#Ray shredding to high heaven

[ezratheunready]

The 2011 London iTunes festival live recording of vampires will never hurt you is the closest think I will ever encounter that induces the feeling of a divine prophetic vision.

[aceofspadesblog]

Jumping Off the Pedestal

Dream, Nightmare, and Dreamtale belong to Jokublog Cross belongs to Jakei Ink belongs to Comyet Shattered!Dream belongs to shattereddreamsau

Dream doesn’t know what to do. 

He tries to be happy, he tries to be optimistic. That’s his job, for Heaven’s sake! But lately, its been harder to maintain the façade. 

Maybe its because Ink has gotten distracted again. Maybe its because Blue has been busier than usual. Or maybe its because Cross had decided that his life with Nightmare was more important than being with Dream.

No, he wouldn’t think of that. It still hurt too much. And the multiverse didn’t want to see him hurting.

Sometimes it felt like his emotions didn’t matter.

They didn’t care. 

Ink just wanted a teammate, someone by his side to help stand against destruction. And since Nightmare and Error were working together, it only made sense for Dream and Ink to team up as well. Blue just wanted a happy-go-lucky friend to galavant around the multiverse with, playing hero. He was either too oblivious to notice Dream’s inner turmoils, or he didn’t care enough to ask. And Cross... well, Cross had made his choice, and Dream clearly wasn’t the priority.

Not that he needed to be the most important person to everyone, but... 

...he wanted to be the most important person to someone...

Sometimes, he felt like there was a spotlight on him all the time. Everyone was looking to him to be good, happy, hopeful, positive. He couldn’t show a shred of imperfection. He couldn’t show an ounce of weakness. 

And sometimes... sometimes it felt like he was invisible in the worst of ways. He was just a happy expression. A team mascot. His emotions didn’t matter, his thoughts weren’t important, his inner demons didn’t exist. Everyone just wanted the smiling face. They didn’t want to know about the person hiding beneath the mask.

The multiverse adored him. They worshipped him. It seemed like bragging to admit it, and he felt like a spoiled brat to complain about it, but he hated there praise. 

They didn’t really care about Dream. They just cared about the perfect guardian of positivity. there personal ray of sunshine. They’d shoved him up onto a pedestal, and now he was stuck alone at the top with no idea how to climb down. 

Was it too late to climb down? 

...he didn’t know how to tell them. How to describe this alienating feeling in his chest. The pressure to be perfect all the time, combined with the anxiety of knowing he wasn’t. He didn’t know how to tell them that they were making it worse, with there high expectations and dismissals of his problems. Any ideas he could think to explain sounded too accusatory, and he didn’t want to blame them. He just wanted them to understand...

Nightmare... Nighty had understood him. Back when his bones were white and eyelights purple. When the only thing they were fighting for was an apple tree. Times were so much simpler back then.

But then, even the villagers had been using him for there own gain. They’d wanted a servant to do there chores, a supplier for the golden apples. They didn’t like Dream for being himself, they liked him for what he stood for. What they could gain from him. And they’d hated Night for the same reason.

Sometimes, Dream finds himself wondering what life would be like if the whole apple incident had never happened. What if he had seen through the village’s lies and sided with his brother? Would they still be happy? Or would the villagers have turned on them both? Either way, at least they’d be together...

Was it bad to wish for his brother’s pain if it meant they were still together? To wish for his own? He’d rather be tortured with company than neglected alone...

Dream was... conflicted. Feeling nostalgic, he had returned to his home. It looked nothing like what he remembered - the landscape dark and barren, the village rotting and abandoned - but the most important piece was still there, nothing more than a lonely stump in the ground. 

It felt relieving, to finally let all of those feelings out, to cry talk to his Mother for the first time in years. But he didn’t feel any more understood. The stump couldn’t speak or comprehend what he was saying. Not anymore. 

Yet as he stood there, sobbing, pacing, ranting; something caught his eye. Perhaps Mother had left him a final gift... It sat there, innocently on the ground, half-hidden by long-dead weeds. Startled, Dream had snatched it up, but the color hadn’t changed, the color should have changed, why hadn’t it changed? and quickly fled back home.

Now, the dark fruit sat on the desk in his room. Dangerously close. Tantalizingly far. 

Dream was conflicted. He was... feeling things. Having ideas that he wasn’t entirely sure were safe. He’d confide in a friend, but who was there to tell? Ink wouldn’t remember, Blue wouldn’t understand, and Cross wasn’t here.

...

...

...

Cross wasn’t here... He...

Cross was...

Cross was living with Dream’s brother. 

Hidden away in the castle, in a world full of negativity, a world out of the guardian’s reach. The soldier had claimed that Nightmare wasn’t as cruel and uncaring as he seemed, that he had a soft side for his subordinates. A side that he never showed around Dream.

Once, Night would have. Once, Dream had been able to see past all those walls his brother had built around himself, past the aloof exterior to the kind monster underneath. But one day, those walls were suddenly too thick for Dream to break through. He didn’t know what had happened. They’d been so close... Where had his brother gone?

...was it because they were on opposing sides of the balance? Was that the problem? If... if they were on the same side for once, would that fix the rift between them? Or was it too late? Of course it was too late. He was always too late.

Nighty had understood Dream in a way no one else ever had, even though Dream had never been able to return the favor. He’d loved his brother, he’d known that his twin wasn’t evil like everyone else believed, but Dream had never been able to get inside Night’s head. Not the way Night could slip into his own. But now... now Dream was beginning to understand the most drastic decision his brother had ever made. He wasn’t sure if that thought was comforting or terrifying.

...he wasn’t sure if he cared.

The apple seemed to call to him in haunting whispers. It wanted him to take a bite. Just one. That’s all it would take to change the balance and reunite with his twin. All of his problems, all of the stress, gone in an instant. He just had to be brave enough to make the choice. 

...

...he couldn’t. Not yet. What would happen to the balance if there were no guardian of positivity? He couldn’t do that to the multiverse...

...

...but as the weeks wore on, and the pressure continued to build... the apple started to look more and more appealing...

He continued to resist, but that didn’t make anything better... His brother still hated him, and Nightmare was sure to throw that fact in his face every time they crossed paths. Ink and Blue were just as distant... He wasn’t sure how many more vacant, happy conversations he could fake... and they never, never caught on. 

Surely there were some cracks in his mask, right? There had to be some clue that his friends should be able to see...

...maybe they weren’t looking. Maybe no one was.

It was so lonely. So isolating. To be shoved atop a pedestal with nowhere to turn... his options were to stand in place and watch the gap grow, or take a step off and fall to his demise... Demise? Would it really be so bad as long as he was free from all the pressure?

The apple was still in his room... 

Would it be better to breathe at rock bottom or suffocate at the top?

He... he couldn’t do it. At least, not alone... he didn’t know why. Maybe he was just too weak, he couldn’t even make this decision by himself, but... he couldn’t stay here either... He was so pathetic. It was clear what needed done, why couldn’t he just work up the courage to do it? Nighty had been able to...

Maybe that was why he’d reached out to his brother, asked him to meet at the place of there birth, the place where it all began. He honestly hadn’t expected the other to come, but he had. Alone, too. He probably didn’t consider Dream enough of a threat to warrant taking any precautions. Which was fair. Dream didn’t consider himself capable of being a threat either.

Nightmare had started out so smug, asking Dream what he’d wanted, assuming Dream had some pathetic new plan to defeat him. He’d seemed surprised at the apple, but why would he be threatened? This would bring Dream up to two, versus his over nine hundred. There was no competition. There had never been any competition. Dream had always been the weaker twin.

It barely seemed to catch his brother’s notice that the apple was black instead of gold. That should’ve been the first red flag. Why did no one ever notice? Apparently even Nightmare saw Dream as nothing more than a silly, smiling face. He hadn’t used to. Back when his twin would comfort him over silly fears like thunderstorms. Back when his negative emotions had actually been silly...

...maybe he’d been nothing but a joke since the beginning.

He’d tried to talk to Night, but his twin wasn’t listening. Nightmare thought this was just some cheap trick to get him to turn sides. All Dream was good for were annoying, cheap tricks. But Dream wasn’t bluffing. 

