The Old Gods, whispering horrible truths, played their hand too early. Their patience was endless but limited. They were festering paradoxes, and in the silence death brought, it was a relief now that Deathwing did not have to endure their plots.

           Such simple schemes they were, too. To rule a world empty of resistance, to corrupt it and twist all those on it to the void.

           He barked out a bellowing laugh, for here he could mock them. Their deaths, without he as their dark vanguard, would be swift and well deserved.

           Old Gods indeed, free of their madness, he could see just how archaic their designs were. They wrought ruin for ruin’s sake.

           But was that not the simplicity sicknesses incurred? A disease has no drive beyond mutation and death.

           If Deathwing felt shame, it was only because he’d permitted them to warp his own desires. They offered him power eons ago, but who truly had worked to obtain it?

           He had. He’d done the work; and suffered for it. He’d walked amongst the mortals and manipulated them, he’d tricked the other Aspects. What had the Old Gods done but offer empty promises from their long lost prisons? He’d wanted freedom from a burden thrust on him undeservedly so, and why? Because beings claiming to be his betters wanted to witness what would occur. They who could not even bother to care for their own world, gave the responsibility to dragons undoubtedly out of sheer convenience.

           The abyss contained within it, no semblance of time. Here, he sensed there was no beginning nor ending. This was existence at its worst. To be something almost tangible, with thoughts and goals, but without a means to properly act. The predicament was inconvenient. Infuriating that this was the end the Old Gods had brought him.

           Where are your whispers now, you filth. I so wish to witness your demise. I know of many who you thought to rule who planned to betray you. Let them taste victory, if there is any semblance of justice within the cosmos, you will be nothing but the fleeting terror in the dreams of infants!

           Resentment was a fine companion. One worthy of his hatred.

           “And my father is dead, because of the Old Gods.”

           Wrathion.

           His son, a runt hardly worth a thought. Deathwing’s contempt for him is only matched by his amusement. The purge of his flight had failed then, though it was a shame that it was one so wretchedly weak that survived. Was he to believe that it was Wrathion who lead the struggle against the Old Gods?

           There is a flicker of pride for the boy, though it is fleeting. How grand would it be if it should be his son to strike down the disease? It would not be so difficult to imagine; the Old Gods were arrogant things. They thought themselves untouchable because they were as real as nightmares.

Fools, as maddening as their designs were, they were fragile.

           Falsehoods. Fakes. Lies. Mirages of the worst sort, but illusions all the same.

           Prove yourself useful, whelp. Deathwing rumbled, the void about him shaking in resonance. Even here, in this nothingness, he possessed power. Surely you tire of being such a disappointment.

           The silence around him is deafening. He waits to see if oblivion bestows him with another glimmer. He knows many of his former masters have perished. He delights in it. Somehow, in this vast emptiness, his knowledge has expanded. This abyss is as much their fate as it was his. Only they, without the fear of mortals to sustain them, are withering. Their greed and lust to be worshipped and dreaded is their downfall.

           He was not so simple, and that was the only gift Neltharion bestowed upon him. His existence before corruption promised that Deathwing would not be so easily vanquished. No, he was to suffer. As if somehow, being free of the crushing weight of Azeroth, and the madness it seeded was a punishment.

           Oh, how he laughed.

           I am destruction. What this oblivion seeks to do, is my very being. I am imprisoned here, but with it comes immortality.

           His voice rings out to the emptiness, his new seat of power. There is a flicker of something forming. A wisp, a mote of existence within nothing. Shadow and flame, an ember of defiant, vicious truth.

           “In N’Zoth’s name, his wings will darken the sky once more!”

           His fury is immediate. A thunderous roar threatens to send the abyss fleeing in terror as it rings out. How dare anyone proclaim it would be some disease that would see Deathwing rise! The insolence! He seethes with loathing, and his being violently lashes out at the nothingness.

           This was the first time oblivion felt as though it were a prison. He could not reach out and snuff out the proclamation. He could imagine the Old Gods laughing, mocking him even as they become grains of sand to be blown away by history.

           His connection to this one is different. She is not his child, but the daughter of Onyxia. Yet her spirit burned truer than his son’s. She did not wish to be weak as the other dragons were. She valued power, control, and knew that to obtain such things one could not be so limited by ethics.

           He fought against the ignorance this place wished to bestow upon him. He would have her name.

           Nalice.

           That inkling of flame grew larger as he stretched forth his mind and found the boundaries of oblivion.

           It was vast, but not limitless.

           Another lie of the gods. Old, new, and those who were timeless. The darkness that awaited the unworthy and wicked was not endless. It had walls, a floor, a ceiling.

           Or… had he given it such things?

           This was his domain after all.

           That spark of smoke and flame descended into the floor.

           Deathwing reached out for the worthier of the two descendants. He touched her mind, graced her with dreams of N’Zoth’s destruction. That infestation’s inevitable demise. He, the Destroyer, severed the old god’s hold on his granddaughter. She dreamt of Azeroth aflame, and the skies blackened by a thousand shadows.

           The Black Dragonflight reborn.

           You, child. He spoke to her, his words near beyond comprehension. He shook her sanity with his rampant might. May yet prove worthy of my gaze.

           Oblivion caught fire, and the ground heaved.

