#{now. I grow wings. and rage}.awakened

[seasaltandsmoke]

verses

will be expanded when I think of new stuff.

"canon"

I'm aware the anime isn't considered canon in a lot of instances but it is the medium I am most familiar with and have the easiest access to, so I am mostly basing my characterization of Sanji on what we see in the anime. There will be spoilers, as I am following the events of the anime as closely as possible.

age: 19-21 depending on ark

Sanji was born as the fourth child and third son to the ruler of the kingdom of Germa. His father Judge Vinsmoke experimented on his children and genetically altered them in hopes of turning them into super soldiers. However, Sanji did not display any of Judge's desired attributes, causing him and the rest of his family to shun Sanji as a failure, bullying and abusing him for being 'weak'.

Sanji ran away from Germa at a young age, working as a kitchen help on a ship until 'Redleg' Zeff and his pirate crew entered it. A storm caused the ship to sink and after being saved from drowning by the pirate Sanji was left stranded on a rock in the middle of the ocean alongside Zeff with no means of escape. They spent a total of 85 days there and nearly starved to death. They survived, if barely, and Zeff took Sanji under his wing as a cook and raised him under strict rules. He became the Sous Chef of the Baratie and arguably the best cook in the East Blue. From Zeff Sanji also retained his code of honor to never raise a hand (or foot) against a woman.

After Zeff and Sanji build a new home at the Baratie, Sanji grew up in that restaurant, working there nearly every day for the next decade until one fateful day a ship with a Jolly Roger bearing a strawhat arrived, bringing with it a new chapter of his life and an opportunity to chase his dream, the All Blue.

awakened

age: 24~25-ish

self-indulgent very canon-divergent verse where Sanji is on his own, and will eventually seek to either destroy or take over Germa as a means of revenge.

Sanji still grew up at the Baratie, but never met Luffy and the others. When he came of age his biological father Judge sought him out while the Baratie was at shore, letting him know that he was to return to Germa. When Zeff and the other inhabitants of the Baratie tried to oppose them after Sanji told Judge no they were killed on the spot by Sanji's siblings.

When Zeff's liveless body hit the ground, Sanji snapped.

It turned out the genetical enhancements everyone thought had failed to take effect in him only lay dormant up to this point and at last he unshackled himself, embracing his powers, getting lost in his rage. He got the jump on one of his brothers, injuring Niji severely and surprising all of them.

In the ensuing chaos Sanji managed to flee and has been on the run ever since. His father put an official bounty on his head soon after, making it even harder for him to continue running.

Sanji is ever so slowly getting stronger, and he despises it. His bounty increases, too, not by choice, but because of the endless stream of bounty hunters his father sends after him. His last resort is to find a way to the Grand Line, hoping it would allow him to outrun his past.

[darkpetal16]

So we've got mafiafell wingding and papyrus headcanons, but what about mafiafell sans? Even a crumb would be very appreciated

Oh man. I put these HC undercut for 1.) T/W for toxic relationship and 2.) Spoilers for one of his bad endings in the game.

Mafiafell!Sans is a hot mess and puts the yan in yandere.

Ooooo boy. He’s a walking, talking red flag.

He’s a Judge: a monster born with the Judgment ability. His magic is toxic to anyone with EXP or LVL (including himself, although he has built up resistance) and he can see the truth of anyone’s SOUL.

His ability awakened at a young age in an unexpected outburst that resulted in the death of one of Asgore’s Royal Guards. By consequence, in order to avoid execution, he had to become the newest Judge.

He, essentially, became a glorified hitman for the Dreemur family at a young age, with the added bonus of each of his kills causing magic whiplash and damaging himself in the process.

He’s seen a lot of awful things, and done a lot worse things.

It. . . Doesn’t sit well with him.

He never wanted to take a life. He never wanted to hurt anyone.

But he had that choice taken away from him, and now he’s in too deep. The EXP, in conjunction with his Judgment ability, has warped him in a deeply disturbing way.

He’s volatile, violent, and viscous. And bitter. So, very, very bitter.

He’s got a short temper, but how he acts on it depends on the severity of his rage. For “smaller” issues, it’s an instantaneous reaction of violence. For the big issues, it’s something he’ll stew over and take his time to seek retribution. Basically: If he gets loud fast, the person will probably make it out alive. If he gets quiet though? They’re dead. And they’re not dying easily.

His volatility is a big reason why he always has Papyrus or Wingding nearby for important events.

This does mean that early in the relationship, when none of them know how well he can control himself around you, all of your dates will be secretly chaperoned by either Wings or Pap. You’ll likely never see them, but they’re there for your (physical) wellbeing and Sans’ (mental) wellbeing.

After a lifetime of absolute garbage thrown his way, you are a desperately needed breath of fresh air. He was drowning in misery and you’re the lifeline thrown to him. He will latch on with a zealous fervor.

Any bit of happiness and affection you give him, he’ll greedily devour. The more you give, the more he’ll come to need you until he literally will not tolerate you out of his life.

So do not commit, do not engage, do not give this man any type of hope for a relationship unless you’re ready for that level of emotional dependency. Breaking it off once it’s too late won’t end well for either of you. Because he’s type who can love a doll as much as the real deal.

But if that’s your thing too? If this is what you need too. . . ?

He’s your guy. Loyal. Ferociously loyal. Would fight an army for you. Would go to war for you. Would break any law for you. He supports your wrongs and your rights equally, as long as he gets to be by your side in the process.

He didn’t have money growing up (all money earned had to go into paying back his “debt” to the Dreemur family), so now that he has it he likes to spend it. Especially on loved ones (you & his brothers). Shopping trips are a bi weekly thing, and they always end in a fancy dinner date.

He wants to travel the world, and he’ll gleefully take you with him. He wants to visit a place that’s always dark, and someplace where the sun never sets. He wants to see the auroras, and an endless sea of sand.

He’s always wanted to go to school to learn. Always wanted to learn physics, mechanical engineering, and astronomy. Never could, and he thinks it’s too late now. He’ll always brush it off if you try to encourage him.

But if you take him to college lectures on the stuff, he’s like a kid in a candy shop. You’ll see a glimpse of what he was like before he became a Judge; a childlike level of sincere happiness, and a small smile on his face.

Dates are extravagant. He knows he’s fucked in the head so he’s hoping to keep your attention by impressing you. Maybe if you’re wowed enough you’ll forgive his cracks.

Speaking of cracks, he’s got the most broken bones in the family. Most of the time, Wings or Toriel can heal such injuries but ones caused by his Judge ability don’t heal.

If you ask about them he’ll give you increasingly crazier stories. Anything is better than the truth.

Speaking of stories, he loves to tell them and loves to listen. If you’d like to read, he would genuinely love it if you read him. It doesn’t matter the genre, he just enjoys them with a pure sincerity.

And if you want him to read to you? That’s fine by him. Although you’ll probably have to pick out the books… And forgive him when he stumbles on words. He didn’t have a proper education growing up. What he knows is what Wings has been able to teach him in their very limited free time. 

He can sing! Specifically lullabies, because that was the only thing that could sue Papyrus when he was a toddler. It’s not something he likes others to know, however, he’ll make the exception for you.

He can also cook. Very well. He learned along side Papyrus as something for the two of them to do together. He didn’t have a lot of free time and he didn’t want Papyrus to feel lonely, so he would learn how to cook with him. 

Very good at reading people. Even without his judge ability, he’s an expert at reading, micro expressions, understanding someone’s tone, and interpreting body language. His intuition is above reproach, even Asgore trusts it. 

He learned sign language when Wings lost his voice for a few months. Sans thought it would be come permanently so he stayed up late to learn it and be ready to teach it to Wings. Thankfully, Wings recovered so it’s been a rarely used skill.

Quality time is important to him. If you have something important in your life that you want him to attend, absolutely nothing will stop him from being there. 

Don’t try to get him jealous. Not only will your suitor be killed, but if he thinks you’re doing it on purpose, he won’t let it go. He won’t lay a hand on you. . . he doesn’t have to to discourage you from ever thinking about doing that again.

He’s a hot mess. There’s no getting around this. There is no therapy in his time, and the toxic masculinity expected of him will prevent him from ever admitting his emotional vulnerabilities in any way that matters.

He’ll be tender for you. He’ll be soft for you. He’ll be kinder around you. He won’t raise his voice. He won’t lay a hand on you. He’ll support your dreams, financially and emotionally. He’ll start with you if you want.

But that’s the extent of what he can do for now, and for a long times

And that’s the best he can do.

PLAY IF - MAFIAFELL HERE FOR HIS ROUTE

HC MASTERLIST HERE

[rinnstars]

impressing you!

itoshi rin attempts to tell you he likes you in questionable ways

itoshi rin x reader : fluff, crack, use of brain rot terms, dti mentioned, super bad ending i’m so sorry idk anymore school got me, not proofread + likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

growing up with itoshi rin with all his personality quirks, you were pretty sure you could expect anything and everything from him - whether that be him showing up at your house at midnight without any warnings, or him wearing your hello kitty pajamas after school for ‘fun’, or even eating frozen cheese straight out of the fridge for breakfast. but nothing could prepare you for what the hell he just asked you.

“what.” one chance for him to take back, or more so one chance for you to regain back your sanity from whatever you just swore to god he asked.

“.. i asked if you’d like to play dress to impress together.. you know because youre always playing it during class.” what the hell.

maybe the world was ending, and you look outside only to now be even more dismayed that the sun is in fact shining, the sky is perfectly blue, and there was no cloud in sight. then maybe this was all a dream after spending the previous night playing games, you pinch yourself and to your horror, you do in fact feel the pain as you nip at your own hand, almost yelping to the oblivious rin sitting beside you. or maybe your eyesight is failing you and you’re seriously deluding yourself that its rin simply after being apart from him for months, you think, removing your glasses and wiping it and nope - that was in fact rin, still wearing a blank face that youre far too used to.

“do you even have a roblox account..” you were 100% sure that whatever horror games you’ve seen him play does not involve roblox and he’s probably more likely to be a discord mod than a roblox player - credited to you friending him on steam and seeing the horror of games he has bought on that app

“.. ill make one now.” and you think maybe blue lock has actually rotted rin’s mind or maybe his friends there has corrupted the rin you once knew.

and instead of spending your math class, you know paying attention and doing the work assigned, there you were at the back row playing dress to impress with itoshi rin attempting his best but clearly not dressing to impress anyone to say the least.

and maybe this is a miracle and an awakening because you were so sure since a little kid that itoshi rin, your best friend in this entire world, do not have any weakness - whether that be in sports (for obvious reasons), in arts (getting an A even though he ‘winged it’), in games (carried you in shooting games and horror games) that maybe you’ve finally discovered his achilles heels that is apparently fashion.. and handling getting humbled by kids on roblox.