The dark guardian seemed to catch on when Dream raised the apple to his teeth. His twin had tried to stop him, but Nightmare wasn’t fast enough. Nighty’s turn to be the brother who realized too late.

Dream could feel the negativity filling him, changing him, becoming him... His chest hurt. It felt like acid seeping into his soul. The last golden apple dying to the corruption. It was so... painful... but it was worth it, right? Now, they could be together, on the same side of the balance for once. Maybe his brother would finally be happy. Maybe he would finally want Dream.

Nightmare broke down, begged him to stop; this wasn’t Dream, it wasn’t what he wanted, he had to turn back. It was too late to turn back, couldn’t he see? His brother tried all of the same arguments Dream had been using for years. Now he could see how stupid they were, how stupid he had been. They hadn’t worked on Nightmare, and they wouldn’t work on him, either. 

He could hear the whispers in his skull, the negativity urging him to darker and darker places... He found himself inclined to follow along. After all, if he was going to shatter his old image, why stop here? 

He’d gone to some random AU to give his new abilities a little test, see what he was capable of. The residents had been afraid, but that didn’t weaken Dream anymore. There screams sounded like music. It was thrilling, to see the power he could wield with negativity under his command.

The remaining Stars had shown up to stop him, assuming Nightmare was attacking another defenseless AU. After all, why would perfect, happy Dream do something so awful? Ink hadn’t recognized him; Blue had been confused. They thought this was a phase they could reverse, that there was some sort of cure that could bring Dream back.

Things had gotten interesting when Nightmare’s gang also showed up to stop him. It seemed he and his brother were working toward a full role reversal. How ironic. Cross knew enough about the apples to realize what had happened, and he’d been horrified. Good. At least he’d recognized that there was no going back.

The new limbs protruded uncomfortably, but Dream was learning to control them. How convenient, to always have four weapons on hand. With the two teams combined, he didn’t stand a chance, but he still left chaos in his wake.

And anyways, it was only the first attempt. There would always be another world to wreck. It was... intriguing. Amusing? To see his foolish friends fumbling and frightened, there emotions only making him more powerful. Hoping that if they could only rationalize well enough, there sweet little guardian might just return.

As he continued to wreak havoc on those peaceful little universes, he could see his former friends’ hope waver, then slowly begin to fade. The strained, misplaced belief exchanged for guarded caution. They were starting to understand how irreversible the transformation was, that there smiling face was truly and permanently gone. As good as dead.

It was fun to watch the pedestal fall.

[indaysinaya]

Chapter 2 - My Grandma Goes Topless

AMILYN

What is there beyond life? That’s the first question that comes to my mind when I finally regain consciousness.

My eyelids are heavy, but I’m awake. Or am I?

I’m dead, I’m pretty sure I’m dead. I’ve been ripped to shreds by a tornado and now I’m dead.

Tentatively, I open my eyes.

Light, blinding light. It takes some seconds for my eyes to adjust, and I blink a few times before I finally regain my sight.

I look around me. Green. The ground is littered with moss and small wildflowers in full bloom. A gentle wind blows, carrying the sweet scent of flowers with it. The leaves rustle in the wake of the wind’s kiss, accompanied by the soft chirping of birds.

I seem to be in a clearing of some sort, a small, round patch of land surrounded by century-old looking trees that race up to the sky. Their sturdy trunks span about a few feet across, roots crawling downwards like veins. High up above, their canopies span proudly against the sun’s blaring light.

Rays of sunlight peek through the trees’ crowns, providing both light and warmth, raining down showers of golden glow.

The whole scene is like a painting, a perfect picture.

Is this it? heaven?

I don’t think I’ve done good enough in my life to deserve heaven. Well, not that I’ve done bad enough in my life to deserve hell anyway. I sort of just…went with the flow. But this place doesn’t seem like the place for people who simply existed without leaving a mark in their lives, or people who were stupid enough to die via personalized torture tornado.

So the question is, where am I?

“When there is a question, ask. An answer will never provide itself for minds who fear curiosity,” says a voice from behind me.

I know that voice. Kind, warm, a little raspy, but reassuring and comforting. A voice who always tells me to drink my morning cocoa and asks me if I want my toast buttered or not.

I turn around, and there she is, standing with her hands behind her back as if she’s been expecting me. A kind smile is planted on her face, her long white hair cascading down her worn and wrinkled face, down her chest, reaching her waist. She’s wearing a white skirt that seems to be a long piece of cloth wrapped around her waist. To my surprise, I realize she isn’t wearing a shirt. Her long hair is covering her tatas, so as to spare me from the view.

“Nana! What are you doing here?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“Is that really the question you want to ask?” she says knowingly, still smiling.

“I…wha…” I try to say.

She continues to smile encouragingly, nodding.

She’s always been like this, never directly telling me things, always only leading, prodding. Even in death (if we are dead), she doesn’t seem to have any plans on being straightforward with me. And by the looks of it, she’s been expecting me here. She knows something, somehow. And I know she won’t tell until I ask the right question.

I try to think. What is this place? Some sort of afterlife? If so, then am I really dead? Is that the question?

“Am I…?” I try to start.

“No, not yet. But that may come to pass, depending on what you decide,” she replies.

“What I decide?”

She smiles again.

“I have guided you for nearly sixteen years. The time has come for you to know the truth. You are sixteen today, you have come of age. Oh, look at that. Blue, I always thought you would be white, carefree like the wind. But maybe blue suits you too, deep and unfathomable like the ocean,” she says.

She’s referring to my hair, I realize. So she’s been expecting my hair to change color? It isn’t just some sort of prank? And what’s this about me turning sixteen? As far as I know, I don’t turn sixteen until next month, my finding day, the day nana found me.

Yes, nana isn’t my real grandma. She found me on the roadside when I was just a baby, and has raised me ever since. So we just celebrated my birthday on the day she found me. I never knew my real birthday.

“You have many questions, I know. And as much as I would like to spend the time to have you ask the right ones, we are short in time. The kalagitnaan is not a place for one to dwell in for a long time,” she says.

“The what?”

“The kalagitnaan. The in-between. The space between life and death, accessible only to those who have been offered to the gods, to those who may, if they choose to be, become bagani.”

She must have read the question mark on my face. Nana beckons me to sit down, and I do so.

“It’s not true that I found you on the roadside when you were a baby. The truth is…you were given to me, assigned to me, you might say. I was posted to become your guardian, to raise you until you came of age. “I was given to you? You mean I was given away? Did my parents do it? Did they give me away?” I ask, half dumbstruck, half horrified.

“No dear. Oh no, that’s far from the truth. Your parents loved you and would never give you away. The truth is far more painful than a story of neglectful parents. No, your parents loved you so much that their pleas to save your life was heard by the gods.”

I’m left speechless, not sure what to say. I never really thought about my parents. Nana always provided for me enough that I never really lacked any familial love. But now…

“It was a fateful day, that one,” nana continues. “You were just a babe, barely a month old. You and your parents were travelling back to Korea when the worst happened. The ship you were riding was caught in a storm. There was nothing to be done. Everyone was helpless. And your parents held on to you as the ship slowly sank. And they prayed, prayed so fervently, not for their lives, but for that of their daughter. They would do anything, anything to save her, to save you. When everything was about to be lost, they prayed that you may be found. And she heard. Anagolay, she heard. She heard the prayer that the lost be found at whatever cost. And so she sent me down to save you, the lost, but at a price, as all answered prayers must come at.”

Silence. Nana… or whoever she is, is giving me time to digest what I just heard. So my parents died in a shipwreck. And I was saved by a…

“Who is this Anagolay?” I finally manage to ask.

“A goddess. The goddess of lost things. She was the one who sent me to save you and to keep you safe until you come of age. You see, I am an anito, a nature spirit, and I abide by the command of my mistress. So I took you, took care of you, until today, the day that you must pay the price for that which was lost but was found, for the answered prayer. “Nana, what are you talking about? Goddess? Anito? What price?”