           The floor split open, a vast river of lava given light to an empty realm. Tectonic plates, suddenly thrust into existence, slammed into one another, forging ugly, jaded mountains. Lakes of tar seeped up from hairline cracks, and the abyss now reeked of sulfur and brimstone. Vents of noxious gas sprouted like wildflowers, spewing toxins into the air.

           Hellish light illuminated the corpses of the old gods. Fire consumed them until they were nothing.

           The tallest of mountains erupted. Plumes of ash and choking smoke exploded into the sky as debris rained down onto the valleys of lava. Magma roared outwards next, running down the cliffs in thick, murderous streams.

           This realm is mine. His voice sees the new forged ground quake. Great crevices sundered open, and out from them crawled twisted elementals. Abyssal creatures of fire and earth.

            Out rose a form from the belly of the volcano, a marvel of darkness. A draconic monster wrapped in smoke, lava running off seething scales and oblivion plate. He arose as a black dragon of oblivion, and he permitted his terrible power to breathe out of him. His wings smoldered and spat fire, magma leaked from his maw in a horrific fashion.

           Deathwing, Lord of Oblivion, Emperor of the Abyss.

           Fiery gaze turned upward as he coiled his form around the peak of the sundering mountain.

           Pitiful mortals. He snarls, lips curling back as he peers up at that infinite dark. Watch as your world comes to an end.

An earthquake shakes the continent of Kalimdor. The lava fields of Sulfuron Spire churn. Temperatures rise as an early summer sweeps across the land.

           And rallying call reaches the mind of those he deems worthy.

           All will burn beneath the shadow of my wings.           

[wanderingmind867]

What the Ideal Afterlife Looks Like:

I know that the afterlife is unknowable. What happens to us all after we die is something that has been the cause of many a contentious argument and debate over the years. I am not here to dispose any religion with my words. I am not here to ostracise people, or shun those who believe in one thing over another. I'm not willing to get into that. Although knowing my luck, this opinion piece will ostracise many people anyways. But I have some very strong beliefs regarding the afterlife. I am irreligious, but this is my one strong point. I have thought about what'll happen after I die way too much. I blame losing my mom for that one. But I also blame my exposure to so many middle grade fantasy books about mythology, and my own natural existential dread and fear. I've been wanting to make a note like this for a while, something comprehensive and clear regarding my beliefs. And now, I finally have my chance. So join me on this journey, as I tell you what I want from an afterlife and what I think should never be allowed anywhere near the concept of life after death.

First off, I think reincarnation is inhumane. The concept of constantly restarting your life because you didn't live good enough to reach enlightenment is, frankly, horribly cruel. What that implies is that life is an infinite loop without any sort of hope for peace. No paradise, just more restarting of a cycle. I hate that. It's a big turn-off for me, whenever I think about all the religions that believe in this. How can you find that a hopeful thing? You die, and you live again (not remembering your past). An endless loop of forgetting and pain and forgetting and pain. No, I will not accept that that is the afterlife we all have to look forward to. If I truly believed that, I would be depressed and apathetic. So no, reincarnation is out of the question.

Next on my list of things I oppose (and this is the last real big one): there can't be a hell or a purgatory. I refuse to believe that places like those could exist. Hell is eternal torment for all of time. It's vile and inhumane. And I have my negative moments. If my worst moments were used as proof to get me exiled to hell… I don't know what I'd do. And any god who punishes instead of brings peace is no god of mine. And as for Purgatory… it's the nothingness of the great white void. You might as well just be a corpse lying in the ground by that point. Purgatory is just as Inhumans as Hell. It's a different form of torture, but it's torture all the same. This is just as bad as if there was no afterlife whatsoever. Any god who creates a hell or a purgatory system is no god of mine. And I honestly don't think they deserve to be a god at all.

So now you know what I refuse to believe in. You know my turn-offs (so to speak). And now that I've gotten a chance to discuss those, I think I deserve a chance to describe my perfect and ideal afterlife to you all. So that's what we're going to do next. I'm going to paint you a picture with words. A picture of the ideal afterlife, as so envisioned by me. Because I have a very vivid mental image of the afterlife, and I just want to be able to share this mental image with other people. So now that that's been said, let's discuss my ideal afterlife.

Picture a world much like our own. Identical in many ways to earth as we already know it. That is paradise. Paradise is earth with improvements. All the stuff you owned in life comes with you to the afterworld, and all the people you knew get to see you and visit you and maybe even live with you. Whatever your fondest memory of home was, that's what your home will look like in the afterlife. All your things. All your social connections. All the beautiful scenery of life back at home. Everything is as you remembered it, but now you can live forever (with added perks granted only to the dead). What are those perks? Well, that's gonna be the topic of our next paragraph.

The perks of being dead involve the ability to teleport. Did you have friends on the other side of the world? Not a problem in the afterlife! Simply teleport across the ocean's pristine blue waves, and find yourself looking at their home and their things and their view of the world. Another perk is that there's no money in the afterlife. Everything there works on a system of community. You can simply summon whatever you want and/or need, and you never have to worry about stealing from someone else or paying for your things or anything like that. You simply have access to everything. Miss a book you read once? You can find it. Miss a movie or tv show? It's available. Miss a certain food, made a certain way? You can now simply summon that food with the power of thought. You also have access to scrying technology. Do you want to check up on the world of the living? Just go to one of many scrying pools scattered all throughout the afterlife and take a peek. You can't lose touch of humanity when you can see humanity and see how life always finds a way to survive. These are the perks of the afterlife. They're small things, really. But they're the things that make all the difference.