“why the hell is this kid calling my outfit skibidi toilet” if anything, in your honest reaction, you’d call me something worst than that looking at the total mess of a outfit he was wearing because why the hell is he wearing two hairs at once that do not merge at all. in fact, you’d be polite to even call whatever he’s just made an outfit in the first place because it looks like he genuinely spun a wheel and picked pieces at random.

even funnier is that you can practically see rin’s ear letting out steam - clearly upset that he’s apparently not winning the top place. if anything, you think its funnier because he doesnt even rage like this playing his competitive shooting game, or when he doesnt get a good grade for his exams, or even when he drops his ice cream when you were little, only when he plays soccer and apparently dress to impress. now maybe with his ego, or whatever he said learnt at blue lock, would be able to let him score a goal (win top place with a good outfit)

however, to his dismay, and to your expectation, he in fact does not win top places, not even top 3, by the end of the hour long math lesson.

and to him, he practically just lost the first tip that bachira told him and as he quotes “if you like someone you’ve got to like have shared interest right?” and clearly and unfortunately he just cannot get into dress to impress in the same way that you just aren’t really interested in football which he completely gets. but now he’s in doubt about his own situation and by that he means the love test percentage thing he was convinced to take by again bachihara - failing at a whooping 15% that he was meant to be your soulmate. but if there’s something he’s good at, its perseverance and he will not give up just because multiple kids in the game called him skibidi toilet

and right now he thinks hes absolutely down bad and he is only proving the allegations that he really has a crush on you when hes spending time after football practice to play dress to impress. even worse, hes looking up online guides on “cheatsheets” to get outfits, entering millions of codes to unlock hidden items, spending the entire night playing this game.

and of course, its at 4:30am when you log in only to find one person playing dress to impress and youre pretty sure this is the equivalant to a sleep paralysis demon as you blink all the sleep away in your eyes to confirm the words in front of you: itoshi rin is playing dress to impress in the middle of the night. more specifically, itoshi rin who preaches about taking care of ones body by sleeping early, eating all three meals, doing yoga every single day is ruining his sleep scheuldue for a roblox game. and as all sleep deprived people do, you send him a message to confirm that its in fact him and not a hacker.

chat

you: r u playing dti or have u not logged out of dti since class 😭😭

rin: playing

you: R U ACTLLY INTO DRESS TO IMPRESS… who r u impressing 🙏🏻🙏🏻

rin: you

and you feel your heart stop - and not because of caffeine, or another realisation that yoive forgotten to do your work right in class or winning a lucky draw from the ice cream you share with rin. but then the realisation hits and youre now instead let down because of course sleep deprived him would say such words that unfortunately made your heart pump because of all the years you’ve known him, you know that whenever he doesnt sleep well, he always becomes a different person, spouting nonsense about everything and anything as all the logic that he’s so used to melts away from his brain. and so you without thinking close your phone and leave itoshi rin on read.

and maybe its even worse that when you wake up, you realise rin sends you the number of stars he’s collected over his overnight grind that’s somehow more than the amount you’ve gathered throughout the weeks of playing dress to impress and even funnier because he’s clearly texting the wrong person.

chat

rin: (1 attachement)

rin: is this a good rank bachiara

rin: should i check if mine n y/n’s soulmate on that love website increased

you: shld be 100%

rin: from 15%?

you: i’m more accurate than it btw r u still on dti

rin: ?

rin: oh ignore

you: no lets play tgt actlly vote me 5* i need to have more stars than u

and you can’t wait to go to math class to play dress to impress with rin at the back of the class (spoiler alert: he won all the rounds somehow) now dating (he gives you five stars)

[sonicasura]

WereKaiju

Here's the other idea that wouldn't leave my ass alone. Plus the spooky season is almost upon us so why not? Let's get started!

A 23 year old Kafka Hibino was doing his best to get his life back together. Kaiju No. 6's monstrous rampage had utterly devastated a good chunk of Japan with his home being one such casualty. The nearest homeless shelter was obviously at max capacity and any housing is still under construction.

Kafka's day hasn't been any better either. He recently got beaten up pretty badly by a few thugs because he tried to stop them from mugging a poor old lady. (The man would still do it again despite his now broken nose, multiple bruises and probably cracked ribs.)

Overall, most of the year was awful as hell. Although his luck would only get worse when a buzzing sound awakens him from his sleep. The source being a very familiar small Kaiju we all know (with some finding it cute.)

I will say that Kafka does fight back against Tiny as he's been sleeping outside in the cold and thus wearing a scarf around his mouth to help keep warm. The small Kaiju tries to pry it off while the himbo defends himself. Now he managed to catch Tiny who yanked the scarf half way down.

Before Kafka could effectively trap the thing, the little Kaiju bites him hard. He lets go, screams, and Tiny takes that very moment to shove himself down our himbo's throat. Kafka ends up passing out as the pain of the transformation was too much for his damaged body.

When he wakes up the next day, everything is a blur. Kafka believes last night in general has been a hazy dream. The fight with the thugs and a kaiju going down his throat despite feeling strangely sore. (All his injuries obviously been healed by Tiny.)

Life goes on as the himbo is truly unaware of the monster slumbering inside. That's until the first full moon. Kafka is actually a dormant carrier of a unique condition called Hypertrichosis or Werewolf Syndrome to be precise.

It's basically when the body overproduces hair, often in localized or specific spots across the body. Why is this important? To put it simply, Tiny might have accidentally altered Kafka's dormant Hypertrichosis into something very different. A kaiju variant of lycanthropy.

Now Kafka's Kaiju operates differently than in canon. The condition of his transformation affects his overall appearance. Under sheer willpower, Kafka looks like his canon form but with a spine covered long tail. The full moon or rage results in a more monstrous version of Riot Mode.

Fur like quills growing between the armored plates, facial structure narrowing into a shape similar to a komodo dragon, fur sprouting from the back of his head/wrists/upper chest/, four dragonfly like wings, and his tail becoming similar to a pangolin but covered in spikes. Kafka acts like an oversized wolf during a Riot Mode shift. Those he considers part of his pact are met with 'giant puppy behavior'.

He scrutinizes every unfamiliar person as if waiting for them to make a move so he can act accordingly. Threats are immediately attacked with incredible ferocity so you better someone he cherishes is there to intervene. If you are guessing, Kafka's bite is infectious like any Werecreature.

Something he doesn't know until a fight makes him lose a tooth. The Defense Force analyzed and tested it on a rat to discover it's mutagenic properties. In short, a warning would be given about not getting bitten by Kaiju No. 8. Civilians are warned of deadly venom but the truth being restricted to official DF Members.

Reno tells Kafka about this ability once he officially joins. Our himbo obviously doesn't join the Defense Force. He's afraid of potentially infecting or killing someone thanks to his curse.

No.9 however is another case entirely. He WANTS No.8 for his infectious bite whether he's dead or alive. A kaiju capable of converting others is too important to ignore.

The Defense Force is more desperate to kill No.8. Such an ability could potentially end mankind itself if left unchecked. Kafka is gonna have a harder time avoiding the Defense Force.

Not just because of his scheduled shifts but also No.9 sending in kaiju to hunt him down. The Defense Force is slowly growing suspicious about these localized attacks as one Soshiro Hoshina notices a common denominator amongst each incident. A certain himbo Monster Sweeper at each scene.

He's going to be busted eventually. Although whether he turns inside an interrogation cell or in front of his childhood friend remains unknown. (Or lover if a pairing is involved like childhood sweethearts/married for a few years type. Kafka will get his needed hugs either way.)

For now, please enjoy another song that came to mind when writing these ideas: Monster By Skillet. Also if anyone wants to do their own take on the concept then go ahead! I don't mind plus there probably will be a more in-depth look sometime in the future.

@discoknack-old @renard-dartigue @drmarune @noodlesbf-blog @omniithe-deer @mechazushi @terra-sketches

[the-v-lociraptor]

Seeing colors

A Q&J drabble

You were red and you liked me 'cause I was blue

But you touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky

"Yes, he's beautiful.", Silver had told him one day after their usual clash of metal versus metal, half asleep and bathed in the dying evening rays of rose and gold. "But how do you know that the blue he sees is the same blue that you see?"

Through Yuliy's eyes, Riddle unfurled like a crimson butterfly awakening from his coccoon and spreading wings the size of the entire sky, stars sprinkled on the delicate membranes like glitter, galaxies drawing patterns on them with a divine brush. Riddle was ethereal, both inside and out. He clawed through the hell that was thrust upon him with bloody fingers like rose petals caught in the wind, gaze up to the ladder, climbing it, lifting himself higher, higher above and beyond what he knew, what he was taught to know, what he believed his limits were.

How do you know he's the one for you, was what the knight was insinuating. But did Silver know? Did Silver know of how had Riddle tried, his ascension towards betterment? Did he see how much he cared?

They promised to work on each other together, and who if not Yuliy could challenge people who didn't know any better about the redhead? Who knew better how much he tried, how he physically struggled to contain the raging inferno inside him, curling fists until the nails drew blood, but did not let his anger upon others if he could? Who knew better that raging inferno than someone who housed a typhoon? After all, one storm knew another on a level calm breezes could not.

He had seen the kindness many believed was lost on the Teapot Tyrant. He was seeing it in his delicate touch towards his favorite hedgehogs and the Vorpal, fed sugar cubes from his tiny palms. Had seen the gentleness with which he reprimanded students who did wrong but did not know any better, educating them for their own good. He was it in the little exasperated sigh, with which Riddle even helped him and AC/DC with what they didn't understand, because existing in a magical environment without that power what like having one limb cut off or tied in the back and unusable. He saw it, he saw it, and he kept seeing it everywhere, until he could see nothing else.

And in turn, he did his best to grow accordingly, to thrive and help, all in the insipiration of that crimson butterfly, until he could see it staring at the mirror from behind his own blue eyes.

He had paused when Silver asked him. But he had an answer now.

"The thing is. I don't see blue. I see red. And together, we see lilac."