“Yes, goddess. They exist. Gods and goddesses and spirits and more. They exist in this world, intertwined with its course. And the price… the price that must be paid…is your life.”

“My life? Is that why I’m dead? This goddess wants my life?”

“You’re not dead. You are in the In-between, the place of crossroads. Here you will choose. Will you choose to move on and end your life here, or will you accept your destiny and become a bagani, a sworn warrior of the gods?”

I think on it. Goddesses, prices.

“If I die, then that means I get to be with my parents, right?”

“No. You have been marked as an offering to the gods. If you refuse the call, you will have to suffer the consequences and go to Kasanaan, the afterlife for sinners, for it is a sin to break an oath made with the gods,” nana replies.

Afterlife for sinners. That’s not really an inviting prospect. I doubt the gods will treat me kindly for breaking some promise.

“And if I agree to become this…bagani or whatever?”

“You will live, and be trained as a warrior who will be sworn to protect the lives of the innocent and safeguard the peace of the world. You will learn the art of the bagani, warriors, shamans, seers, healers.”

“So it’s either I die and go to the bad sort of afterlife, or I live and become some sort of….wizard,” I paraphrase.

Nana manages to smile at that.

“You are taking this better than most. Many would first deny the existence of the supernatural,” she says.

“Well, I did just get attacked by some magic tornado powder, and I see no reason for you to lie to me. Not to mention I don’t think you’d be game to give me some far-fetched story while flashing your tatas. Those nips peaking through your hair makes this all pretty convincing,” I try to say off-handedly.

I mean, I’m probably going through information overload. My brain is probably getting deep-fried with all this, so I guess I’ll be dealing with the fallback later.

“So, what do you decide?”

“You mean, am I willing to go to hell or do I want another chance at life?”

“The life of a bagani is not to be taken lightly, Amilyn. It is filled with peril in all sides. You do not know the evil that walks this world, evil only the bagani can subdue. It will not be easy.”

“Still better than going to hell and facing the wrath of the gods,” I try to sound candid, but the thought of facing whatever is evil out there really is starting to freak me out. Nana isn’t doing a good job of pitching this whole bagani thing.

“If you say so.”

Nana nods and holds out her palm. From there there manifests a small earthen jug.

“This is water taken from the fruit of the first tree in creation. This will take you back to the world of the living and imbue you with the power to begin your training as a bagani,”

I take the jug, peeking inside. The water looks clear, harmless. Hopefully it doesn’t have any torturous side-effect like that mystery pearl earlier.

“I still haven’t given up on the hope that this is all a bizarre dream and I have never seen you topless,” I try to joke.

Nana smiles, that same kind, warm, comforting smile.

So…gods, evil, warriors. My life is about to take a full three sixty. Yep, my brain will definitely go haywire after this acid trip. Well, at least I’ll have nana with me. She’s my guardian after all. Kinda weird to have an old topless guardian, but I’ll take it.

I raise the jug to my lips, taking a gulp of the liquid. It’s sweet, savory, and goes down smoothly.

“I want you to know, it has been my great pleasure raising you. You are a wonderful young woman, Amilyn. I’m sure you will go on to accomplish great things,” nana says, the traces of a sad smile on her lips.

“What do you…”

I’m not able to finish my sentence. I fall to the ground, losing consciousness once again.

[phoenixduelist]

@pyratezlife

It was the crew's idea and curiosity. Pirate heaven Nassau, rich with the mixture of cultures. They all heard about the place & desperately wanted to visit it at least once. As a well deserved vacation. Rozália refused every time, unease always settling within her whenever the place was mentioned. Perhaps it was only her paranoia. Therefore, she finally gave in and let Mátyás dock in the famous port. They didn't plan to sell anything, had more than enough in their pockets to enjoy pleasantries such place can offer. Turned out, she was right after all. Whispers arose whenever someone witnessed her gold fangs, caught word a price higher than she remembered; high enough for most to overlook all she had done.

It was swirling chaos in its finest, the tightly knit family forced to separate to survive or to avoid captivity as their leisure turned into a nightmare. One million Gulden. Just for her alive. The rest of the crew, all thirty of them roughly half million, with Marcell the second highest with one hundred thousand. Both because of his past status and his closeness to her. Nassau closed in like a deadly trap, blades, pistols, shackles gleaming in every corner, men lost in the golden cloud of greed. How Rozália loathed being right.

It was nearing sundown when Marcell pushed her into a cramped alley when her heart acted up. Just before he was swarmed by too many men, too many for him to cut down, too many for her to attempt in this state. So she watched as they wrenched the man closest she had as a father from her, unable to help him. Just like when the Habsburgs beheaded her true one. Sára's unconscious form also registered in her mind along with how the fort's entrance swallowed them.

Something switched within her. The darkest pits of her bestial rage ignited, consumed until near nothing remained from the woman; instead The Hungarian Devil stood in all of its grotesque, gruesome glory. Miklós had managed to sneak back to the Vihar, sneaking onto HER OWN FUCKING SHIP and retrieve a few weapons; she took the longbow instead of the recurve one, it needed more strength to draw, Jancsi was better off with other. Miklós disappeared back into the darkness of the night as if he had never been there in the first place and Rozália set her attention towards the eastern wall of the fort. By the time she should arrive to the top, dawn should be cracking. The night watch tired but not relieved of duty yet. The sun behind her and if she was honest, no one truly expected her to scale the wall.

Fugitive Countess: they thought of an easy prey. A scared, lost, dainty little thing. She almost laughed at that as she shred the crimson coat from broad shoulders rippling with sheer power. Quiver of arrows along with the bow secured on her back, swordbelt firm on her hips, knives tucked into her boots. Confident fingers found every tiny crack, stone eroded with time and weather, each move morphing into an another one to not give herself the faintest time to think of anything else. Her family was inside and their chances of survival depended on her. That was more than enough to occupy her mind than what woulds.

Her calculations proved to be right, first rays of sun piercing through the dusty shroud as she was approaching the top and stilling for a moment and finding a secure position. From the faint sounds, one guard near; left hand clenched the jutting stone harder, her right reached for one of the many knives. She let out a small noise, enough to make him curious to check but not to raise alarm. He glanced over the edge. His gaze locked with the predator. The millisecond of sheer disbelief was enough time for Rozália to lunge upwards and plunge the knife between the jawbone, penetrating tissue with terrifying ease. She withdrew just as swiftly and seized her body over the edge with catlike grace while he dropped to his sure death.

She didn't waste a moment with resting, drawing the longbow immediately to end the closest guard, the arrow tip exiting on the other side of his skull. The clang of his weapons drew attention and the Devil truly began to unleash her frenzied fury. She didn't feel the ache, each draw was quick, precise with brutal strength behind them, sometimes enough to knock the corpse back a few feet. Her positioning couldn't be better in terms of sight and defense, not many reached stairs of the walkway of the eastern battlement, if they tried to approach from any other direction, their advance was quickly and literally shot down.

Eventually the barrage of arrows came to a halt, longbow discarded with no more to shoot, the gathered crowd in the courtyard began to advance slowly but steadily. Her eyes held no fear, only urgency: after all she was human (or was she ), there was simply too many to cut through to reach her family alive. Her attention fell to the canon at her side, the promising axe with a metal coated grip from the second victim of the massacre. With strength she didn't know she possessed, she began to lodge the canon from its original position of overlooking the bay.

Heated yet ice cold pain shot down her spine at the almost impossible physical feat, every muscle worked to the utmost and beyond, her father's severed head rolling on stone vivid in front of her eyes. The axe brought down two times in rapid succession, shattering the wooden wheels upon impact and dropping the canon's angle right at the center of the mass of people.

Sweat soaked her shirt thoroughly, no traces of mercy found behind eyes burning brighter than the torch she used to ignite the wick. Deafening roar, the kickback strong enough to send the canon tumbling from the walls, plummeting below. A mess of unrecognizable bodies, a bloody sea of torn, mangled libs, agonized cries. She leapt from the last four steps of the stairs, through smoke and still burning fire; the first arched strike of her saber strong enough to completely sever the man's head clean off. The Devil itself fenced like lightning among the ruins, a brutal force of nature personified, seemingly never tiring, never slowing in her vicious whirlwind.