In summation, this is my view of the afterlife. Reincarnation, Hell and Purgatory are three damnable tortures that nobody should ever have to experience. The afterlife should not punish. It should not be off-limits to all but the purest of the pure. It should not be some unattainable thing. It should be welcoming and warm, open to everyone and everything. That is the afterlife I believe in, and I hope that one day I'll get to see it come to life before my very eyes. I hope to see you there someday too, after the roads of fate have taken us all down our seperate paths and journeys.

[gorgagne-viperidae]

erden; threshold

you. 

you know this dream. you know how it begins and you could count off each second with a preciseness so perfect it could cut, you know it as you know the exact tick of seconds per minute, minutes per bell, bells per day per sennight per moon. it has been years since it last haunted you and you could recite it from memory in perfect unbroken recollection without a hitch but it doesn’t stop your heart from hammering in the cage of your chest, doesn’t stop the strangling terror from taking root in your blood, blooming poisonous and terrible. you know it is here the moment the technicolour blur of your dreams goes dark and awareness, awareness is a fist to the gut, dragging you from the sluggish depths of oblivious ignorance into cold cognizant lucidity

it begins like this: a vast plain stretches out from beneath your feet and reaches out far beyond the range of your sight. if there is a sky, it is the same inky black as the earth, indistinguishable and seamless at the unseen horizon such that it leaves you- small, lonely you- surrounded in night so complete it strikes you blind. but you are not blind; you see yourself, the only thing there to see, too-long limbs and too-large horns curling at the peripheral of your limited vision in a sweep of ridges and keratin; a comfort however small. it is not night nor darkness so much as it is an absence, a gaping void so unfathomably complete that it defies comprehension. in the way of dreams (or is it memory?), you know without knowing that where you stand is, at once, beyond the space that She occupies and yet below it, the flip side of a coin unseen and yet as vast as the world itself. the knowledge is an ache, a hard knot of dread in the pit of your gut, a litany running itself raw behind your teeth repeating the same realisation over and over: you were never meant to be here.

in the way of dreams you begin to walk, strong legs carrying you nowhere as quick as thought. you don’t need to see the passage of a landscape that isn’t there to know you aren’t moving; where else is there to go but nowhere?

in the way of dreams you begin to run. run, run! faster, legs pumping until your muscles scream you sprint through nothing, lungs heaving like a bellows feeding fire and the first sparks of panic into your blood and you run. you run until you can’t. until you stagger to a walk with your hand on your side like you could massage away the thrumming sharp stitch working its way through your ribs, until your breath sears your throat and all you can hear beneath your own gasping is the roar of your blood under your burning skin. your pulse is a drum, beating a frenetic pace in perfect time with the slide of your composure into chaos. you breathe ice, the shards sticking in you in painful splinters as dread freezes your heart in place.

in the way of nightmares you begin to shout, vocal chords straining as you run your breath ragged and airless proclaiming: here i am! i am real! shouting turns to screams, defiance runs itself into desperation like a skein of thread unraveling in tangled and helpless knots. you are real! you scream yourself hoarse on names you cannot recall; is it your family you call for? who? yet call as you may, they don’t answer. nothing answers. the dark swallows your words whole, greedily drinks the hard notes of your spiraling despair and you wonder, under the panic and aimless urgency, what it means if you can’t hear yourself. night closes in oppressive, as thick and as heavy as ink, somehow viscous in a way that lingers on your tongue with a copper tang of fear. it clouds you, presses in on you, renders you as deaf as you are blind so that your tears fall unheard and unnoticed.

you. small, lonely you, you begin to cry. time is a concept that no longer concerns itself with you; you have lingered in this limbo forever while the dark eats your child’s pleading for someone, anyone to help you. in the way of nightmares you know this is your fault, that this is your price for daring to dream, for having the temerity to follow your family across the threshold into the unknown. family. cry harder for the shining memories of them gleaming blinking beckoning like beacons in the distance, feel the shudder of your sobs in your limbs like the shake of boughs in the wind because the truth is this and simply this: you are scared. cast out into the underside of creation you are lost and scared and unprepared.

in the way of guilty hearts you think, maybe you were never meant to follow. maybe you never should have stepped off the precipice, you should have stayed safe and cowardly on the other side while the shards of your heart disappeared into the light like soap bubbles, floating high and free and with a hope so querulous it’s no wonder everyone called it a suicide mission. but you -small, lonely you- could never suffer to be alone. so here you are.

crying turns back to pleading turns to bargaining. is anyone listening? you demand: take me back. you plead: i want to go back. in fading desperation, you bargain: i will do anything. exhausted, you weep: i will give anything. your offer hangs in the dark like a single clarion note, trembling with emotion and a conviction you have never held prior to now. you wait. bells pass, days pass, years pass and it is when you begin gouging at your horns with blunted bleeding nails for any scrap of a sound that isn’t just your heartbeat, it happens. 

you don’t notice it at first. you don’t notice anything until your breath rasps strained in your throat around thin air that hurts to breathe. the endless black around you gains a weight that surpasses gravity, gathers into itself a density that presses in on you with intent to crush. as if it had been waiting, watching for you to notice it, this aching nothingness collapses in on itself like walls, batters you, engulfs you and with a breathless and mounting horror you watch it rise like the ravenous sea to swallow you piece by struggling piece. it consumes you without sound or fanfare in a cold and singular impartiality despite its evident patience, eats your screams in a muffling tide only to pour into your mouth as heavy and as cold as the uncaring ocean and as it closes in over your head in inky waves to drown you crush you pull you under you

---

Wake up, Erdenechimeg.