[diveyne]

no because what's really interesting to me is the way morgana's features changed.

like.

she clearly has pointed ears and it's so fascinating to me because she was born human. like, her mother was human. she trekked up mount targon while pregnant with her twins, and it's the residual power flowing from mount targon being absorbed in during the pregnancy.

when their mother dropped her sword unto the earth and with it the light and dark magic from the aspect of justice, the fact that it manifested these wings that tore from their backs is insane to me, like it was awakening something that was trapped within them because they were born with this demigod aspect to them due to the nature of mihira's pregnancy.

morgana has always been more in touch with her humanity than kayle has, i think. kayle has always been so lost in the ideals of these false prophets and righteousness in the name of holy justice and black and white when morgana sees the world for how it truly is: the world is filled with nuance and its people are multi-faceted and complex and deep and yes there is evil, but there is also so much good, and people are not what they are born and they are not always what they are made out to be, and that it is down to the mortal divinity in the humanity that is choice and free will, and morgana believes so wholeheartedly that people should be allowed to make their choices and learn from their mistakes before they are branded good or evil. she acts when it's clear that there is no good inside of them, when there is no hope for redemption. those are the people she takes down.

kayle doesn't see it that way.

kayle believes strictly in the guidelines of right or wrong, good or evil, black and white with no gray lines or battles of morality, and she cuts down anyone she perceives as evil without considering their motivations, their stories, their affinity for good, the idea or possibility that they could yet be redeemed.

and so this is why kayle is the evil twin, but kayle's ideals align so closely with that of demacia, and of course, morgana aiding those who cannot help themselves and mages and knowing the truth of demacia's roots and of kayle and everything it all stood for is something they want silenced.

morgana has spent all of her life, for thousands of years, keeping to the shadows while aiding humanity as best as she can while her sister does gods know what.

and what's more is that ... kayle has always looked so much like their mother. i think the lore has since changed and evolved beyond the girls not ever knowing their mother and now it seems that mihira was present, but more absentee than anything, and before i think it was thought that she perished and that's why they took up the split powers, but mihira being alive changes everything.

morgana resents kayle for everything she's done and everything she stands for, and i think morgana resents her mother, too, for choosing her duties above family and leaving them without a mother. kayle idolizes mihira, and truthfully, they're so alike, and i think it's also what makes morgana resent kayle even more. morgana feels scorned by her mother, and kayle. morgana has always been closer to her father, because she's ever been the one who has loved humanity for all that it was, and her father, to her, was the embodiment of what humanity should be: kind, loving, nurturing, and warm. for her mother to leave her father so anguished and break his heart and ruin their family, morgana is filled with so much rage and heartache.

when she sees kayle, she sees the spitting image of her mother, too.

i don't know if riot's ever shown a picture of kilam, but i imagine morgana looks a lot like him, too. sometimes she wishes she was more like him. i imagine he's a kind-hearted man, and he raised the girls alone as best as he could.

i know it pained her to grow beyond her father and his mortality, especially knowing all that he had to endure in his life, and that the rest of it likely wasn't what it should've been, especially in the wars kayle and morgana fought against each other.

[aischunomelody]

i wrote an essay on donald glover's first episode of GILGA Radio a day after it was on instagram-

Even though I think of Donald Glover, aka Childish Gambino, as his past of being a self-centered dork-ass Asian fetishist weirdo that still peeks out every so often, he's a man of many talents. Not only a musician, he’s an actor, a farmer, and the proprietor of an upscale boba shop. Last night, April 14th was the start of a new rollout of new songs off Atavista, a fully realized version of his previous album, 3.15.20. Unorthodox as he is, he's done this rollout through a radio show he holds on his Instagram every Sunday night at 11, and I caught the first show last night since I was up already. It was an experience that felt like I was there for both his previous eras at the same time, to the point that I downloaded the entire show to archive it for myself.

It was nice chopping it up with an old friend of mine from school among other Childish Gambino fans archiving what he was playing, and to no surprise Glover played three new songs; one wholly new to the point where it doesn't even have a title yet and the two others were new versions of songs off of his previous album. One song, Little Foot Big Foot, featured Young Nudy who did a stellar job adding an edge to an already funky song, and the other, Human Sacrifice, was at the tail end of the show, the most anticipated track by far since it's a song that was first teased in a Google Pixel ad *6 years ago.* I personally could not shut up about it, since I've heard leaks of it and it's been my favorite song he's ever done.

Other than the music he was playing during this radio show, he had fake ads for fast food, upcoming projects, and spoofs of celebrity businesses. Celebrities like Eric Andre, Tyler the Creator, and Quinta Brunson were shouting out the radio station and calling in requests, and to top it all off, Glover was interviewed by the station host Simone Beats, an enigma on her own. I say this not only because I’m not sure she actually exists, but she used an as-yet-unknown country song as her theme, playing everything on the show from Doja Cat, Radiohead, and 2 Chainz, to some incredible artists I'd never heard of like Fousheé, Lola Young, and Tom Misch.

In the interview the host had with Glover, he talked about how Childish Gambino was a project that evolved over time because he was having fun with it, how 3.15.20 was initially rushed out because of Covid but it's been finished now as Atavista, and how beef can be detrimental to the culture rather than just talking to each other. There was also discussions about Gilga, which is not just a farm where he grows literal fruit but a place to organically grow taste in all sorts of media, as well as his next projects; a film and accompanying soundtrack called Bando Stone & the New World that will be his last Childish Gambino project, a cartoon called “Country Mouse, City Mouse” about anthropomorphic mice that started as an ad for his New Balance collab, and an anime that is yet to be seen with Zack Fox, famous for gatekeeping wings on Instagram, his music- both solo and collabs like "Jesus is the One" (I Got Depression)- and his reoccurring role as Tariq on Abbott Elementary.

This sort of rollout isn't unusual for Glover; he had written a screenplay and made a short film when he released his sophomore album "Because the Internet", had crafted a mobile VR experience called PHAROS for "Awaken My Love!", and for "3.15.20", set up an interactive website with art depicting chaos in the streets as well as a loop of the songs on the album. His collabs on different projects, ranging from artists like Chance the Rapper, Azealia Banks, 21 Savage, Jhene Aiko, Jaden Smith, and Ariana Grande show the versatility of his sound over time. As it is, anyone whose major influences are LCD Soundsystem, Wu-Tang, Funkadelic and Rage Against the Machine are bound to have a sound unlike you’ve ever heard. With Gilga, he’s taken a step further and become an active tastemaker by creating what he wants to see with other people like him.

It’s a lot better than the Donald Glover/Childish Gambino I knew of in the early 2010s, where his stuff was rife with jokes about rape, murder, and so much Asian fetishization to the point that he roleplayed as an Asian woman to hype up one of his releases. As a matter of fact, he also did a lot of weird gatekeeping about “fake gamer girls” and being a “nice guy” that it was just as much a part of his persona as his music was. He wasn't the only one, as other artists like Tyler the Creator had a similar footprint online and in their artistry. At the same time, the Internet in that age was starting to let go of the try-hard, edgelord early 2000s. With the advent of social justice in the mainstream, people started to realize making light of awful situations is uninspired and ultimately blasé. As soon as AML came out, he stopped being as weird and moved on.

A part of me wants to say that his self-centered past shines through this rollout but I truly believe that it's just a part of who he is; he rightfully hypes himself up because, in his words from the interview, "I'm the Willy Wonka of this shit." Childish Gambino, born of a Wu-Tang Name Generator and an almost 20-year career of different sounds, feelings, and moods, is weird as hell, and he's proud of it. We’ve seen it with Glover acting in Community, Atlanta, Mr. And Mrs. Smith, his roles in Star Wars and Marvel, and his multiple comedy specials. More of the weirder parts of himself have toned down over time to be more refined, as it was for artists like Tyler the Creator following him. Both have had their fair share of problematic things they’ve said, and while there's no excuse for some of what was said, it seems like they've chilled out on the worse parts. It only felt right that the two of them performed together at the first weekend of this year’s Coachella. I hope that with the next show on Sunday we get even more weird but cool shit from this man. Simply put, his work speaks for itself and shows who he is- for better or worse.

A Hippocratic aphorism goes, “Art is long, life is short.” A career in multiple disciplines can be representative of who a person is, and the evolution they go through. A release as layered as this shows so much of who Donald Glover, aka Childish Gambino, and the people he’s inspired and worked with, is.

[thedysphoriadiaries]

Entry 5A - Mare Incontra Il Cielo (Sea Meets Sky) - 18 February 2023, 6:44pm

I was late.

Again.

...

I take after my mother. Truly.

Anyway, none of that matters. The past few hours are a blur. Words smear into drones, into acoustic fog. Expressions devolve into pink noise - the constant ringing I hear, when everything goes quiet (my birds made my hearing take a little bit of a beating).

There's only one thing I remember, and that's how I feel.

...

For as long as I remember, I have been swimming. I'm not alone. Others swim too, beside me. Others fly. Others, well, walk, for a lack of a better term.

The seas have been rough, but it doesn't stop me from looking up.

I've heard the stories, about those who would choose to forsake their wings. About those who'd choose to fly. But, I've never given them much thought.

I look up, as I have done countless times before. Up at those who fly. I look back down, to the sea, again. I'm not going to make the same mistake again, like last time.

...

A wave catches me by surprise. I go under. I gulp, expecting air. Water fills my lungs. I float, stationary, until someone pulls me out. I look up at their faceless body. Somehow, I feel their gaze bore into me, almost as if seeing something within me, that I didn't see. They swim off, and I watch the wake they leave behind, tasting disappointment.

...

I shake my head, dispelling the thought. I hate the water; it's far too salty. It smarts my eyes. It nicks and nips at my skin. I don't know how they do it. The air on my head feels sweet. What if...

What if I could fly?

I dive. As deep as I can go. I feel the water sting against my skin. I feel it lacerate my pores, but I keep going. I stop. The water slashes my every pore. It threatens to crush me in its grip. It hurts.

But I ignore it. I race to the surface, while the water burns me with its saline rage. While my joints scream.

The surface is close.

I burst out of the water. The others nearby look up at me. I taste the same disgust. The same worry. The anger.

But I don't care.

The air is sweet; welcoming. A reprieve from the constant assault of saline fury against my pores. Yet, I taste disgust. Fear. This time, it's not from my fellow swimmers.

I don't care. I take gulps, expecting it to burn, but, it doesn't. It lullays the burning. My gills burn, awakening from their slumber as they take in the air.

My fellow swimmers hated the air. It burned their gills, just as it did mine. The air is too sweet, but, not to them.

I wish I could stay up there forever. The cold splashing brings me back to reality.

...

The water burns more now, even though the sea is calm. It almost seems angry at me.

I stare, longingly, once more, at the sky. At the people who fly. I wish I could be like them.

Will it ever... come to pass?

...

Dove il mare incontra il cielo?

Where does the sea meet the sky?

When will I finally get the courage to grow my wings, and fly?

...

Note: I got this metaphor from a reddit post, only that the original poster referred to their experience as being unable to fly effortlessly, with others like them.

PS: This was kinda inspired by a song that describes how I feel, you can listen to it here:

[samwellwinchesterthebrave]

As promised, here's all 30 days of my NaNoWriMo poetry for 2022. Under a readmore for length

Day 1

Millions of years ago, in a different world,

Unique creatures lived and thrived.

They ruled the seas, the skies, the land.

None knew how quickly their end would come.

For eons, dinosaurs walked where we do now.

They adapted to changing climates,

Marching through whole eras of prehistory.

Until a massive comet ended their reign.

Now we study their fossilized bones and tissues,

Clues and details hidden securely in rock and dirt.

We live among their winged descendents,

Fascinated by and learning about these lost animals.

Day 2

I open my eyes and they appear.

I close them and they are still there.

Haunting all of my nightmares, all night.

They are never away from my sight.

They follow me in total silence,

I fear when they turn to violence.

Their black eyes are cold and inhuman,

No light within them does illumine.

I awaken, desperate and chilled

As a thread of hope begins to build.

Have I fled my tormentors again?

Or have they now found my waking plane?