Steel sliced through flesh, soaked the charred ground with fresh blood, silencing battle cries. Her tempo only increased as her physical limits started to catch up even in this state, one sword cutting through the front of her shirt without touching her body; the now wine red linen shreds were only considered as possible leverage. A serpentine thrust back and forwards at the same time, burrowing her sabers into chests for the moment she discarded her clothing without care of fully exposing upper body.

Swords pulled from their temporary body sheaths, back to rapidly severing tendons, arteries, smaller cuts she couldn't twist out the way of barely registering. When one thought she would be caught off guard at a grabbed breast was mistaken, her lunge animalistic along with her bared fangs, hands brutally closing around his throat without any room to give. And her sharpened nails started to dig. Feel his windpipe beneath. Corded arms coated in a sheen of sweat, the wrathful frenzy behind her otherwise empty glare bone chilling. It took two men to wrench her off: with the motion came the torn windpipe.

Moments were all she ever needed, sinking her teeth into an another's and also ripping it out with one jerk before whirling to block the strike of a steel tipped mace with the latest corpse's hatchet. Heavier weaponry than what her body was used to, yet she didn't hesitate in bringing it down with force. Her blow blocked by the wooden part before it could reach bone, she immediately changed the direction, the upwards strike splitting the wood in two. Using both hands and the momentum she brought it down again, the edge fully sinking into skull.

Then she felt a presence behind that simply demanded more through attention. Dislodging the hatchet in time seemed unlikely, so was finding which bodies her sabers rested buried in the mountain of corpses and moaning men spitting their last misery. The sun half slid over the eastern wall, giving her a fiery contour, the elaborate inkwork of her tattooed wings deep contrast against her skin. Even with no weapon in hand, Rozália turned slowly with smoke still rising from the hole in the courtyard. Sweat slicked her body, each chiseled muscle even more prominent and defined, utterly unashamed of her undressed state. She was beyond that. Rapid yet controlled the rise of her chest, blood dripping from her maw onto her clavicle before sliding further down the ridged planes of muscle.

“My crew.”

She spoke probably the first time she had...arrived, accent roughening the words even further. More foreign blood flowed from her mouth, a glimpse of gold fangs.

“You. Took them.” bestial savagery oozing from every part of her, her words promising a brutal end for the man responsible. The remaining men dared not to intervene, nor approach anymore, not after their numbers were so mercilessly culled in many different visceral ways. Only watched the creature seemingly risen from the very depths of Hell itself.

[a-drop-of-nightshade]

Two of his arms cradled her, one cupped her hand to his cheek and another stroked through her hair, he knelt in the heavens holding her so tenderly, feeling her star, smelling her aching he shifted one hand and held it up, he gathered cosmic power, golden rays drawn to his call before he gently pressed the gathered energy into her chest, feeding it to her star as the look he gave her told of someone who wasn’t about to let her want for nothing now. His body was torn and shredded, his pain was nothing compared to his joy at being released, his beautiful star had risen so high for him, she had given everything to free him and he would repay her for every last part.

He leaned into that hand, a soft sigh escaping him as he felt that cooking energy, he smiled slightly some of his eyes closing as he savoured it, he was free. When she spoke he paused and then smiled, “I am L, the well… hybrid god of balance.” He told her and then he shifted, he picked her up in his arms and pulled his wings back and rose to his feet even as he bled, “I am a child of Fox and Cinder,” it was painful to talk and yet he forced himself as he stood proudly with her in his arms, “And you are my precious star, one who has done the impossible, have freed me.” He had to make sure he don’t look too pathetic, he was a god after all, and so he spread his wings out for her to behold, his tail slowly uncurling form her waist to help keep his balance.

“Tell me what you want, I will grant it to you. Anything at all, I will give it to you freely for what I owe you.” He whispered, beginning to walk, it was painful, he shouldn’t be doing it, but he refused to stay in this part of the heavens any longer, it was time he returned to his place and announced to the gods, to his father and parent, that he had returned as prophesied since his birth, it had been written in the stars and it was the stars that freed him in turn.

@a-drop-of-nightshade a starter based on this song that's been stuck in my head.

Izzy lay on the ground as the battle raged around her. It was as if the heavens had opened up spilling an endless army of thorned warriors to rip their very world apart. She'd been led there by a force that would play songs in her ear to keep her going. For years she'd been serenaded by a whisper that gave her hope and a will to keep going. A hope that just over the next horizon she could find her true hapiness. As the next song kicked on she grit her teeth and forced herself to her feet.

She couldn't let them down. Not after coming this far and spending so many years following their call. Her plasma cutter had been broken by the last so called celestial beast so she just launched herself at the next one. Bloody and broken she fought like hell until the thorns wrapped around the ashen form withered away. Grabbing the thorn encrusted blade it dropped she stood there and looked upon the army before her. Wiping blood from her eyes she braced herself and launched herself into the thrall.

Thorns tore at her flesh and stripped her armor away piece by piece but she wouldn't stop; she couldn't. Slashing with her stolen blade she cut them down as fast as they could rush at her. When the blood loss caught up with her and her legs refused to carry her any further she just smiled and closed her eyes. Letting her star go supernova a cold energy lashed out destroying all around her. When the blue light faded she collapsed and just stared up at the heavens with a sad smile. She'd come so close this time. She'd defeated the army keeping them prisoner. They had to be free this time. They had to be. Hope still burned in her eyes even as they closed and she passed out. Body torn and shred by countless unmerciful thorns and blades she regret nothing. As she faded she still heard the music in her ear. She'd killed his army. All for the voice who'd never left her side.

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Manga Update 210 Review: Absolute Evil

Story

The story opens with a whisper as menacing as the sibilant hiss of an angry snake. At a glance, the cover tells us what there is to know. God in his lunar peeping hole beaming approvingly down at his latest avatar as Garou comes striding out of the sea. The perfectly mirrored waves add to the unnaturalness of it and the skeletal remains of fish, birds, and mammals frame the lower half of the image, heralding only destruction.

The events of the story back it up. The Narrator is back; I generally don't welcome him but today he's got some contextual information worth having. Straightaway we learn that Garou's parlayed his miraculous talent for learning and Bang's teachings on utilizing the flow of energy into acquiring the very flow of the universe.

And what does he use it for? Cure cancer? As if! There's a pesky baldy to attack! He starts barraging Saitama with a flurry of fists, each of which literally splits atoms and creates a massive explosion. Over on the stranded warship, the automated decontamination procedures have started, indicating that this is no drill: those really are nuclear blasts going off. Sufficiently far away not to be shredded, but close enough to feel the wash, the heroes are buffeted by the dust, spray, and wind. A tattered Psykos watches with wonder at the size of those balls (no pun intended). Alas, its only effect is to annoy Saitama as his clothes are tattered.

I say alas because Garou ups the ante in the creepiest way. He has never asked Saitama his name and knows him only as the overpowered bald guy, but suddenly, here we are with Saitama's face looking out of the hole in Garou's face, calling him Saitama.

And then he mirrors Saitama's Consecutive Normal Punches perfectly, culminating with them punching each other in the face. They're both knocked into the sea and come back up. Saitama looks at his glove and notes that he's got a bit of a nosebleed, which makes him a little regretful that he's not kept his promise to Tareo in that regard. Not that he has time to worry about it because Garou does even worse: he powers up and unleashes something horrible. Seeing what's going to happen, Saitama jumps up so that he, and not the planet, can receive the brunt of the gamma ray burst that comes shooting out. Saitama is swept away...

...leaving the field clear for Garou to indulge in his favourite obsession: tormenting heroes. He loved doing it when he didn't have that much power and now that he does, oh ho ho ho, is he here to show them. Glowing with high-energy radiation, he appears before them and all gathered know that this is Very Bad News Indeed.

The Blizzard Group and Tank Toppers start to flee in terror, the S-Class heroes look transfixed with horror, but what's this? One lone figure is crawling towards the dread apparition. It's Bang, and he asks Garou what's happened to him, who has done this to him? To which Garou recounts his conversion story before thanking Bang for all his help in training him to prepare him for his destiny. Mentally bidding Tareo goodbye, Garou walks forward to cause what despair he can.