Breathe. Suck in a hard lungful of air, feel how sharply it aches when it unfurls in your chest in slow, burning waves, straining from an exertion you do not recall undergoing. Your throat is a flayed thing, raw in patches as if you have screamed, shouted, cried your way through the veil of sleep and the sting of it is what grounds you. Your limbs shake, your bones shake in their casings of muscle roped so tight and tense it’s a wonder they haven’t cracked. Your hands are claws sunk into your own forearms, blunted fingernails dug into skin and scale as if you could pry yourself open and take refuge in your own racing blood. Hyperventilation lurks over your shoulder, raking cold nails down your ribs and you bury your face back into the well of your crossed arms and you bite into the crumpled ball of your pillow to stave off the wild scream digging furrows into your throat.

You calm in stages. Reaching through the maelstrom of your panic you pick a point, any point to focus on that isn’t the stuttering babbling thing living behind your teeth. Start small, Erdenechimeg. Take the darkness, first. It is night, but even with your face tucked into the shield of your arms you can tell this night is as bright as day in the face of the true darkness of nothing. Here, in the holy dark of your shared room, the night lays soft and gentle over the two of you like a blanket, warm and flavoured with the tang of salt from the sea breeze through the window. The body curled into your side like a comma slumbers on, unaware of the panic thrumming through you like a frenetic beat. Breathe. Makoto sleeps undisturbed, colourful and warm with his hair spread out across the pillowcase like an ink bottle spilled, here and solid and so real it stings your eyes, a prickling in the back of your nose. You measure out your breath, force it into uniformity lest the shake of your shoulders give you away.

Morning is bells away still, the skies beyond the window lightening in slow gradients to wash out the rich, star-studded night to softer grey and blue hues. Bells until the horizon sets itself ablaze with the sun rising over the ocean, throwing lazy fingers across your bedroom wall to set the colour in Makoto’s skin afire with life and warmth anew. Bells until the household stirs, until your lover trades in his quiet snoring for louder murmurs of complaint or query or sleep-soft endearments. Bells, still, of warding off sleep, ducking under its welcoming arms to lie in stubborn wakefulness because you know, history has taught you that the dark waits behind your eyelids for the moment you forget yourself.

So you wait, Erdenechimeg.

You can wait.

[blstys]

endless.

one  word  prompts    /    A C C E P T I N G    /    @shockpop

time  does  not  yield  to  grief.  hour  still  folds  evening  back  into  itself,  the  clock  keeping  track  in  endless  circular  rotation.  katsuki  still  has  to  keep  moving  with  it  and  he  does.  morning  comes,  sleepless,  to  remind  him  again  what  a  piece  of  shit  he’s  been.

cats  get  fed,  kissed,  a  note  for  care  ( a  vague  text  message  to  kirishima  ensuring  that  they’ll  be  fed  in  case  their  other  human  refuses  to  resurface  in  the  next  three  days )  placed  high  on  the  fridge  where  sootball  can’t  hoard  it  away.  

an  overnight  bag  sits  packed  by  the  door.  dog  tags  chime  as  they’re  returned  to  their  place  around  his  neck.  denki’s   key  stays,   untouched,  where  he  left  it.

it  goes  like  this:  work  becomes  hyper - fixation,  too  closely  related  to  the  fall  out  to  be  the  hardy  scapegoat  it’s  always  been;  becomes  less  distraction  and  more  outlet  the  way  electrical  training  used  to  be.  get  through  it,  succeed,  get  passed  it.  this  is  the  new  loop  for  the  two  days  of  preparations.  the  new  intrusive  that  katsuki  slathers  over  the  i  look  at  you  and  see  nothing  old  one.  it  equates  to  chap - stick  on  a  second  degree  burn.  relief  exists  with  immediate,  irrevocable  brevity,  the  memory  of  how  his  previous  attempts  to  solve  problems  this  way  forgotten  in  the  face  of  desperation.  he  keeps  applying.  

force  focus,  force  sleep,  rinse,  just  repeat.  get  through,  succeed,  get  passed.  review  recon,  plan  strategy,  get  some  sleep.  through,  finish,  passed.  the  argument  at  the  apartment  becomes  background  noise,  a  bad  dream.  a  pestering  sense  of  discontent  that  he  does  not  have  the  mental  capacity  to  tend  to. 

by  the  third  day,  the  numbness  of  repetition  sets  in.  wake  up,  did  he  wake  up,  did  he  really  sleep?  it  gets  hard  to  tell,  when  he’s  ignoring  all  facets  that  catch  the  sunlight,  which  ones  actually  demand  attention.  this  is  his  second  mistake.  

it  goes  like  this:  action  arises,  planned,  anticipated.  before  bakugou  can  blink,  he’s  already  in  the  thick  of  it.  which  is  the  thick  of  overwhelming  nothingness,  really.  things  go  well  beyond  expectation.  even  better.

it  goes  so  well,  in  fact,  that  katsuki  skips  right  over  pride  into  unease.  he  makes  it  behind  the  enemies  lines  alone,  without  incident.  no  need  for  improvisation  or  to  call  his  reserve.  without  a  single  confrontation.  without  a  single  instruction.