Day 3

The feel of soft skin warming with desire

As breath, so hot and sweet, tickles my ear.

You whisper words of need that light a fire,

The ultimate path of our yearnings clear.

You rise, delighted, to my hungry touch.

Our passion and our pleasure heated grows,

Fanned fierce as to one another we clutch.

All thought abandoned in our wanton throes.

Now finally joined in mutual bliss,

One body to one body, lips to lips,

We chase our climax as frantic we kiss,

Your fingers bruisingly tight on my hips.

Here now, ecstasy, in tandem we fly

As your name bursts from my lips in a cry.

Day 4

Infinite blackness

Filled with dots of light and life

Beautiful and strange

Day 5

The storm rages above,

Cold, wild, and ruthless.

Light and sound crashing,

In waves of titanic fury.

Rain beats down in sheets,

Pelting, stinging, and soaking.

Lightning streaks in blue white,

A deadly dance of fire.

Thunder speaks in myriad voices,

Cracking, roaring, and deafening.

Drowning out prayers and cries

With careless indifference.

And yet, and yet, I exult in it,

Thrilling, beautiful, and awesome.

A natural spectacle come to life,

Wonderful and terrifying.

Day 6

Go further, get ahead,

Find you've circled right

Around to the beginning.

An ouroboros of a task,

Never completed, no rest,

No peace, never done.

And yet, plod on, unceasing,

Hoping against tired hope

For a different outcome.

Day 7

Sound ceases slowly

As silence pervades the air

Soft, enveloping

Day 8 (Dive)

Slip under the cool water

Dive into shadowed depths

Past fish, coral, and rocks

Down where no light reaches

Find life that only exists

In crushing pressure and cold

Dive ever further and find

An alien world under our own

Day 9 (Amber Owl)

Silent stalker of the night,

Amber winged and eyed,

Searching for the next meal.

Hunker down and hide,

Still, small, terrified,

Hoping not to be that meal.

An owl floats with deadly grace,

Focused, intense, hungry,

Waiting for the perfect moment

To strike.

Day 10

A skirl of bright notes in the air

As partners order, pair by pair.

They dip and sway with lovely grace

While stirring music fills the place.

A crescendo leads to the end,

Curtsies offered with a smooth bend.

Hands are offered for the next dance

While wallflowers giggle and glance.

More notes as the next song begins,

Skirts fluttering through buoyant spins.

And so the joy continues on,

Music and laughter all night long.

Day 11

Your touch

On my skin

A gasp

As pleasure builds

So close

Body to body

Wrapped inside

Our own reality

Day 12

The march of seasons

Turning of the year, ceaseless,

An unbroken wheel

Day 13 (Stardew Valley)

A sweet pastoral setting,

Bringing an old farm

Back to life.

Getting to know townsfolk,

Romance blooming

Among small town life.

Fight monsters in mines,

Look for artifacts,

Find gems and minerals.

Follow the seasons' cycles,

Day by day by day,

Satisfied and at peace.

Day 14

Effortless communication

Over such long distances.

Seeing others face to face,

Hundreds of miles away.

Hearing their voices,

Laughing and sharing,

Crying and consoling,

Connected through screens

Day 15

Absolute zero approaches

As movement and heat

Fades and fades away.

Energy breaks down and

Releases all its potential

To become its minimal state.

It is the eventual fate

Of the entire universe,

To rest in cold and silence.

Day 16 (Timelost)

Lost in time, seconds tick.

Continue in the task.

Mind consumed, minutes pass,

Until the night is half gone.

Look up, dazed, unfocused,

How could it be so late?

But the task calls again.

Time to get lost once more.

Day 17

A sea of people

Lost to the pounding music

Motion and feeling

Day 18 (Dovahkiin)

The roar of the first dragon

Is so familiar even as it's alien.

Running from the fierce fires,

Escaping your own execution.

It starts a whole new life,

As a savior, you never asked for.

Absorbing dragon souls

To learn the secrets of the dov.

The world rests on your shoulders,

Even among the races' infighting.

Only you can defeat this evil

And stop the World-Eater for all.

Day 19

Trapped in darkness,

Lost, lost, lost, lost.

No way out

No way through.

Head down, keep trudging.

Stillness equals death.

Too stubborn to die.

Are those familiar footprints?

Lost, lost, lost, lost.

Disjointed circling.

Aimless wandering.

Walking still, mechanically.

Mindless beyond hope.

Too stubborn to die.

How long has it been?

Lost, lost, lost, lost.

No name.

No face.

Only a persistent will

To face shadows.

Too stubborn to die.

Oh, it goes on forever.

Lost, lost, lost, lost.

Feet bloodied.

Muscles screaming.

A body begging for release

From this torment.

Too stubborn to die.

Day 20

What if we could dream new things?

What if we lived among Saturn's rings?

What if colors had textures?

What if the stars had gestures?

What if everything was far away?

What if rabbits said neigh?

What if water gathered in bubbles?

What if we had no more troubles?

The world would be a funhouse mirror,

A whole new universe made clearer.

Day 21 (Pain)

It starts as a warning

Prickles in the temple.

A slowly building intensity

As pain blossoms.

Before long, it takes over,

Spreading ever further.

It encompasses everything

And pain is existence.

Day 22

Unending reaches

Massive and mysterious

Beautiful wonder

Day 23

A hesitant reaching out,

Looking for connection.

Fingers on the planchette,

Letters ready on the board.

Is anyone there? Anyone listening?

Wait with baited breath,

Bodies tense and eyes sharp,

To see if the board answers.

Voices from beyond the grave,

Holding knowledge we don't.

Dare we bother what lies beyond

With pokes and prods from the living?

Day 24 (Thankful)

For family

For friends

For continuing health

For pets

For imagination

For wonder

For space

For the ocean

For possibilities

For the future

All these and more

I am thankful for

Day 25

The end approaches

Fall making way for winter

Cold and ice to come

Day 26

Falling

Every downward

Further

Past roots

Down

Into depths

Unknown

Falling

Faster now

Tumbling

Into mystery

Breathless

With fear

Shaking

Falling

Without end

Lost

Without sight

Forgotten

Without touch

Disappearing

Day 27

I lie under this stone,

Gone from friends and family.

I seek what lies beyond,

Filled with wonder and thrill.

Day 28

The end approaches

For all struggle to be done

It's time to rest now

Day 29 (Coffee)

Rich, aromatic, delicious

A morning wake up call.

Whether strong and bold

Or mild and light

Coffee is a lovely drink.

It helps tie friends together

Or helps the first steps

Of a new relationship.

It is versatile in flavor,

Changing as desired.

Day 30

The end has come.

There goes the sun.

It all falls down.

Deep under the ground.

Now it all rots.

Covered in mold spots.

No longer any hope.

Just a swinging rope.

So now say goodbye.

Heave a final sigh.

[kavaeroexe]

Idk if you do request but, if you do can you do my request

My request is muslim female reader x honkai charakter 🗿not work as a fighter I think working as a doctor or something up to you but other than fighter

I just really feel interested in reading muslim reader right now

Sorry I'm not that good at english 😔🙏

It’s alright! I am also not so good at English :D

Again? really? right in front of my salad?

doctor!male!Reader x Kiana Kaslana 

warning: typos, bad grammar  

attention! please do not try to repost my works, I only post my works on Tumblr, if anyone see someone stole my works please inform me through the comments, tag me in the works, or message me!

.

.

.

“Miss doctor, I’m here for a check-up!”

“Oh Kiana, what’s up-- KIANA YOUR LEG? WHAT THE KRIFF-”

she just sitting there, laughing like it’s nothing, but she’s one of the patients that love to check up here so.. you understand, very much understand, it’s even beyond ‘very much’ of understand..

so you stand to look at Kiana’s leg condition, absolute chaos. you work at Hyperion, so it’s normal to see kriffed-up parts that got hurt, but this girl got her leg twisted and laughed it off.

so a surgery special was prepared for this one girl, and with the help of Hyperion’s amazing facility, it will not take long for Kiana to get her leg normal, but you must warn her not to do acrobatic satanic things like she did once in Hyperion’s hall one time.

“AAAA DOCTOR IT HURTS IT HURTS UEUEUEUEU”

“if you stay silent for 5 minutes I’ll buy you a whole bucket of chicken wings.”

“okay :D”

“And if you stay silent for 10 minutes I’ll buy you 2 packets of fries”

“five!”

“Two.”

“Fine, how about three?”

“Deal, now stay silent”

“Ay ay captain”

.

.

.

“Doctor, this sandwich is delicious~! I can eat like 10 of it!!”

“That’s great... now put your cardigan off, I need to see your latest injuries..”

“Try a bite of it first then I’ll go along with your check-up!”

you sighed, looking at how bright Kiana’s face is just so that you want to eat the sandwich she offers, you took a small bite and nodded along, you must admit that it’s delicious...

“What kind of meat is this? ostrich? Lmao”

“Pork :D”

“ADKEUUAIFJSJDFDJKS-”

.

.

.

“Doctor... you look stunning, I just realized it now..”

“Focus on your academy first, Kiana.”

“I KNOW IT’S JUST.. I think I’m lucky to be able to meet you every week and else...”

you look at Kiana’s face, don’t need to take a long time to understand what you face at this moment, you’re not just an ordinary doctor, you grow and study all of the medical knowledge and you know Kiana’s behavior lately is that she’s in love with you

“I’m too old to be with you, you’re still young and shiny, there are a lot more things to achieve rather than some romance, especially with your doctor,” you replied, cleaning the tools you used earlier before Kiana visits you.

Kiana stays silent, but then she goes rage and grumpy, punching your back hysterically, “YEAH YOU’RE TOO OLD FOR ME BWEEH OLD MANNN” 

“You’ll be old one day too”

“Then I could do whatever I want with you, Doctor!!!”

“Pff I would not let you do that.”

.

.

.

it’s been 4 months since the awakened Herrscher of the void tragedy, which leaves Kiana, vessel of the herrscher gone missing, and Hyperion trying to locate where she is.

Honestly, you felt lonely, no loud screaming, no food scent in your room, and no patient needs to check up every week because they are dumb to protect themself. But you’re nothing more than a doctor, especially in Hyperion.

You can’t do anything, at all.

at one point, you feel useless

void filling your heart, you could tell that you miss Kiana, a lot.

“Kiana.. come back to us..”

.

.

.

“Kiana? she come back?” you instantly stand from your seat, rushing to get out of your practice room, to see Kiana have a small chatter with Bronya

you instantly hugged her, like you found your long-lost daughter, her face grows shocked but she accepted it delightedly.

“I’m back, doctor.”

.

.

.

Mei left, making Kiana doesn’t feel the same as before, but it’s okay, we all going to help Kiana reunite with Mei again, so everything could feel the same

now you’re both back to the starter point, where you check up on her injuries, treat them, and change her bandages, you scold her, and Kiana just nodded along, realizing her mistake, she grows older and more mature than, you think.