Meta

This image inserted so fans stop bugging me

Yes, Genos is alive and (sorta) safe. He's even with it, following Saitama's actions up in the heavens with extreme interest. You can stop bugging Murata now.

Puri Puri is also accounted for and he's not sneaking off somewhere to do unspeakable things to heroes who aren't in a position to defend themselves.

Heh, you gotta love what fans latch onto.

This image also inserted to stop fans bugging me

Yes, Flashy Flash has taken a liking to Manako and won't let her come to any harm.

...more cynically, you can just hear the *clink* of wineglasses as ONE and Murata toast the successful launch of another line of plushies...

You get leukemia, and you get leukemia, and you get leukemia -- you ALL get leukemia!

With all due apologies to Oprah, Garou is literally toxic right now as he spews radiation everywhere. I would have loved to see a reveal of his 'life annihilation fist' technique to be just him being edgy but the Godz Okkie and its crew know a thing or two about nukes but nothing about Garou and have no reason to play along -- it's as bad as it sounds.

Garou's pretend evil is pretense no longer: turns out that when you knock on enough doors asking to see the Devil, he eventually answers. God (no ID) is not to be mocked; Garou pretending to be taken in but slapping His hand away was all He needed.

There's a great parallel between Garou and Homeless Emperor in what God told them. He has no interest in micro-managing his avatars. Instead, He likes to find unstable individuals, grant them catastrophic power, sit back and enjoy the chaos.

Garou believes himself fully in control of himself and his abilities, but as he advances, only death emanates from him. Like the cover image of a toxic slick poisoning all in its wake, Garou isn't just going to be punching heroes, he's poisoning them too. I thought God (no ID) simply didn't like human beings, but it looks like He's not too careful of the Earth either. Maybe when you can see a billion years into the future like it's next week, the loss of all complex life on a planet is a mere hiccup as new forms will inevitably re-evolve and fill the new ecological niches.

A lot of people ask how One-Punch Man is not a shonen, and it's this: the story is not about how to get what you want. Oh no, no, no. If you chase after it, you will almost certainly catch whatever it was you were after. The real story in OPM is how do you live with what you wanted? And that's a very adult problem, even if it's often cast in fantastical terms. Beefcake's lament is a potted cautionary tale that repeats across the story:

Garou wanted to be the Symbol of Fear? Well, he's got it. At the cost of destroying everything that made it worth his while to seek to be that symbol in the first place.

The S-Class heroes don't look like they're going to run, but they know it's hopeless. Someone needs to stop him before he destroys life on Earth. Blast? Saitama? Anybody?

[gayswithguitars]

Well, now that it’s been nearly 48 hours since I saw MCR, I should talk about it. This will likely be sappy and cheesy, I’m not apologizing.

The openers were hella fun, though I had to fill my mom in on what happened between Gabe Saporta and Mikey so that was fantastic.

Then this deafening static, the kind that shakes you to your teeth, it felt like ages but was probably only five minutes max.

Then they were there.

All four of them.

I can’t describe the rush of emotions that flooded me, shock, excitement, anticipation and most of all, pure joy.

If I could go back in time and tell my 12 year old self that one day I’d see MCR live, she’d burst into tears. If I told her that one day she’d see the whole emo trinity, she’d faint.

The Foundations of Decay starts, beautiful and haunting. I knew that night was going to be incredible when the stadium shook on the “So he gets to die a Saint but she will always be the whore!” part.

The song pulls to a close, and I’m shaking with happiness. Praying for my favorite songs to play.

BANG. THANK YOU FOR THE VEMON!!! This is easily my number one MCR song, it’s fast, it’s heavy, and seeing Mr. Toro rip it to shreds was absolutely wonderful.

So I’d think after these two fast, hard songs they’d play something slow, but iN COMES IM NOT OKAY. Again, my younger self would piss herself. God, it was so incredible.

Again, like a fool, I think a slower song will follow. Nope! Vampire Money! I started losing my voice around here. Oh! Gerard also sang “Get fucked in an airport bar.” So we had that going.

THIS IS HOW I DISAPPEAR!!!!! Beautiful, wonderful, served, I love her. Mwah.

Finally we get a little reprieve, Ah fuck, it’s Summertime. Look, don’t get me wrong, I love the song, but it’s about you know who. I’m gonna ignore that because G asked us to put our lights up, giggled and said it looked magical :)

Back to it! Cemetery Drive! Was there a tiny part of me praying Mikey would slip again? Maybe, you’ll never know.

Lights go off, it gets quiet. Gerard starts humming. “What are we? To him? To god? Our father, who art in heaven…”

BLAMO it’s Our Lady of Sorrows!!!!! Also I forgot to mention, Mikey was hella active with our section ugh He’s awesome.

Hang Em’ High starts! Gerard just wore a black shirt and pants but I wish him or Ray wore a cowboy outfit.

Boy Division starts, again, hearing a whole crowd together was awesome, especially the LA LA LA LA part.

Welcome To The Black Parade. What can I even say. Words can’t describe how moving it was to hear everyone singing together. This anthem. This banger. So beautiful.

Teenagers. Gerard said he didn’t like the song that much but they’ve got to play it I suppose. (Cough) though they could play MGATMK but that’s not my business.

I turn to my mom, smiling, this smile would quickly drop as I realized DESTROYA was starting. So yes, I had to watch Gerard Way moan with my mother. (Heavy sigh)

DEATHWISH!!!! How I love it, so fucking cool.

And from the heavens, my baby girl, Mama begins. Gerard literally pointed the mic at the crowd and told everyone to “Sing it!” at the gender part. I love them.

HOUSE OF WOLVES!!!! I had to delete my messages with my father to make room for storage here, do not regret it.

Na Na Na! My mom knew this one and said she really liked it live :) love you mom

Famous Last Words. I told myself I wouldn’t cry at this show. I was so SO wrong. They let the crowd sing the part after the guitar solo alone and I broke into tears, my makeup and I did not survive.

They left the stage as I sobbed, my mom staring at me wondering what the hell was wrong.

Ready for the encore? Good, buckle up.

Gerard announces the next song is for the king. Everyone says what the fuck. BOOM. VAMPIRES WILL NEVER HURT YOU. WHAAAAT.

Next up is Helena, so beautiful and perfect, I thought this would be the last song as it used to be.

Everyone left the stage except G, who was laying ass up on the stage.

My mom and I laughed, watching as he hopped up.

And then.

Cancer.

Every emotion I’ve felt in these rough few months came crashing down. I sobbed like a baby. Then it was over.

I am so thankful I got to see this show, it was genuinely life changing. I hope you all get to see them one day if you haven’t. It was just, wow, wow wow wow.

These guys saved my life, and I think they did it again last night. :)

[ruki--mukami]

You have a classmate who is very kind and smart, you and she are doing schoolwork together, it's a full moon tonight and you're horny and bloodthirsty; you couldn't resist and you bit her, she hugged you and said "It's ok, you can bite me, your secret is safe with me,stay calm and keep drinking my blood"

"Oh? What's this...? A willing sacrifice... How exciting. Does this not torment you? I can taste it in your blood... Both trepidation and the utmost arousal courses through your veins, sweetening your essence. Haah... I can't get enough of this... Livestock, you taste like heaven even when you don't resist. Far better than I imagined you to taste," praised the Vampire as he buried his fangs into her shoulder, exulting in the surprising warmth of her embrace. "How does it feel when your master claims you as his? If you let me take this much then I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back anymore. Tonight I shall make you mine."

With rekindled thrill, Ruki withdrew his sharp ivories to sink them in a new area, this time her breasts. The buttons of her shirt came flying, the ribbon once neatly tied at the collar quickly shredded, and his head soon lowered to inhale the comforting scent of fresh adipose. Lips besmirched in crimson, he repeated the same vociferous bite as before into her chest, moaning upon entry from the rich metallic flavor igniting down his throat.