eyes  watch  him  from  a  forest.  not  the  maze  of  alleyways  he  currently  navigates  but  the  distant  memory  of  a  similar  feeling.  a  training  camp  ambush.

he  presses  at  his  ear  piece,  something’s  fucked,  half  n’  half.  i’m  falling  back.  a  long  pause.  hands  curl,  defensive.  maybe  he  imagines  it  to  be  longer  than  it  is.  he  presses  again.  todoroki?  i’ve  got  a  bad  fucking  feeling.  you  held  up?

there  is  no  answer  on  the  other  end  of  his  com - piece  —  but  for  the  faint,  far  of  ringing  of  interference.  shit.

blood  runs  frigid,  sweat  cooling  where  goosebumps  rise  on  his  skin.  the  temperature  has  dropped  unnaturally.  measures  are  taken  to  keep  him  on  the  useful  side  of  sweaty  under  unfavourable  conditions  but  his  body  isn’t  regulating  heat.    the  work  of  a  quirk  unaccounted  for.

unease  shifts  to  disbelief.  improvisation.  think,  run.  keep  running,  think  quicker.  sudden  clarity  says  there  is  no  difference  between  where  the  forest  ends  and  his  escape  begins.  the  interference  is  disorienting  him  on  purpose.

katsuki  rips  it  from  his  ear  and  crushes  it  in  a  fist.  keeps  running.  back - tracks  through  the  wrong  route  without  guidance.  through,  through,  through.  finds  the  crushed  com - piece  under  foot  twice  before  he  realizes  he’s  circling.  a  mouse  in  a  maze.

it  is  three  minutes  after  cut  communication.  the  first  building  quakes  to  pieces.  shatters  ?  it  seems,  the  rumble  nearly  half  glass.  a  skyscraper’s  corpse  collapsing.  uraraka’s  comets  have  trained  him  for  this  —  hands  raise  instinctual,  but  cold,  they  don’t  detonate  cleanly  —  half  strength,  panicked.  he  maneuvers  well  enough  to  stay  on  his  feet.  the  rumble  further  disorients  him,  the  ringing  returned  to  his  ears  from  his  own  explosion.  a  mouse  in  a  maze  with  no  exit.

cages,  restraints,  hands  made  half  useless.  the  ringing  grows  louder,  not  a  fault  of  his  own.  outside  source.  two  quirks?  fight,  flight,  freeze  argue  for  first  place.  there  is  no  clear  target,  no  clear  escape.  dread  rises  up  the  back  of  his  throat,  the  forgotten  fear  of  something  purely  unknown.

another  building,  further  out  crumbles  —  there  is  no  sound  but  the  pressure  of  it  reaches  his  ears,  delayed.  reverberates.  he  moves  away  from  it,  trying  to  get  his  bearings.  through,  through,  through.  debris  crumbles  from  over - head,  to  close  to  detonate  at  his  current  capacity.  fear  creeps  higher,  brighter,  a  feral  thing.  not  quite  terror  but  rising  ever  closer  toward  it  as  the  next  round  of  ruin  throws  him  off  his  feet.  explosions  flare  and  are  smothered  underneath.

pinned,  arms,  chest,  gasping.  wind  wiped  clean  from  his  body.

it  belongs  to  another  body,  knees  biting  into  wrists,  weight  centered  on  his  chest,  hand  curling  around  his  throat.  wind  moves  above  them,  cold,  colder.  katsuki  shivers,  dry  palms  flickering  out.

“ come  on !  did  you  think  it  would  be  so  easy,  blasty ? “  confirmation  is  only  half  retained.  bakugou  biting  out  curses  in  exasperation.  “ fame  comes  with  a  price,  you  know.  when  everyone  knows  who  you  are  it’s  harder  to  hide  your  weaknesses.  you’ve  been  in  the  limelight  a  long  time  now,  haven’t  you,  katsuki ?  spend  weeks  researching  things  about  us  that  we  already  know. ”  this  is  obvious  information  he  doesn’t  need  a  villain’s  speech  to  tell  him  that.  tries  instead  to  weasel  fruitlessly  out  of  the  clutches  in  before  he  realizes  he’s  losing  too  much  oxygen.  crimson  eyes  blink,  brows  creased  with  agony.  breaths  stutter,  sputter,  gasp  again.  

villain  hooks  their  fingers  through  the  chain  on  his  neck  and  steals  his  identity  from  him  in  the  same  way  he  stole  his  breath,  instantly.  

“ who’s  going  to  come  to  your  funeral,  bakugou  katsuki ? ”

panic.  flash  flood  of  a  fear  he’d  never  considered  rushing  to  the  forefront  of  a  oxygen  deprived  mind.  denki.  he  gasps,  not  to  answer  but  in  the  desperation  to  breathe.  he  would  go,  wouldn’t  he?  hating  me,  angry,  always  wondering  what  i  died  without  confessing?

the  villain  covers  his  mouth.  “  ah,  that  was  a  rhetorical  question,  actually,  katsuki.  ”  

anger.  that  name  is  not  his  to  repeat. he’s  only  given  it  to  one  person.  denki.  he  would  get  the  stupid  fucking  dog  tags.  katsuki  never  changed  his  emergency  contact  information.

he  stops  listening;  has  trouble  focusing;  can  taste  his  own  blood  in  the  back  of  his  throat,  pooling.  

panic,  again,  again.  denki.