“I’m sorry Doctor.. everything must have been so hard for you since i-”

“I’m just glad you’re here, and I don’t like you apologizing for that stupid herrscher behavior, I would be happier if you apologized for those scars you made for yourself.” You quickly cut her words, leaving her a trail of war for her to enjoy for a moment.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

.

.

.

“Heh, now look at you, all the way as a Herrscher and now you’re still coming back here, with all the kriffing blood-!? oh my god..” you rushed yourself towards her, grabbing your tools and supplies to quickly heal and treat her wounds.

she only let out a giggle, which makes you bonk her head out of anger

“Stupid girl, should have known yourself that you still need to ease yourself with this herrscher form, didn’t the captain tell you so-!?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m here, still alive and well! because I have you, doctor!” 

she quickly jumps out from her seat, silently placing a kiss on your head, ruffling your hair with a smile, “Love you, Doctor”

“So bold, where did you learn that?” you smirk, bonking her head once again

“OH MY GOD DOCTOR I’M TRYING OKAY, I’LL DO BETTER NEXT TIME”

“Fine, and don’t try to buy me the same old-pork sandwich as a form of apologies.”

“uguguuu....”

[lovesick-panmess]

Rapture

A part two to my Armageddon AU. Warnings for depictions of blood, gore, and self-depreciation.

Levi's hand stayed pressed against the metal door, if he leaned in enough he can hear the footsteps of his younger brothers running to what he hoped was assured safety. His legs felt like jello and that he could barely hold himself up, anxiety pumping through his veins as he rushed downstairs. There was no courageous bone in his body, he was just a shitty pathetic otaku and all too eager to hide away in his room and wait for an attack to be over, for this fucking nightmare to be over. He watches Mammon continuing to fed of the doorway, trading punches and blasts to those who tried to come in. God, he was all too aware of his tail and horns, the clothes of his demon form feeling all too tight. "Levi! A little help here?!"

Mammon's shout brings him back to the despair of reality, getting a running start as he pulled the angel off of him and began to tug at its wings before completely ripping it off with his tail. The angel cries fall silent and the two brothers meet each other's eyes as the blood begins to reach their feet. "..They're just newborns, why the hell would the Celestial Realm send newborns to try and attack us?" Mammon spoke, effortlessly gutting one that attempt to fly overhead and turning away quickly, his own claws digging into the palm of his hand and it's hard to tell which of the dripping blood is his own or an angel. Levi doesn't want to think about it, it's clear when he closes his eyes and ripping apart wings like paper. He can't bear to imagine each one that he kills being around Luke's age...he just can't. "This is just for a distraction, we gotta give them time to get to Dia's castle," Mammon speaks in plan in their shared language while twisting the angel's wrist, and Levi is unable to hide his grimace from the loud crack that followed.

He keeps sinking, deeper into his own thoughts and trying to ignore the way his heart clenches at the painfilled screams and his eyes constantly shifting so he can kill on sight. There was a brief pause but sadly no relief from the attacks as he screamed, "Mammon look out!" The window of the living room shatters as an angel now armed with a sword tackles the eldest brother, Levi turns to help but finds himself surrounded with similar swords that he knows he can't let them touch him. He breathes in deeply, despite his own self-doubt, he knows that there is a reason why he is part of the most powerful in Devildom though he is at a territorial disadvantage. He snarls baring his teeth now soaked with blood and fire pooling into his gut as some of them back off in fear.

His tail acts first, grabbing an angel behind him by the throat and viciously digging his claws into their eye sockets and watching in crazed delight as the blood oozed out. He looked at their fortified expressions and found himself completely void of pity, where was that hesitation when they so eagerly attacked? Where was that fear that could have driven them away from this house? Their home...his brothers..all split apart because of this attack made anger bubble in his throat. It was feral and ugly, Levi leaving gaping holes in the bodies of already dead angels and the growing thirst for more carnage-

"Are ya done yet? Talk about overkill, Levi."

He blinked as if awakened from a long nap, removing his knee from the angel's back as he stood. They were both panting and clearly becoming exhausted, but he couldn't look away from Mammon's cocky grin and wiping off the remaining feathers. Too many questions flooded into his head, how long will they be able to defend their home? What more they could handle before eventually passing out? Were the younger brothers safe and sound? And why did Mammon look so cool at this very moment? He had watched Mammon so effortlessly fight angels that even he was struggling with, looking so strong and willing to defend their home while Levi's first thought was to run away. He wasn't brave like Mammon, he wasn't strong, even weaker angels put up a fight. He was so weak it was disgusting, he was disgusting and stupid to think that he would be worth anything in comparison to fighting with Mammon.

Bitter admiration and malicious jealousy dances in his chest, he pants and stumbles into the wall as his vision blurs. Now only showing the pure white of his eyes and the last thing he hears is Mammon distantly calling out his name...and Envy taking over. There is an orange glow emanating and pulsing as Levi's form shifts and changes, he grows larger as the scales covering his entire body are now sharp like razors. He's more snake-like, hissing and gurgling deep within his throat, and makes his way to the streets of Devildom, quick to attack any demon or angel that gets in his way.

Mammon curses as he runs after his brother and racking his brain for any way to bring him back but the sight in front of him made him stop. Watching a multitude of angels continue to stab their blades into Levi's tail and this untamable rage begins to take hold of Mammon. The mocking laughter of those surrounding him, filling his ears and drowning out any conscious thought out the window. "We'll kill you and all your brothers too! Devildom is ours for the taking." This sort of desire to make them shut the fuck up leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, black feathers completely decorating his arms as he stumbles back, trying his best to calm down. To think clearly, Lucifer would want him to keep his head on his shoulders, he would be so disappointed if Mammon couldn't keep it together from some small taunts. But such needs...were growing to be too much, the desire to protect the ones he loved became something he could no longer suppress as he let himself transform and sink deeper into this kind of greed.

The greed that the only annihilation can fulfill.

Violence.

---------

Ahhhhh I am so happy that so many people fell in love with this au! Thank you for all the likes and excitement, it really means alot ❤ and once again a thank you to the fabulous @asterronomical for not only helping me review ideas for this part two but also giving visuals into the brothers (Levi and Mammon) current forms!

I'd also love to hear some theories on why the Celestial Realm is attacking 👀

[joonie-beanie]

The King

So.

Earlier today I said this:

And then felt like writing a little bit of action/angst for a change.

The outcome is below.

All you can hear is the sound of your racing heartbeat.

“Y/N, go.”

It’s Lucifer’s command, and yet your feet won’t move.

You can barely breathe.

“Look at that. What a pathetic creature.”

The demon on the other end of the room steps forward—barely able to contain his human form as power leaks from his body. Skin slides from one side of his face, peeling from the bone with little resistance. A skull shrouded in a screen of buzzing magic is revealed, and the world seems to stand still.

Your legs shake. You’ve been around powerful demons during your stay, but none have exuded so much power that you’re literally unable to react. You know that you should be listening to Lucifer—turning tail and running from the Castle as quickly as you can—but your body remains immobile with fear.

“Father, please,” Diavolo steps forward, his arms open, but no talking shall be had.

The King of the Devildom looks at his son—the remaining skin on his face melting away as he speaks.

“I trust our kingdom to you in my time of slumber—and this is what I find.”

His hallow gaze turns to you once more. You feel as if you’ve been hit by a train—only able to watch as a black, thorned halo appears above his head. In the next beat, a cloak flares around him like fire—dark as night, and composed solely of his power. It shrouds him like armor—a display of his immense strength—and the demons around you involuntarily shiver.

Ahead of you, Diavolo slowly lowers his arms. He knows that this is not a topic his father will entertain through an open discussion.

The Devildom Prince summons his demonic form, his own magic rising on his skin as he regards the King with bright eyes.

His father can hardly contain his rage at the display.

“I am your KING, boy! You and your court seem to have forgotten that you are nothing but an uncrowned heir.” The demon holds his head high, power extending throughout the room. It feels like the force of gravity has changed, and your knees give out. The only thing keeping you from falling to the floor is Mammon, who is quick to grab your elbow. When you glance to him, you can see the fear in his eyes. The typically loud-mouthed demon has never looked so serious.

“I leave the realm to you in the hope that you continue my path, and yet here you are—,” a sour laugh leaves the King. “Entertaining humans--,” you suddenly remember that you’re not the only exchange student present—your eyes shifting over to look at Solomon, who has broken into a cold sweat. “—and even angels.”

A few paces behind you, Simeon has Luke tucked behind his back.

“Have the demons forgotten that we are not meant to be friends to everyone?”

The King paces forward, and you see the brothers flinch. They’re more on edge than you’ve ever seen—their demons forms materializing as they watch Diavolo’s father with unwavering gazes.

None of them have forgotten the King, and the way he’d ruled the Devildom before Diavolo had taken the throne. There was always trouble between the realms—demons causing mischief, and ruining balance. Trust was basically nonexistent with the celestial realm, and in time, the King had hoped to stage a revolution. To gain more power for himself—to let all beings know that demons have always been, and will continue to be, the superior race.

When the King had handed the torch off to Diavolo—electing to slumber and reserve his power until the time was right—he’d blindly assumed that his son held his ideals. That he’d conditioned Diavolo well enough to be the perfect heir—a mere vessel for his will.

It’s not until right now that he realizes how wrong he was in doing so.

His son had tricked him—hidden away his true intentions until the moment he relinquished power. And the King can only assume based on the fact that angels and humans are currently infesting his home, that Diavolo had plotted all along to undo the chaos he’d wrought.

His son is the complete opposite of him, and has clearly been working to establish balance between the three worlds in his absence.

The King cannot continue to let this go on.

“This mutiny ends today.”

The demon raises his hand—fingers spread wide. Diavolo lurches forward, grabbing his father’s wrist—the King now nothing more than a skeleton shrouded by raw magical energy—and yanks it towards the sky. Not a moment later, a pillar of dark light extends from the King’s hand—completely obliterating the ceiling above his head. The entire castle shakes—sizable chunks of debris raining overhead.

A hand grabs your wrist, tugging you backwards. Whipping your head around, you note that the hand belongs to Solomon. The sorcerer has gone white in the face—his eyes wide, and footsteps hurried as he leads you to the exit at the rear of the room. Simeon and Luke are already ahead of you, practically running to escape as Barbatos ushers them into the hall.

As your fellow human drags you away, you can’t help but glance back at the demon brothers you’ve come to love. Their hackles have risen—power leaking from their forms as they ready themselves for the King’s next move.

“We can’t just leave them to fight!” you say, finally managing to find your voice. However, despite your worry for them, you don’t allow yourself to stop in your escape—your pace quick as Barbatos leads the group of exchange students through the corridors.

Around you, the palace shakes once more. There’s so much magic in the air that you can almost see it crackling.

“Y/N, you must understand that what’s about to happen is something you cannot aid in,” Barbatos informs you, pulling open a door that leads to the garden behind the castle. “Right now, we need to get you all to safety.”