"Yes... You taste very sweet indeed, sweeter than you could ever imagine..." he laved his wet muscle along the incision, "it's made even sweeter from not only how long I had to wait for this opportune moment, but also from how willing you are...! Just look at yourself," his steel-blues glanced upward, "you look like you want me to ravish you until we've both lost our senses. Even now, you don't seem too bothered by my actions... What an eager prey I've acquired."

Full moon shining high overhead, crepuscular rays filtering through semi-opaque curtains, Ruki swiftly scooped his dear classmate into his strong arms after draining several pints of the sanguine fluid. Towering over her, laying her flat across the bed, he separated fangs and flesh with a thin bridge of bloodied saliva. Rather than sating his fill a third time, their lips met in an open-mouthed kiss long enough for the young woman to taste her own blood on his tongue, long enough for the Vampire to explore her warm cavity with his unyielding, agile movements, and long enough for him to undo his own tie and uniform, bare chests pressed together atop the mattress.

"The way you squirm below me when I bite and kiss you is so cute."

Adrenaline and rapture intoxicated Ruki from the crown of his cinerous strands to the soles of his feet as he pinned both his classmate's hands above her own head, a sinister smirk gracing his visage.

"Since you've been such a good girl for your master, I shall take more than just your blood now. Engraving myself into you, again and again... Look forward to it. The rest of your life will be spent slowly withering away at my disposal as my personal livestock... But don't fret. In exchange for your blood, I will offer something precious of mine as well. I'll give you a hint: it's the color of the moon, it will fill you to the brim, and it has nothing to do with my fangs. Let's see if you will still take all of me of your own volition then. No matter how badly you want this, surely you can't deny how much it hurts."

Several frigid digits slowly traced the punctures he just inflicted on her skin in admiration, earning a faint chuckle from him as he relished in the marvel of his own bite marks on his newly branded possession.

"From here forward, you belong to me and only me."

[yanderenightmare]

Oh master, plez, DRAGON WARRIOR BAKUGO, my lord! I was thinking, if you please, a darling who is like clairvoyant, and that's why King bakugo needs her??? can you make it dark ;3 like like like whatever means necessary dark, like like like ill murder anyone who gets in my way, also also also it being really grotesque, I want merciless bakugo, BUT also kinda sweet when it comes to darling?? I don't know what exactly I want, but I know whatever you write I'll prob enjoy, Master Nightmare :3

DRAGON ! WARRIOR ! KING BAKUGO KATSUKI x FEM ! READER

goodiebag WARNINGS: abuse, violence, genocide, kidnapping, abduction, death, blood, murder, ableism, classism, anxiety, arson, narcissistic personality disorder, slavery, trauma, war

so, a little foreword, the darling in this story has a quirk (ik, I’m breaking my beliefs thinking Bakugo should have a quirkless reader! The insanity!) but it’s because in this au not it’s quite special to have a quirk. Quirks are achieved and not given so to say. So Katsuki has earned his quirk and reader has earned her quirk, and so has everyone else who has a quirk. Also the song is called “If I Had a Heart” by Fever Ray, it’s the theme song to vikings ironically haha.

PART TWO

MUTE AND NUDE

The King was in her village.

Word from the south spread quickly, like any wildfire would, especially when riding the wings of a dragon. The Kingdom’s seer was dead, and the almighty bruise-knuckled King required a new one. They called it misfortune, but give a child a toy, and the toy is destined to break. Some might say that that’s what they’re made for. The old toy had apparently done something so distasteful that it cost her own tongue. Unfortunately, or perhaps ironically the only thing she was useful for: on her knees, mouth open, worshipping her king.

She counted the smoke rising to the sky near the horizon. Hers would be the thirteenth village they came to, lest their quest was done. She thought she might have seen him in the cloud-coverage. Eerie shadows resembling what bats she found in the caves, but the sun was bright and could easily be mistaken for him, or the other way around, as she’s heard his coat is golden.

She heard the rumbling tumbling of hooves and paws and claws riding up the mountain-side. They were coming.

Their houses were made of rock, sturdy as they should be when placed on a mountain-top with constant winds howling at them, and handled the fire well. But people aren’t made of stone. The smell of burning flesh is awful, and though she had nothing to puke, she barfed nonetheless. People were screaming and she probably would have too if she could, she was most certainly crying and bleeding and heaving for breath like those unlucky others that were still left alive.

High mountains are a bleak habitat for animal life, partially why they lived up there: to be spared of being hunted, to escape fangs and claws. And now: people running for their lives, the aching in her ankles, a body not built for running, and a mind not used to being hunted. Yet, it was strange but, it wasn’t really foreign at all.

She��d been dreaming of things lately, and as death as well as dust and ash and blood settled and seeped into the mud around her, she couldn’t help but feel as though she’d seen it all before. In fact, there came a point in the middle of the fray she was certain she was dreaming as she stopped to eye the great golden mass in front of her. Scales sharp and silvery like mica on the mountainside, ruby-red eyes as though soaked with blood. Teeth long and sturdy like the jagged rocks of the tunnels, dripping not with water as they did in the caves but with blood and guts and torn clothes. And the talons, curved and shiny, black as night, digging into the gravel by his feet, treating the soil as though it were as thin as the air. But the wings… the wings are what had her falling to her knees, skin bitten by gravel. Greater then roofs, sweeping the sky as though he could pluck each and every star from the welkin, stud himself with them if he so wanted to, or swallow them if only to breath the light onto earth. He could shred trees with those wings, he could slice oceans apart, he could probably part the mountain, head in the heavens and roots with hell, the bridge that had stood for thousands of years, singlehandedly torn open by that great monster conquering both sky and earth as though they gave him life.

Her arm was bleeding. It had dentures, no… puncture wounds it seemed the more she looked. A pretty crescent moon of red marking deep into the soft tissue of her meager muscles, dripping onto the dirt, creating streaks in the mud caking her bare feet. She looked up to see a wolf turn into a man, a large man with spikes for hair, red but not the same red she’d seen earlier in those eyes, red like poppies far away from the red flowing in her veins, from what was leaking out of her arm.

She looked forward and saw bodies… no, not bodies… mangled mockeries of the human form strewn about her as though they were trampled wildflowers on a field. She looked to her side and saw her reflection in the faces of those she’d grown up with but never truly knew. She looked behind her, not spotting what abomination of life she’d seen earlier, the one painting the sky, the one eclipsing the sun.

Every young, pretty thing was lined up on a row that stretched about ten meters long as they weren’t that many in her village, and she was surprised to be one of them. The auditions began in the early left side of the fray, boys and girl shaking on unsteady knees, holding onto broken arms and gushing wounds. Her bitemark was begging for a fist around it too, but she had not the focus to indulge the wish as her eyes caught sight of a blot of gold contrasting the otherwise grey figures, it being clear who he was despite having altered form. Although not the tallest in stature, one could see it as clear as day, he towered over the rest of the flock.

The tones ripped from their throats were scratchy, untuned; garbage. It would seem none of the kids in the village were gifted, but if the Gods were of mercy they would grant them the vocal cords to survive the night. She couldn’t blame them for allowing their fear to taint their song. Seeing how the drapes in which the hooded figures dressed were soaked in blood from past failures. Knowing well how their weapons would breach flesh and bone were they not of any use to them.

If she had a voice she would use it for speaking and not for singing. This would probably be her last night.

They rushed through the girls and boys rather quickly. Swiftly; as if they had done it countless times before, as if they could decide by the first utterance of their very first tone, that they were a disappointment, that they were as good as dead.

Caught in the middle of the small gathering; her turn came along. The man, standing in front, had purple hair and a nasty scar on his face, adorned with bladed eyes like a cat. Another blade, a steel blade, was held at her throat. Unnecessary, as the brutal scarring of his arms was intimidating enough for her to understand she could survive nothing compared to what he had already lived through. “Sing.” He commanded abruptly, an atmosphere of force settled on the word, as though compelling her, quite like how the wind shakes the trees in command to dance for them.

She did her hand gestures as smooth as she could under the pressure, lips remaining closed.