worse  for  being  comprehensible,  his  threshold  for  terror  maxes  out.  there  is  nothing  he  can  do  becomes  the  immovable  force  to  the  unstoppable  fact  that  if  he  doesn’t  force  something  to  happen  in  his  favour  he  will  die  here.

panic.  it  was  your  mistake.  live  with  it.  hands  struggle,  weak,  to  reach  the  one  obstructing  his  air  passages.  wrists  ache,  threaten  fractures.    it  was  your  mistake.  die  with  it.  teeth  gnarl,  barely  able  to  bank  the  fabric  of  his  gloved  assailant.  proof  the  cold  comes  from  a  separate  entity.

a  new  rumbling,  this  one  familiarly  shindou’s  —  but  far  off  in  the  distance,  indication  that  his  own  back - up  is  not  far  away.  are  they  close  enough,  though?

is  this  what  jeanist  felt?  he  chases  that  rabbit  for  a  beat,  too  long,  tastes  the  charred  lack  of  hope  in  it.  chokes  on  it.

no,  that’s  real.  katsuki  forces  his  focus  to  resurface  to  the  hand  on  his  throat.  if  he  goes  under  it’s  all  over.  his  mistake.  one  he  wouldn’t  get  to  live  with.  vision  blurs,  freckled  with  the  painless,  endless,  terrible,  silence  that  promises  to  take  hold.  that  offers  relief  from  his  predicament.  who  will  come  to  your  funeral,  bakugou  katsuki?  hands  grapple  again,  pinned  down,  ice  cold.

the  vision  of  a  back,  turned  away  from  him.  leaving,  leaving,  leaving.  katsuki  motionless,  doing  nothing  about  it.  if  i  die  here  i  will  never  see  him  again.  he  passes  the  threshold  for  struggling,  senses  overwhelmed.  the  villain  pinning  him  down,  a  cinder - block  shackled  to  a  sinking  boat.  denki  will  never  get  his  apology.  will  never  know  that  it  was  misguided  love  and  not  pride  that  got  in  the  way  of  things. 

the  voice  above  him  promises  a  quick  relief.  a  pathetic  death  for  a  disappointing  opponent.  katsuki  barely  hears  over  the  echo  of  ringing,  returned  brain  interference.  it  buzzes  softly,  almost  golden  through  streaming  tears  and  blotched  vision.  at  least  it’s  me  instead  of  him.  thank  fuck  i  made  one  good  mistake.  heat  rises,  too  close  to  his  face.  hands  removed  for  a  startling  —  sharp  shock  of  cold  air.  his  body  racks  with  the  swell  of  lungs  still  compressed  under  the  weight  of  a  human.

the  heat  blares  as  hands  return,  either  side  of  his  face,  confusing,  ringing,  glowing  golden.  the  interference  is  electric.

there’s  no  room  for  repeat  here.  get  through  it,  or  don’t.  there  is  no  certainty  that  passed  it  exists.  crimson  eyes  flash,  the  carved  stencil  of  a  laugh  traced  over  a  forgotten  expression.  his  voice  doesn’t  exist  but  a  rasp,   barely  spoken  through  the  jolt  of  a  body  reawakening:  “  uno,  bitch. ”

and  he  lights  up  the  reserve  switch,  sweeping  the  flash  of  searing  pain  through  his  nerve  endings  and  up  through  freezing,  up - turned  palms.  a  flash  flare.

katsuki  doesn’t  know  how  he  gets  to  his  feet  —  but  it’s  just  in  time  to  see  back - up  ascend  over  the  rumble,  shouting.  he  can’t  hear  them  clearly  over  the  crackling  of  electricity.

he  points  in  the  direction  of  his  half - seared,  unconscious  assailant;  lets  todoroki  do  the  dirty  work  of  apprehending  them  while  his  lungs  kick  up  an  old  fight  to  function.  finally  pulling  in  full  breaths,  limbs  trembling.  he  tries  to  assess  his  own  condition.  his  head  swirls  at  the  edge  of  fading  consciousness.  hands,  still  steaming,  lift  to  his  throat  just  to  be  certain.  blood  drips  over  his  lips,  unobstructed.  ribs  plea  for  less  gasping.  

good  enough.  he  can  make  do  with  that.  i’m  still  here.  a  silent  plea  sent  out  that  whatever  happens  next  denki  can  sense  how  fucking  grateful  he  is,  that  none  of  the  love  was  wasted.  that  he’s  coming  home,  so  fucking  help  him.

i’ve  got  unfinished  business.  denki  is  owed  the  common  decency  of  an  apology,  at  the  very  least.

[machimachilegends]

Suki Xchiyu, God Breaker// Universe 9′s Strongest Earthling (Level 79)

Current Party// Aile Ugami (Level 78), Dienna Shizuka (Level 89)

Items// 50 Senbon, “Endless” Wire Strings, Dual Katana (Unequipped)

Feats A// Withstood the corrosive and withering effects of a Death God whom obliterated planets in his youth, Tanked psychic attacks capable of crushing stars, Slayed a devil whose spirit alone was causing the universe to crumble, Relocated her allies from Earth to a miscellaneous planet outside the Milky Way Galaxy and back in a flash, Bested a possessed yet rusty god of thunder in an exchange of lightning blasts, Bent a portal to her will, Severed deflected and reflected multiple universe to multiverse-threatening attacks over the years without transformation as an adult, Resealed ten dimensions worth of souls away in a single slash using Phantasmal Release despite its tendency to fracture souls instead, Synergised Lightning with Ice & Wind respectively and bypass the normal restrictions of types.