“We’ll take them to the celestial realm with us,” Simeon pipes up, his voice tight. Despite being an angel, and a fairly powerful one at that, he’s aware of how dangerous the current situation is. As much as he would love to stay and help his fallen brothers, it is not his place to meddle with royal affairs. Especially ones that are shaping up to be a coup.

Mind reeling, you hardly have a moment to stop and collect your thoughts—not until you realize you’re standing on the portal to the celestial realm. Luke reaches out to grab your hand as a tremor shakes the earth at your feet.

You feel as if your heart is being torn from your chest.

“Barbatos! Please, I can’t leave them—you, and Diavolo—like this—”

“Y/N,” he interrupts you with a smile. The butler is obviously worried himself, and yet the look on his face is kind as ever. “Lord Diavolo has been preparing for this day for hundreds of years. The awakening of the King at this time was not expected, but you must trust in the Prince, as well as Lucifer and his brothers. They are the strongest demons in the Devildom. They will live to see you again.”

You open your mouth to protest, but end up biting your lip. You grip Luke’s hand tightly, tears welling in your eyes.

There’s nothing you can do that will be of any help to them.

“We will be in contact with you soon,” Barbatos assures Simeon, the portal at your feet activating with a dim glow. The angel nods.

“Please. Be safe, my friends.”

The magic at your feet grows brighter, but before the portal can whisk you away, there’s a loud bang from the castle.

You look up just in time to see Belphegor rocketing through the castle's outer wall—completely limp as debris falls around him. Beel appears through the plume of forming smoke a beat later—wings fluttering behind him as he reaches out, trying to get a grip on his twin brother.

Even from a distance, you can tell that they’re both covered in blood.

“Be--!,” you open your mouth, trying to call out to them, but the Devildom disappears from in front of you. The next moment, your eyes are assaulted by the brilliant scenery of the celestial realm. Your legs immediately give out, and you collapse onto the pavement at your feet.

You think you hear Simeon calling out to you, but his voice sounds so far.

You’re too overwhelmed.

Everything goes black.

[kettlequills]

ok so this was inspired by this post made by @argisthebulwark - check her blog out! - about dovahkiin soulmates that could feel each other's pain. naturally i ran with the concept of dragonborn soulmates. feat. my ldb laataazin/miraak.

Laataazin has always felt trapped. Before they are Laat-aaz, even, when they are a nameless prisoner, hands-bound, another to be executed through a simple whim of fate. No memories then in the buzzing darkness of their mind, but a feeling of fear, confusion, brief-dawning wonderment on the heels of hot green rage in the drumming space of their chest that was theirs-and-not-theirs. Breath hurting, unused lungs and trembling hands that will not grip round the hilt of the sword Hadvar tries to press into their hands like they know it ought. Like they know scars on their bodies – body, for there is only one Dragonborn, only one.

How dare, their mind rages, how dare the gods try to discard me.

These thoughts, these hungers, these fears, are surely Laataazin’s alone, clear as Masser’s moonlight in the dark sky.

They have known imprisonment, in the cold, whispering bowels of Dragonsreach dungeons, where Mephala murmurs maliciously in every iron bar and chiselled stone, hissing breaths dampening, soft and light as cobwebs falling upon a sleeper’s eye, sanity, safety, sight. Trying to tempt, twist, torment total truth from the prisoner-that-would-be-Laataazin, named Dovahkiin and wrestling the ashes of Mirmulnir into restless ebb. Oil-and-ink in Laat’s nose, and a will that is theirs-and-not-theirs, resistant, defiant, no more daedra than dragonfire, sings firm around Mephala’s words, like the thrum of earthbones a song that refuses to be a bound-and-fooled-slave again.

Don’t complain so much, says the thoughts-that-are-Laataazin, they’ll let you out.

Their dragon-soul, for it must be theirs, is loud, angry, knows their head. It refuses to be quieted, grumbles and snaps at the rolls and reams of papery scrolls the Greybeards set down in front of them, snarling answers in a mother-tongue Laataazin has never known, with the air of distant, impatient distraction, like wings brushing across planes. Laataazin is not much of a reader, puzzles through relearning letters in dusty texts that take bored moments to recall when their body slumps softening into slow sleep. They wake with understanding and vague, boundless frustration, dragon-words in dragon-soul that mutter about Stupid fools and their vapid teachings, you will never learn with these chains on your wings.

Laataazin meditates for endless hours on frigid snowcaps with Paarthurnax’s breath steaming the snow and still thinks of smashing skulls and bloodied steel, still thinks of broken wills and shattered spirits.

It is, they tell Paarthurnax, a losing battle. There is something in them that wants out, and it will stop at nothing, nothing, to claw itself free from the trap locked shut around its howling muzzle.

Mortality is a losing battle, Paarthurnax reminds them. It is their nature to beat against the bars of inevitability, and turn their faces from the grind of time.

Hypocritical lizard, the soul-that-must-be-Laataazin’s mutters, and Laataazin chooses not to share this or the smile it provokes.

Laataazin goes about their divine-driven hunting of twin-souled dragons, who speak to them in a language they know, who challenge them to fights they win, who know them and are stranger to them in a way that only the careless and god-flung may be. They do not want to kill the dragons that are like themselves, who look at the sky and see a glorious road untravelled rather than the distant god-realm for no mortal to cross.

Your soft heart will do us harm, their soul reminds them. Do not spare what hungers to hurt.

Delphine tells them that they are not bloodthirsty enough, that they accept the surrender of too many, and create surrender still where there is not even that. That there is no point sparing monsters, and that Laataazin has a duty, a destiny, a fate.

Laataazin tells Delphine and their soul both that they have chosen a different path. But Akatosh does not make the same mistake twice, and this time, there is no give in the leash of fate wrapped tightly around the neck of the Last Dragonborn.

Ushered by inevitability, they go to face Alduin, and within them their soul rants and raves for its freedom. Fate! Fate! The gods laugh at us.

In Sovngarde, they feel empty, empty. It is a dead place for dead souls, and there is no place for living ties in bodies that breathe and fates that twine. Laataazin’s chest feels cold and dim, unwarmed by so total an omnipresence they had thought it part of themselves. It is not, they know now. There is… something, someone, else.

Gormlaith’s golden hair shines like septims when she smiles at Laataazin, all bared teeth. I knew you would come around, she says, and Laataazin wonders which of them she is talking to, Alduin-that-is-Akatosh, or Laataazin-that-is-trapped. Like standing in a boxful of mirrors, making eye-contact with a thousand versions of an image, an icon, a legend, borne through the ages to consume itself.

It is done. Alduin returns to himself, and fate twirls the key to the shackles of its Last prisoner. Tsun drags their weeping body from the gate and casts it into the realm of air and sunlight, wordless in the face of their inappropriate grief. When Laataazin returns, staggering and coughing out their lungs onto the windswept emptiness of the snow-throat beneath the watching dragon-eyes, feeling slams back into them with all the force of a tidal wave. Pure, blistering rage, fanned so hot it can only be the most animal of panic.

Where did you go? demands the thing-that-is-not-Laataazin. Why couldn’t I feel you?

Laataazin presses their hand to their chest and feels relief, relief, vast enough to swallow the sun.

I thought I had lost you, the prisoner thinks.

Come to me, longs the other.

What force on Tamriel could resist a plea like that? To Solstheim it is and kneeling in the hot ash Laataazin feels the sky all around them open up and his presence close in like breath on their neck.

You are so much louder here, Laataazin tells him, their steps still wobbly from the boat.

You walk on my land now, Miraak replies, and what a wonder to know his name, to touch with travel-sore body land his own has walked, see with dust-stung eyes what his has seen. I grow ever nearer to you.

You did not need to enslave these people, Laataazin thinks at the Tree Stone, watching empty-eyed cultists and blankened reavers work on towering edifices of stone. The mumbling figures remind them of Sovngarde, that terrible emptiness where once a gnawing pain sat. I am here.

I did not think you would come. Miraak’s admission is grudging, a little bitter. But as Laataazin walks through the stone doors of the temple, they hear the clatter of tools dropping, and the shouts of startled reavers.

Laat grins, feels it mark their face wide and feral. Put your best panties on then, for I shall see you soon.

Do not keep me waiting any longer. His pain is audible in the bones that house their heart, his impatience like whips licking the soles of their feet, his eagerness like teeth to their neck. Laataazin opens the Book, and there he is.

“You are shorter than I expected,” is what the soul-of-their-soul tells them, towering over them, crowned in blue and gold like fearless god and dripping ink like blood.

“And you are as obnoxious as I predicted,” Laataazin says, but already they are approaching him, and he does not move away but flinches when their hands meet his chest.

They bear together his pain from centuries of untouched isolation, the nerves awakened by another that burn like needles and dragon-fire, and they bear together the pleasure too, found in smoothing gauntleted hands over thick robes, found in solidity, presence.

I would touch you like this everywhere you could bear it, then more, Laataazin thinks, and their hands come away inkstained when they lift them to cup the golden mask, which tilts, as if its wearer has flinched again at the thought whispered into the ear of his mind like a promise.

The prince that Laataazin favours most is not cunning Mephala who whispers to them in Whiterun, nor Hermeaus Mora, who believes himself masterful gardener of all, but ruby-red Sanguine, who with a gift of a loving if unconventional wife found in a night of revelry wins anew with each feathered kiss their loyalty. It is therefore Miraak who tears himself from this indulgence of touch first, and takes a few steps back. The words of fate are a well-settled cloak employing the ruthless machine of purpose.

“And so the First meets the Last at the summit of Apocrypha,” Miraak says, ringing, proud. “Tell me, did you enjoy the dregs of my destiny?”

“If you had not turned from your fate to kill Alduin, I would not have awoken,” Laataazin replies, dryly, “so to some extent, yes. To other extents, fuck you.”

“That same fate decrees you must die for me to win my freedom.” Miraak’s mask is expressionless, but Laataazin does not need it – they can feel through the glass of body-barriers the surge and roil of the infection of wounds thousands of years untreated, the bitterness, the fear. It has beat within their heart from the very first moment of their waking in Helgen, as their grief, their loss, burns like wildfires in his.

“Freedom?” says one prisoner to another. “What freedom is this? Aren’t you tired of being what they ask of you? Haven’t you paid the price?”

“Do you not feel how the world has warped around you since you awoke?” Miraak’s hand is tightening on his sword hilt, but he does not draw. “You cannot die, you do not sleep, you are not real, or you alone exist – there can only be one Dragonborn.”

“We will both be free,” Laataazin asserts.

“Time, and reality, would not survive us both,” Miraak says, but Laataazin knows their dragon-soul, and knows he is hungry, hungry, and tired of cages.

Boldly, Laataazin reaches out. Miraak takes their hand, masked eyes searching, like he is a man on open water clinging to the uncertain shelter of driftwood.

“That is Akatosh’s problem,” says Laataazin, “I choose to have you.”