He threw his eyebrows up, scar shifting in its place like a serpent, the message had clearly gotten across. A condescending smile, a most sinister snicker and an unfortunate scoff was all the sympathy he allowed her. “No voice?” It wasn’t a question. “What a meaningless life.” He stated in a mutter, before moving onto the next girl.

The golden figure, who had followed discreetly, didn’t continue on with the scarred boy, he instead planted his clawedfeet in front of the girl, threatening to crush her barefooted toes, sinking into the red clay of the town square. “Sing.” His voice was fuller, and because of it she didn’t dare look up.

The scarred boy came to a halt, looking back to watch the girl repeat the hand gestures once again, she thinking that maybe the scarred boy had blocked the view the first time.

“No excuses.” His foot shifted in the mud, talons somehow growing longer as they impaled the ground, indicated he leant in closer. “Sing.” He said again, the sharpness of the demand sending a shiver to travel down her spine as it was accompanied with a growl too much like the sound of thunder to be called human. The girl furrowed her brows and looked up, her bottom lip visible quaking. Yet, what looked at her was no dragon, no… it was a man, a boy. And his skin was not golden like the rarity found in the mountain halls, but tan like sand, and his hair was only a shade lighter, nothing alike the mane of the sun. But those eyes had her quaking, those sharp slitted eyes that seemed to hold her soul in a chokehold, full of cultivated knowledge, merciless, red like wine, red like blood, red like hell. What’s a fate worse than death? She wondered and swallowed at the thought, her breathing picking up its pace. “Sing!” Spit flew to her face like venom with the roar, the tone reverberating through the ground, shaking in her knees.

She felt the itch in her throat, and she would be lying if she said she hadn’t been feeling it more and more lately, the feeling of dead born words somehow washing away. Her whimpers, absent of anything except for breathiness before, now carrying a somewhat lilt of tone. She stared a little deeper into those blood-soaked orbs of the man that looked like the onset of death before her.

“If I had heart.”

The wind roared as if it were as surprised as she was, or perhaps it rejoiced, or perhaps it mourned.

She was silent, the wind crashing and flailing, whipping the rags of her dress, letting the ripped fabric lick her dirty and bruised legs, pulling the disheveled locks of hair out from her face. Eyes; terror-wide, looking into a pair of sharp ones, who seemed to be looking beyond her disheveled state, into something far more divine than she had ever seen, ever known. “Continue.” The red-eyed boy commanded firmly, a detectable form of lust in his voice.

Startled, feeling the gravel dig into her soles. “I would love you... if I had a voice, I would sing.” The people on either side of her looked to be even more distressed now, crying and screaming, looking like wraiths in those charcoaled rags they wore, hands covering their ears as though to protect themselves, terrified as they looked to the sky expecting it to come falling down upon them.

However, their insolence and disrespect wasn’t what angered him, he could allow them that much before he took their lives. But the conflict found in her voice, that’s what truly boiled beneath his skin. He reached out his hand, quick like a viper, the pressure in his fingertips simmering on her skin, sizzling with heat, only for him to dig his fingernails into her throat as well. “Forget everything you know, except for that your life is in the palm of my hand.” He said, securing her gaze, lifting her up to her tippy-toes, though still nowhere near leveling his height.

Awakened by his words and frightened to her bones by the searing look of his eyes, she did as she was told and forgot who she was, forgot what she was and gave into simply doing exactly what needed to be done to keep her alive, to keep what beast in front of her subdued, or perhaps also to satiate what fire seemed to have burst to life inside of her, screaming to be heard. “After the night, when I wake up, I’ll see what tomorrow brings.” Eyes glazed over by some infernal light. She roared, a howl of some sorts, and the trees seemed to shiver and shake in the outmost reverence. “More, give me more, give me more.”

Somehow the leaves stopped rustling at the sound of her abrupt finish. Overwhelmed; all she could do was breath, all she could to was quake, the wind making the tears ever present on her face, the blood of her arm drying and awakened again as new blood came gushing out of her wounds.

The swirling dramatics in his eyes died down into a calm yet eerie content look. “Found you.” He stated, taking his time for the awakening to soak in, bask in the glorious feeling of triumph, before breaking focus from her. He let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Burn the village.” The statement left her blood turning cold. “There’s nothing left for us here. Dispose of the disappointments.” He was quick with his words as though they had been said many times before, and the actions performed by the ones in grey were just as swift, just as merciless. Humans turning into monsters murdering humans.

“No!” She wasn’t aware the voice belonged to her, so many years gone by without being able to voice anything; an opinion; nothing more than a foreigner, let alone an objection.

The people beside her dropped to the floor like rag dolls nonetheless, her voice just as insignificant as if she was still voiceless, drowning in their own bloodied throats. Her throat didn’t match theirs, but had strong, calloused fingers wrapped around it instead, coated with blood, the stench of it becoming so familiar yet far from friendly.

“Forget them, they don’t matter.” His voice still sheer, despite the screams around them both, overwhelming in fact. She felt her mind slip away from her then, as though her sentience was squeezed out from her by the deadlock fist wrapped around her neck, a conquering drowsiness following, seeping into her like the crawling of darkness when the sun settles on the horizon, her vision blurring everything except for those red, red eyes, who; from this point until her death, would never leave her.

PART TWO

[backfromtheunderground]

01/2004 - NME

“EXTREMORRISSEY!

Venue: Night & Day

Date: Tuesday January 13

Time on stage: 10pm

The backpacked and bespectacled gather - appropriately - in Manchester for extreamo Morrissey and his band

Usually Sadchester’s none-more-indie hangout and home to acoustic nights and members of Elbow, tonight the NIght and Day has been descended on by hordes of fiercely serious backpacked and bespectacled emo souls. Uncharacteristically for this venue, the atmosphere swiftly reaches fever pitch when a white projector screen (usually employed playing old art-house films) rises to reveal My Chemical Romance’s long-haired pretty-boy singer Gerard Way - clad in black gloves and jacket - in a typical mentalist pose.

Instantly unleashing a cocophany of ear-shredding screams on opener “Honey, This MIrror Ain’t Big Enough For The Two Of Us”, It’s clear that he didn’t gatecrash last year’s NME Cool LIst for nothing. Charging round the stage like a Ritalin-deficient toddler, Gerard permanently apperas to be on the verge of a nasty bout of projectile vomiting, pulling a range of comically camp facial expressions. Visually, any murmured comparisons with Morrissey seem more than little misguided. However, the emotional vulnerability laced in his lyrics - for example the way “Headfirst For Halos’ takes a melodramatic introspection of The Smith’s classic ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ and mainlines it with a rabid punker fury - leaves him at least sounding like a extreamo embodiment of the Bard of Manic Misery. On other highlights such as ‘Vampires Will Never Hurt You’ and ‘Drowning Lessons’ - taken from debut album over here “I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love’ - guitarist Ray Toro and Frank Iero more than match his feral vocal delivery, conjuring wave after thunderous wave of brutal guitar noise. While it’d be harsh to call My Chemical Romance The Gerard Show, tonight all he lacks is a cape and mask to stop him from transforming into a full-blown extreamo superhero. If the genre is to avoid the same swift fate as its spiritual cousin nu-metal, it needs more characters like this fighting for the cause. Tonight My Chemical Romance's star quality leaves the rest of the chasing pack choking on their dust. Rick Martin

Gig Report:

High Point - The beginning where Gerard appears from behind a screen, lapping up the adoration of emo geeks.

Best Song - ‘Headfirst For Halos’

In A Word  - Gerard

Performance - From King: Bad Loser to Fordham: People’s Hero? Result is People’s Hero.“

[ecle-c-tic]

mutuals as queen albums? 👀

This is gonna be a long one! Thank you for asking anon! I greatly appreciate it! <3 <3

Queen ~ Ro @mazzell-ro

Queen is a kickass, powerful album. Full of young ambition and big sound I think this album just screams energy and hype! Ro is a ball of wonderful, happy, kind, creative, musical energy who never fails to entertain, impress and awe! You’d be a liar if you didn’t agree! I love you so much kaibigan! Thank you for being you! Keep rocking!