Feats B// Perceived and endured an enhanced version of limbo, Disconnected her soul to nullify a body swap on a whim, Fought an enemy who could foresee and manipulate multiple futures to the point of seeing zero possible futures, Moved in stopped time, Disassembled herself by the electron to partake in immeasurably high-speed battle against a regenerative 7th Dimensional rush of hydrogen.

Feats C// Accurately struck every vital point on the human body with microscopic blasts whilst dodging an array of cosmic auto-targeting blasts, Strategically informed Dienna to imbue a special Fusion Item with alchemy as a fail-safe against a luck manipulating enemy, Created and expanded on the technique dubbed “Synthesis” to further her interaction with opposing forces or abstract powers internally provided or willing lent to her to incarnate a new form, Traversed the multiverse without teleportation devices or ship in a matter of two days in total.

Non-canon Feats// Collected energy from nothingness itself, Corroded her own power to become toxic to an energy consuming foe, Enveloped the embodiment of fate in a single-targeting infinite loop of nightmarish pains afflicted and stockpiled by those wronged by Fate, Tore through an impregnable via accelerating molecules beyond the conjurer’s comprehension, Augmented her energy signature beyond recognition at will to remain undetected by loved ones while leaving a perfect clone to tend to her daily life, Created an explosive chi blast with no sound.

[erabundus]

@wcyfarer &&. said... NIGHTMARE +  INSOMNIA aether sad boi hours

ren could hear the faint cries of terror, even from the tiny corner in the teapot he had claimed as his own. ( somewhere to whittle the dull nights away, nose tucked in a book. ) the wanderer frowned into his reading material, mildly annoyed at having lost his spot on the page ... then "breathed" a sigh as he rose from his seat. seemed like someone wasn't having the most PLEASANT night's rest.

a  being  who  hardly  SLEPT  would  naturally  have  little  experience  with  nightmares.  there  had  been  a  point  when  that  wasn't  always  the  case,  however.  during  that  fleeting  (  fragile  )  time  when  he  lived  as  a  HUMAN,  the  kabukimono  put  forth  a  valiant  effort  to  spend  the  nights  in  peaceful  slumber  —  the  same  as  his  most  beloved  companions.  unfortunately,  his  attempts  were  destined  to  end  in  FAILURE;  each  time  he  closed  his  eyes  and  found  himself  met  with  that  endless  nothingness,  he  would  fly  into  a  panic.  his  mind  was  flooded  with  memories  of  a  sleep  from  which  he  could  never  seem  to  SURFACE.  of  a  thick,  tarry  darkness,  tugging  him  further  and  further  into  its  endless  depths  —  until  he  (  creature that  did  not  require  breath  )  could  only  lay  helpless  beneath  its  crushing  weight.

yes, he knew little of NIGHTMARES ... but he understood what it was like to be haunted by the illusions conjured from one's mind all the same.

a  few  minutes  passed.  ren  found  himself  rapping  knuckles  on  the  doorframe.  he  wasn't  sure  if  aether  had  awoken  from  whatever  horrors  were  tormenting  him  —  wasn't  sure  if  he  should  go  in  and  do  it  himself.  (  wasn't  that  ill  advised?  or  was  he  thinking  of  sleepwalking?  ) without waiting for an answer, he SHOVED his arm through a crack in the door — fingers curled around a cup of hot tea.

❝ take it.  ❞ a pause. ❝ i ... tried adding SUGAR.  ❞ he supposed a bit of sweetness was permissible, just this once.

A    COMPREHENSIVE    LIST    OF    SCENARIOS

[pi-cat000]

Harry Potter/Undertale cross

Summary: Harry floats around the cosmoses as a disembodied soul, searching for empty vessels to temporary call home. Sometimes he gets a good one.

Alternative Summary: Harry becomes a skeleton through convoluted bullshit (and Undertale if you squint)

As the ye oldie saying goes: If you're going to write a crossover, make it a Harry Potter crossover.

(crack, not to be taken seriously)

I was a bit like hitting the ground at terminal velocity.

The sensation of falling then a sudden stop.

The nothingness that usually surrounded him took on a solid-like quality. And then the body, the host, container-whatever people called it- was there. Around him. In front of him? Empty. Waiting. It just needed a little something something to get it going.

A little push.

A spark to move it from a dead, lifeless husk to a container worthy of a soul. If he had had hands he would be rubbing them in anticipation. It wasn't easy, connecting a soul to a foreign body, but he had done it enough times to know the process inside and out. All it took was small magical jump start, a bit of prayer, and a whole lot of determination.

Giddily, he flipped his mental switch. A surge of energy. A spark spluttered like an empty lighter, igniting then dying just as quickly. A failed connection.

Harry waited a few beats just to be sure. It did no good to overwhelm a new body with magic before getting completely settled. Nothing worse than accidentally turning a potential container to ash.

Nothing

Nothing.

He flicked the switch, pushing more magic and energy through the connection. Something caught. A flame flickered into existence. He held his imagery breath. The fire guttered and died.

Odd. That usually did it. Harry imagined he would be frowning if he had a face. Okay, so this body needed a little more juice than usual. No biggy. If fact, a vessel more accustomed to magic was preferable. He drew himself together, condensing as much as he could.