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[incorrectsmashbrosquotes]

Lucas' Persona Awakening

It was supposed to be a typically normal day in the Smash Bros Mansion. Nothing too bad or anything. Just a simple picnic between Smashers and Assist Trophies to pass the time on a normal afternoon.

However, that was until…he…showed up. Porky, the cause of most, if not all of Lucas’  problems, decided to show his face once again. And this time, he didn’t come alone. He had brought the Pigmask Army and Masked Man along with him.

Mario: Everyone, be careful!

Link: Damn, there’s too many of them!

Due to the sudden attack and sheer numbers of soldiers at Porky’s disposal, the Smashers were left unprepared and were soon overtaken. They were soon all held down by the Pigmask soldiers while Porky sat confidently in his spider mech.

Porky: Heh! This is Smash Bros? They should rename it Porky Bros due to how strong I am!

Ness: Shut up, Porky! You just have an insane amount of people that snuck attack us.

Porky: Aw, Ness. It hurts when you talk to me like that. (He goes over and pats his head) Aren’t we super best friends?

Ness: No. Literally, we weren’t even slightly friends.

Porky, sighs: Well, whatever. Not like you can do anything to stop me.

Masked Man is staring at Lucas, who was being pinned down with more Pigmasks than everyone else.

Lucas: Gah!

Masked Man: …..

Porky: What is it, Right Hand Masked Man? (Looks over and sees Lucas) Oh, it’s him! He’s the one who tried to foil my plans before! Isn’t this lovely? Not that I remember this runt named Lucas, but still.

Lucas: Let my brother go, you monster!

Porky: What? Your brother? Now, there’s two things wrong with that sentence. A. He’s my secretary/lieutenant. B. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be a bloody corpse in the middle of some forest or something. Wherever my men saw his sorry sack. I made him way cooler.

Lucas: HE DIED BECAUSE OF SOMETHING YOU CREATED, YOU ASS!

Porky: Woah! Language. Didn’t your mother ever tell you-

Lucas, practically growling: Finish that line, and you’re gonna pray it was me who was killed by the Mecha Drago.

Porky: Mecha…wait…waaaaaait, you’re from Tazmily, right? Oh, I get it! Well, I know it’s a bit late, but how about I give you a little gift as consolation?

Lucas: What?

Porky snapped his fingers, and about twenty Mecha Dragos burst into the mansion. Lucas froze, a horrifying memory coming back.

Porky, smiling evily: That’s right! These things were such a huge part of your life, practically being a turning point for it. So why not have a little reunion with the ones who changed your life? Of course, I had to clone it after your hillbilly father killed the original. But why stop at one, am I right?

Ness: You jerk! Leave Lucas alone!

Ashley: You fiend…If you so much as harm a hair on his head…!

Porky, looking at Ness with a frown: ….Ness, you’ve made so many new friends. I thought I was gonna be your best friend forever. But you went and replaced me.

Ness: We were never friends.

Porky: You shut your mouth! Anyway, I decided to come to a choice. We’ll have a whole buffet of nostalgia!

Porky snaps once again. All of the Pigmasks move the Smashers up to their feet.

Porky: Lucas can get a flashback of him losing his loved ones due to the Mecha Dragos, and I’ll get a sick kick out of it!

Lucas: W-What?!

Yoshi: Don’t worry. They’re basically mechanical Yoshi’s. I can communicate with them.

Yoshi tried, but was immediately smacked by a Mecha Drago.

Yoshi: Okay…it didn’t work…

The Mecha Drago’s took a step towards everyone, who were all still restrained by the Pigmasks. Lucas’ breathing began to speed up. It was all happening again…and like before, he’d be unable to do anything about it. Was he going to lose more people?

Lucas: Porky, stop!

Porky: Heheheh, why? You can’t stop fate. I’m going to rule the world and rename Smash Bros into Porky Bros, and you…

Porky smiles and looks at Masked Man.

Porky: Hey, Secretary/Lieutenant. You wanna do the honors and kill this kid?

Masked Man simply looked at Lucas with a blank stare. There was no emotion. Just a cold, lifeless stare. But instead of an answer, he threw a capsule which summoned an Ultimate Chimera.

Porky: Ohoho! An Ultimate Chimera, I love it! A bite from them can crush metal! And considering Lucas is all flesh and bones….hopefully I’ll have enough to make something of it. So look on the bright side, Lucas! You might get to work with your dear brother after all! That, or you’ll end up like your mom. Hehehehe….Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

Ness: Lucas!

Ashley: Unhand me! Lucas!

Toon Link: Those things are an instadeath!

Lucas wasn’t concerned about the Ultimate Chimera slowly approaching him, even if getting bitten was certain and VERY painful death. He was more concerned about the Mecha Dragos. Once again, the people he loved, his newfound family in Smash was going to be killed by the same monster that took away and ruined his family and childhood. Was that his fate? Death all around him and losing everyone he cares about.

???: What’s wrong? Are you truly going to let history repeat itself? Are they not your dear friends?

Lucas paused. Was…was that a voice?

???: Failure to act will result in their death. Are you truly able to let people as simply as that? Are you not tired of constantly losing others? Do you not want to end this cruel cycle of death?

Lucas, under his breath: I…I am….

???: …Hm. I can understand your resolve based on your emotions. Very well.

Ba-dump.

The whole world seemed to go into slow motion as sharp pain rang throughout his whole body, more prominent in his head. No…it was if time itself stopped. A currently blue flame in the shape of a body appeared before Lucas.

???: I am thou…thou art I….Thou who art willing to do battle against the cruel fortune of death for thine happiness! Call upon my name, and bask in your rebirth, my dear friend!

???: Show no mercy to all who dare harm your loved ones, and exact vengeance on those who have taken what cannot be reclaimed!

Lucas slowly looks up at the Ultimate Chimera, who was inches away from him and was seconds away from chomping him. Time began to move back to normal.

Porky: Now, all of you die! Die for my ascension!

In an instant, the Ultimate Chimera was flung across the other side of the room, and the Pigmasks that were restraining Lucas were blown back by a mysterious force. Everyone looked back at him in surprise.

A blue glow slowly emanated from the ground, growing in color and brightness before growing into a circular flame, spinning around Lucas more and more.

Lucas: Hey, Porky….I’ll be your friend…

In his words, there was no kindness, nor rage. It was a quiet calm, but a very offsetting one at that.

Lucas: But before I do officially become your friend…I need you to do one thing for me…

Porky: W-What the…?

Lucas looked up at Porky, his eyes glowing a piercing yellow. The azure flames that had circled him had now over taken his entire body

Lucas: Please….Could you…the Mecha Dragos, and the rest of the Pigmasks… die for me?

The flames burst away, and on Lucas’ face was a mask. It appeared to be white, dragon shaped mask with some red outlines and a Dragon Needle in the middle. Lucas had a wide smile on his face, and his eyes were bloodshot.

It was safe to assume Lucas had handled the Mecha Drago and the rest of Porky’s army. Porky had to retreat, of course. Lucas fainted immediately afterwards. He couldn’t quite remember what his Persona looked like though, but it definitely wouldn’t be the last time he had an encounter with it.

….

………

I am thou, thou art I…. Thou hath acquired a new vow….

It shall become the wings of rebellion that breaketh thy chains of captivity.

With the birth of the Death Persona, I obtained the winds of blessing that  shall lead to freedom and new power….

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 44

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​ Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter

Power is a precious thing. Power commands others, it shapes lives and holds the upper hand over those who don't possess it. 

Being hit with a flash of it, you had to admit it all held true. 

There was no way for you to fight the magical hit that flung you backward. Nothing you could do to cushion the floor slamming the air out of your lungs and the blood spilling in your mouth as your teeth cut the soft tissue.

The sheer power of the hit sent you rolling across the floor and crushing into a pillar. Dry leaves twisted down onto your gasping body as you fought to stay conscious. The world tilted to the side, and you couldn't fix it. You were powerless, tossed to the side and forgotten as true power unleashed. 

Red leaves whipped through the air like razors in the unnatural wind that tore them off the pillars and tossed the gathered lords alike. Bones broke, stone crumbled, and the screams echoed under the high ceiling. Pillars broke, and part of the galleries to the right hung low, the strained wood groaning. 

The guards rushed chaotically throughout the hall, some pulling out fallen lords, some bracing their shields against the wind and the shards it tossed. 

And in the center of it all rose the Queen, her pale gown bellowing like moth wings on the winds she gathered. Her skin was still dark, but the tiny speckles peppering it that used to remind you of stars over the night sky shone with light threatening to blind anyone foolish enough to look too closely. Strange power buzzed through the air, rising hair on your arms and neck, like lighting seconds from striking. 

The Queen's arms were outstretched, her head tipped back, as if she was reveling in crowds singing praise to her. The horn-like crescent moon, the half broken and yellowing bone, melted off the jewelry she had adorned it with. 

The Prince was nowhere to be seen. Given how close he had stood when the Queen showed her true self, he must've ended somewhere under the ruined gallery, or perhaps thrown into the river. Faroq and a few guards crawled over the place. 

You bent in half, coughing up the dust swirling in the air. The Queen rose higher, held mid-air by powers she had hidden all these centuries. Cracks spread through the stone, rising high through the walls like a time-lapse of a spiders web.

You wondered how many beings she had killed to stall off her fading. How many she used to secure the Rifts instead of lending off her own essence. 

There was no way you could've predicted this outcome. 

And maybe that spoke poorly of you, but you had more important matters at hand than worrying about it. Crawling around the pillar, you hid from the Queen's eyes as you groped around in your pocket. 

The sword indeed cut through all. 

The cuffs fell from your wrists. You looked around, and found Loki behind a pillar under the opposite wall. 

"Do we have a plan?" 

You cursed violently. Your heart jumped into your throat as you looked up, to where Peter hung upside down on the pillar. 

"Sorry!" 

His suit was dusty, but the boy seemed to be fine and that was enough to make your shoulders sag with relief. But you were quickly brought back to reality as the remnants of the dais joined the debris flying through the air. 

"So… What's the plan?" 

You gestured vaguely toward it. "That was the plan." 

 "It clearly worked." Peter nodded. "What next?" 

The ground shook under your feet as if the palace itself strained into movement. The wooden galleries cracked and rained splinters. 

"Now we move," you said, wanting nothing less than to be crushed. 

But before you managed a step, the last of the leaves joined the forming cyclone, picking up everything on its way. A body hit the floor in front of you. Silver blood streamed down the lord's face, his horns broken and his legs—

You reached out, hoping to pull him behind the still standing pillar, but your hand closed around his robe - and then he died. His body disintegrated into ash that spilled around, quickly getting picked up by the storm brewing inside the hall. Gusts of grey dust swirled once before they joined the wind, leaving you frozen to the spot. 

A piece of almost forgotten memory resurfaced. Dwellers of the Edge did not die. Their essence joined the Edge, filling the Rifts and bringing back the balance. No bodies were left behind. 

Wood tore from the galleries overhead, but you couldn't move as you watched the wild gusts of wind. Among the debris, wooden planks, shards and pieces of lost weaponry, you could pick up loose bundles of clothes. 

Peter jumped off the pillar and shook you by the shoulder, but you couldn't stop looking. So many have died, so many were sacrificed to buy the years for-

You were hurled off the ground, the web stretching painfully as it fought against the wind. You kept forgetting how strong Peter had become after the accident that awakened his superpowers. The gallery you had hid under just moments ago finally gave in to the violence and fell down, toppling the pillar. 

Loki assessed you when Peter let go of you. The boy watched the cracks in the walls spread. Nowhere was safe enough, but there was no way out. The debris had already blocked off the exit. The lords and guards—those still alive—hid at the far end of the hall, trying to reach the still standing galleries overhead and the backdoor. 

"Are you okay?" Loki's voice cut through your hazy thoughts. He himself was bruised, but otherwise uninjured. 

You nodded, swallowing with effort. "We have to stop her." 

You didn't waste any time. Using the sword, you cut through Loki's cuffs, finally freeing his magic. 

Loki took a deep breath, feeling it rushing back to him, distorted by the elemental cyclone raging deeper in the hall, but still his. Still powerful. 

Peter noticed the expression on his face. He was glad the god was on their side. 

"Peter, darling, do you think you could distract her a little?" 

Peter, the darling, took a peek from behind the pillar. The guards fought with each other, the loyal protecting the queen gathering her powers, and the rational trying to stop them. 

"...sure. Easy peasy."

Loki and you braced for the sprint. Peter rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tingling of the adrenaline spreading through his arms. 

"Easy peasy," he repeated and shot his webs. 

Peter flew toward the unbroken half of the galleries and kicked hard into the last pillar standing beneath them. The heavy marble, already cracked underneath all the weight, strained and gave up. 

Peter jumped to the wall and watched the winds pick up the debris and hurl it straight toward the fighting crowd. Some managed to jump away in time. Some didn't. 

Peter didn't wait to see the outcome, because even then he could clearly see how much the guards loyal to the Queen outnumbered the rest. They spilled blood and ash, separating the Queen from whoever might want to stop her. 

The boy was new to this world, but even he lacked hesitation as he climbed higher, jumping over the momentarily growing cracks. But he didn't aim for the ceiling. 

Peter braced himself, plastering his feet to the wall, and shot his webs to the heavy crystals growing from the highest peak of the hall's ceiling. Their light buzzed, as if even their essence was being pulled by the woman beneath. But it didn't matter. All that Peter was focused on was the damage already done by her. He pulled. 

There was a second where the stone seemed unmoving, fighting against the boy's efforts. Then, so slowly that an eye could barely notice, the impossibly heavy slabs of stone and crystal fell. 

Hidden deep in the eye of the storm, where the air was as still as if petrified, the Queen drank all the essence being spilled around her. Not once since the great wars ended had so many dwellers of the Edge gathered in one place. They were solitary beings to the core - always wandering, for to settle meant to define and lose themselves to the illusion of stability at the edge of the universe - the most unstable place of them all. Almost nothing could make them gather again, not like the war that had united them millenia ago. 

So war it shall be, the Queen who would not sacrifice herself for anyone had decided. War and a life long and solitary. As it always was on Edge. 

The crystals shone one last time as they fell. 

But the Queen would not die like that. 

Stone was ripped from the floor. Pillars picked up like sticks. Wood and steel gathered with them as they slammed into the crystals, forcing them to the side, flying over the woman in the center of the chaos. The guards standing vigil around her didn't have time to dodge. 

Screams were cut-short in the rumbling wind. Lives died out one by one. The Queen's eyes fluttered when she caught their essence and took it. 

"Why?" 

One shout broke through the noise, sharp and hopeless. 

"Why?" repeated the female guard with violent, deep scars over her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she crawled over the debris, over the splinters she didn't feel stained with blood. 

The Queen frowned over the ruined, foolish woman. Shards aligned behind her. 

"Long shall I live," the Queen said, but the words never reached the guard. Her head rolled down the steps. 

From the other end of the hall, you couldn't see any of it, but it didn't mean you were free of problems. Peter had managed to pull the Queen's attention elsewhere, earning Loki and you time to brace through the chaos, but your advance was halted by the thing you liked the least in that world. 

The sword indeed cut through anything, and you were madly glad about it as you braced through the oncoming waves of deformed, half-finished monsters the Queen's magic raised from the stone. 

But you had to move through them. Someone had to stop her. 

Even from so far away, you could see the people who made it through the debris. They tried to heave the stone away from the exit, and fell and faded away as their essence was pried off their bodies until nothing was left. For reasons beyond you, you and Loki seemed to hold up better. But even you started to feel the strain the closer you moved, the sort of heaviness settling deep in your bones that threatened to overwhelm you. 

Loki was a steady force by your side, his magic sending flashes through the ruined hall. He turned stone after stone into shimmering vipers, their scales jade and their fangs merciless as they bore into the Queen's puppets. 

You kicked a deformed stag out of the way, too tired to raise your sword. Loki rushed to the path you cleared, the air ripped from his lungs with the proximity of the dais' remains. You couldn't go any further. Your strength wore thinner with each step. 

But he could do it, Loki forced himself to believe, as he dug his heels into the cracked floor, closer and closer to the center of the chaos. Splinters and debris hit the side of his face and back and he could barely see through the hair falling into his eyes, but Loki knew what he needed to do. 

With a final jump, he dug his fingers deep into the dry, orange vines entwined around a fallen pillar. He felt his magic surge into them, forming a slithering mass of scales and fast, agile bodies. They rushed to fulfill the only command in their heads. 

The Queen rose higher, propelled on the phantom winds, disgust and rage warped her features. She whipped her hands, sending bursts of debris to shatter the snakes, but more rose from behind the pillar. And then it turned to one too. 

Loki quickly rolled to the side as the massive body uncoiled to its full fifteen feet of length. He felt his magic withering when it crashed through the air barrier around the woman, but the viper ripped through it with all its might, ignoring the debris thrown its way. The thick scales brushed it off like dust. The snake tensed. 

And struck.

Mindless rage twisted the Queen's face as she made the final attempt to stop the beast and threw all her power against it. 

Pain erupted deep in Loki's head, twisting and throwing him to his knees as it shattered through his every nerve. The snake vanished, its body crushed and broken as it turned back to stone. Warm blood trickled down Loki's chin as he coughed more of it up, the pain bending him to the ground. All magic, weak and strong, has a price - that was the first lesson in every magic wielder's education. And whenever one's magic was overpowered, they had to pay it. 

Loki's lungs ripped into pieces as he struggled to take a breath, to even move a muscle. All he managed was to lift his head. The Queen heaved onto the ground, her breath ragged as well, but she was far from done. 

The lords were either gone or barely alive. The guards injured or dead. 

And Loki ran out of tricks as the pain hammered through his head. 

He had never imagined that he'd die in such a foreign place, drifting out of consciousness to the distant rumbling of the river he once-

No. Not distant. 

Nearing. 

All thoughts scattered from Loki's head as he beheld the river rising high to the open balcony at the side of the palace, forming an impossible wave behind a person just crawling over the railing. 

The Prince was dripping wet. And furious. 

The tidal wave swarmed over the hall, and crashed right where the Queen stood. Loki managed to close his eyes as he was swept by the force of nature and thrown against the shattered mess the galleries had become. 

But the wave parted right in front of the Queen, whose skin glowed through the star-like speckles as she forced the wind to part the water. 

"I'm not going to die for anyone's sake," she spit as the wave stopped, the water covering the hall. 

"It's an honor to save others." 

"Not to me. Not to all those destined to die in their stead." 

Winds tore at the water, the mist rising thick to obscure and hide.

But the Prince didn't let the Queen play whatever trick she devised. Water leaped to his hands as he rushed to close the distance. Thin, sharp whips cut and sliced through the mist, but the Queen dodged, fast and lithe as a shadow while all around, those scattered pieces of debris stirred back to life. 

Loki's hand shook as he tore it from his mouth, bloody and cold. On the other side of the fight, he could see a familiar head peeking from behind a boulder. Something in his chest clenched tight. You were a reckless human, and whatever plan you were about to use, would likely end in a way Loki didn't want to imagine. Couldn't. 

So he forced himself upward just a little bit, putting the hand into the water gathering in the cracked stone. 

And then he turned it into ice. 

Shards and needles rose from the ground, each sharper than the previous, and all aimed at the ground-bound Queen. 

She kept on twisting and parrying, even as the air became heavier, harder to bring into lungs. The sweat on the Prince's face mixed with water. His night-black skin paled, his attacks became sloppier. 

He didn't see the wind slamming into his side. He slid over the ice as the Queen picked one of the lost, forgotten daggers and aimed—

She stilled, her feet unmoving. Out of the corner of his eye, Loki saw Peter aiming more and more his webs at her, slowing her down just a bit. It wouldn't work, wouldn't hurt her. 

But the sword you threw at her would. 

It was a reckless, hasty idea. 

But fear shadowed her face as the Queen struggled against the web, twisting in place and out of the path—

The sword missed, by a hair's width. 

But the ice shard didn't. 

The Prince looked his Queen in the eyes as he pushed it further into her chest, and twisted against the bone and flesh. Thick blood streamed down his hands. He didn't move as she clawed against his face, against his hands that held the translucent spike burrowed deep into her heart. 

The Queen was silent as she faded, her essence at last leaving. 

The crooked horn on her head faded first, turning into dark ash. The Edge was quiet and still as her night-kissed skin crumbled next, the star speckles falling with it. 

Last was the gown, the moth wings swelling for the final time before they too fell, empty. 

Something changed in the world, like something deep in its core had finally filled. But it didn't matter to the few survivors, not really. 

The pain in Loki's head had finally lessened. He took a deep, filling breath, tasting the air that was at last coming into his lungs. And as much as it was a relief for this mess, this chaos, to be over, Loki's hammering heart only slowed when he finally found you, limping toward him, the boy trailing behind. 

You noted the blood crusting Loki's face. "You okay?" 

He nodded, trying and failing to find the right words. 

You slumped to the floor next to him and embraced him tightly, the words failing you too. Loki sighed, his hands at last steady against your back. He reached out to Peter. Another warm, battered body tugged into his side in a flash. 

"I thought alien abduction would be less exhausting," the boy admitted quietly into Loki's shoulder. "It's still better than calculus, though." 

You barked a laugh. 

Loki just held the two of you, still stunned by the miracle that let you all survive. 

Many were not as lucky, Loki knew. Traces of countless lost lives filled the ruined hall, the sheer scale of what just happened hard to comprehend. 

One man stood tall among the ruins of his world, blood still fresh on his hands. 

Loki met the Prince's stare, empty eyes filled with weariness and betrayal that hurt deeper than any bruises or cuts. The fight was over, but its consequences would take a long time to heal. To stop hurting. 

The Prince walked away, silent and unattended by any of the guards, pulling the last of the people out of the ruins.