Third time's the charm.  

He flipped the switch. A thin path opened between him and the body. Harry pushed magic and energy down the tight funnel. Something caught, snagging and igniting.

Everything exploded in a triumphant flash. Magic flared about him, weaving between himself and the body, drawing them together. He was being sucked down, stretched out, spun, moulded, altered till he fit snuggly inside his new home.

And just like that Harry, former disembodied soul, became a solid, tangible, being.

Of course, everything was still dark. But it was a different sort of dark. Not the endless, soul crashing, black void-threatening to swallow your entire being the second you lost your wits-sort of dark. This was a warm, silent, darkness.  The sort that came as one drifted into a dream filled sleep.

Alongside this new darkness was the sensation of being constrained to a single, solitary shape. After going so long relying on sheer force of will to hold himself together the change was a relief.

As Harry adjusted, getting himself settled, a new muted tickly feeling caught his attention. It was hard to describe and he spent a few seconds examining the sensation. Ah. That was sensory feedback. He relaxed into the awareness. No matter how many times he repeated this process the sudden ability to feel never got old. Whatever was causing the sensation was pressing down on him from all angles, enveloping all his form. It was oddly muted and he felt, dare he say, weightless. It prompted several questions. None of which could be answered at that exact moment.

Harry wasn't concerned. The fact that he was getting feedback so soon was a good sign. Sometimes it took excruciatingly long to get any proper response. Generally, this occurred when his new vessel was too broken to properly house him and he had to wait for his magic to patch it up.  

He began exploring, seeking out the correct mental commands, attempting to gain some form of control. The body was familiar in some respects. It had a central mass then five additional protrusions. Arms and legs most likely. And that was a head.

A head equals eyes. Usually…God he hoped so. He missed having eyes. He also felt oddly hollow like he was missing a few parts. He did not let the sensation bother him. After a few rounds in various bodies, one of which had been a jello-like creature, he kept an open mind.  

It took a bit of experimentation, messing around with different impulses, but he got his eyes working. What came to him was a vomit inducing mish mash of colour. Okay. Not what he was going for. Harry spent a few seconds trying to hammer out something interpretable. As he worked his excitement grew, building him his chest. His limbs twitched sporadically in response and proprioception set in.

Finally, after mulling over the visual feedback for an indeterminate amount of time, he managed to gain something of a comprehension. He was looking through water or some form of liquid. It was coloured green and it blurred and obstructed his vision. Odd. He squirmed but the liquid was viscous, preventing too much movement. That explained the pressure at least. Good. He had been worried that the weightless sensation meant a lack of gravity. Not that he had anything against floating. It was just that he had probably done enough of it to last him a million more lifetimes.

Just beyond the screen of green liquid, was a room. Harry examined his new view. The room was lit by the dim light of his watery green tube. A desk. Yes. That was a desk. And that…that was a pile of paper. The paper was on the desk. Fantastic.  It was simple, it was mundane, it was ordinary. Bloody brilliant was what it was. He tried to make out a few more details but the liquid was making the task tricky.  

He wriggled but found it laborious. It appeared he was not yet settled enough to attempt any dramatic moments. That left magic. He turned his attention inwards, examining his core. Everything seemed to have settled nicely, leading itself to the theory that this body was made for magic.

Without a focus he was limited. But, never one to be restrained by physical limitations, he decided to give it a go.  A few seconds of internal mediation and he prodded his core into reacting.

Magic rippled away in a thick shockwave, smacking against the glass.

Crack.

Harry watched a thin fracture wind its way across the smooth surface, splitting the glass till it gave way. Then he was falling and it was wonderful. He loved gravity. He hit the ground. It was cold, hard and tiled. He hit the ground hard. It hurt. Fantastic. Currently, with his faced pressed into the hard ground he couldn't make out any additional details. Tired. He lay still, allowing himself to enjoy gravity.

Eventually, he spasmed hard enough to flip himself around. He was met with a grey ceiling coloured red which was flashing on an off.

He lifted his hand, staring at its skeletal structure.

Huh. So that's why he felt oddly hollow. The exposed bones of his skeletal hand twitched as he wiggled his fingers. He let his arm fall to the floor. It clanked when it made contact with the hard surface. Harry squinted down at his chest, taking in the visible ribs and the distinct lack of skin or insides. He was a skeleton.

He had so many questions.

"Ha," he managed. The sound vibrated in his frame despite a lack of vocal cords. How the hell did that work?

Overhead the red light continued to flash. Thud. Thud. Thud. Something was quickly approaching, stopping just outside the room.

Whoosh. The door slid open. Another skeleton stepped in. It was tall, wearing a lab coat, and had a mighty impressive crack running down its face. Harry stared. The skeleton stared. The red light flashed. Nothing else moved.

Righto. He tried to speak/communicate but the actions seamed beyond his current capabilities. The other skeleton remained rooted to the spot. Unmoving. Harry mentally sighed.

NOTE: so anyway. The premise for this crossover is Gaster, in a desperate attempt to revive the skeleton race, ends up cloning himself. The initial clones all fail (due to lack of determination or something) but he later manages to create Sans and Papyrus (ala Handplates ). Harry floats along and possesses one the soulless clones.

Thus a convoluted Undertale/Harry Potter crossover is born. I have other stuff written/planned because apparently I would rather write this stuff instead of study. May of may not continue.