Queen II ~ Anna @speciallyred

Queen II is a magical, transportive musical experience. Full of amazing segues and mysticality, this album is unique, cerebral and creatively & mysteriously perfect.  Anna is an intelligent, creative and poetic being. Some day, one day you’ll be a published poet or something equally as amazing, angel! Thank you for being you!

Sheer Heart Attack ~ Pati @hazypoppy

Sheer Heart Attack is in a league of its own exuding power, punk, edge, individuality, and creativity! Pati is fashionable, kind, creative and a sweetheart! Dear friend(s) please never stop being you, making art and using your talent! 

A Night at the Opera ~ Kathrin @freddie-moments

Artistically daring, A Night at the Opera is a shocker and an eclectic combination of wonderful songs! What stands out most about A Night at the Opera is the sheer creativity. Kathrin is one of the kindest people in this community and her creativity is chart-topping! Simply put, Good Company! Thank you for being you!!! 

A Day at the Races ~ Beck @ilookinthemirrorandcry

A Day at the Races is a book of love mixed with hard rock, some shredding solos and some Japanese. It’s perfect in every way. Just like Beck. You and I are like peanut butter & jelly. Beck is a creative genius, a gem, a star, the kindest soul and the bright spot of my days. <4 <4 Thank you for being you. 

News of the World ~ Cora @benders-diamond-earring

News of the World is a kick-ass album that inspires confidence and power! The power anthems of WWRY and WATC with Spanish guitar solos and angsty FFTI create a beautiful array of masterpieces. The only person I know who has the vibe to match News of the World is Cora! Cora is confident, eclectic and sheer-heart-attack-inducingly funny! Thank you for being you, you Chaotic gremlin! 

Jazz ~ Ella @heyjonesey

You fear Jazz with its lack of boundaries. Jazz is an inspiring, infectious and unbeatable album that is best heard while dancing in public. Much like Jazz, Ella is upbeat, infectiously positive and happy. She is also a true ray of sunshine in this community, never stop creating, being you and funning it! 

The Game ~ Kai @mercuryandmeme

There is something extraordinarily happy about the Game. Similarly, whether it’s BEAUTIFUL ART, extremely relatable posts or the kindest asks, Kai never fails to make me smile! Thank you for being you, sharing your art (and your thoughts, you are fucking hilarious) and just being a great presence in the community. Coming soon to your blog is me. liking every. SINGLE. one. of. your. posts. :) 

Hot Space ~ Julia @is-this-a-queen-of-magic

Hot Space is an ass kickingly amazingly good time, no doubts about it! It is a happiness-inducing, high energy album! Julia’s blog is a similar source of joy! Everything from the mood boards, the curated posts, and THE BLOG HEADER are spectacular! Thank you for being yourself as well as a cool cat! 

The Works ~ Izzy @some-major-ishues

The Works is another eclectic masterpiece of creativity, beauty, poetry and joy! Izzy’s infectious kindness, positivity, creativity, and joy remind me so much of the spectacular vibes of the Works. Thank you for always being yourself and a spectacular ray of sunshine, keeping tear(ing) it up! 

A Kind of Magic ~ Dor @aprilaady 

Magical, inspiring, creative and impeccable vibes radiate off of a Kind of Magic, just like they radiate from Dor. Dor is one of the sweetest beans in this community who never fails to spread joy and her writing is simply a kind of magic! Thank you for being you Dor! 

The Miracle ~ Raina @folietracksix 

The Miracle is yet another triumphant masterpiece of sweeping vocals, crazy harmonies and killer guitar solos. Just like the Miracle, Raina is a star! She is also a  creative writing genius and a kind soul! Thank you for being you, I hope your break does you wonders, hang on in there, m’ eudail! 

Innuendo ~ Marty @freddiemercurylovah

Innuendo is Queen’s creative height. Each song is jam-packed with layers of artistry and the album exudes a sort of awe-inducing wonder. That’s the same way I feel seeing Marty’s beautiful moodboards! Thank you for being you as well as a joyful, kind and creative being, bijou!

Made in Heaven ~ Phoebe @mistiermistshazierdays​

Made in Heaven is a beautifully strong album. Above all, Made in Heaven is deeply passionate and expressive. Each song is like a piece of immortality and a reminder of happiness. Phoebe has extremely wonderful, positive, encouraging and happy vibes of which I associate with Made in Heaven. Your artistry is off the charts, I absolutely love your moodboards! It’s a beautiful day when I see you in the dash. Thank you for being you! 

--

Much Love, Good Vibes! 💛✨

[meanstreetspodcasts]

A long time ago, on a radio far, far away...

May the Fourth Be With You!

It's one of the biggest Star Wars days in recent memory, with the success of The Mandalorian and the promise of even more stories from the galaxy on Disney Plus. When this date rolls around each year, I fire up my 4Ks (formerly Blu-rays, formerly DVDs, formerly multiple incarnations on VHS) and I revisit the Star Wars Radio Dramas.

Yes. Star Wars on the radio. As a kid who was both discovering the world of old time radio and a rabid Star Wars fan, these shows were like manna from heaven when I first heard them in 1995. I first learned of them in a retrospective article in the glossy quarterly magazine published by the Lucasfilm Fan Club (I was a card carrying member ), and when they appeared in a catalog close to my birthday, it was the only thing I wanted. My parents got me cassette collections of Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back, and I couldn’t tell you how many times I ran through those combined 23 episodes through middle and high school.

The radio adaptation of Star Wars aired in between the theatrical releases of The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. Coming to the airwaves at a time when American radio drama was all but extinct, this joint production of NPR and the BBC dramatized the first film in the Star Wars trilogy as a thirteen-part series. Not only did it feature several cast members recreating their roles - Mark Hamill as Luke Skywalker and Anthony Daniels as C-3PO - but it also featured the classic sounds of the film (Chewbaca’s roar, R2-D2′s blips and beeps, the hum of TIE Fighters streaking through space) and John Williams’ fantastic score.

Science fiction author Brian Daley expanded upon the film script - the plot of the movie proper doesn’t kick in until Episode 3 of the radio series. Episode 1 focuses on Luke Skywalker’s life on Tatooine as he watches the stars and dreams of life beyond the farm. Years before scenes were added in the Star Wars Special Edition, Brian Daley added scenes between Luke and his best friend Biggs Darklighter, an Imperial cadet who confides in Luke that he intends to join the rebellion against the Empire. These early scenes give their reunion later in the story more weight as they take part in the mission to destroy the Death Star.

Episode 2 is all about Princess Leia. It establishes her espionage bona fides before she ever comes into possession of the plans for the Death Star. She uses an Imperial officer’s leering advances to her advantage and gets him to reveal the secrets of the Empire’s ultimate weapon.

It isn’t just Luke and Leia who get additional shading. In another move that preceded the Special Edition, Daley adds a scene with Han Solo and a Tatooine mob boss in the hangar of the Millennium Falcon. It isn’t Jabba the Hutt but it plays almost exactly the same - and frankly, it plays better than the scene with a young Harrison Ford and a crudely rendered Jabba. Daley wrote three Han Solo novels, and he plugged in perfectly to the seedier side of the galaxy far, far away.

It’s scenes like these that give the new actors a chance to put their own spin on the characters, an easier task when they don’t have to say the iconic lines of the film. Ann Sachs does a great job as Leia, and Perry King is charmingly roguish as Han Solo. And in a particularly inspired bit of casting, Brock Peters - miles from Tom Robinson - plays the dastardly Darth Vader.

The Empire Strikes Back followed two years later with the whole cast returning plus Billy Dee Williams recreating his screen role of Lando Calrissian and John Lithgow taking the role of Yoda. He’s terrific - Lithgow doesn’t do a straight impression of Frank Oz, but he captures the character and injects him with additional shading.

There’s less original material here - perhaps a testament to the wonderful screenplay penned by Leigh Brackett and Lawrence Kasdan? - but Brian Daley adds a nice prologue that finds a Rebel convoy cut to shreds by a TIE Fighter ambush. It helps to set the scene for the darker second act of the trilogy. The ten-part series is wonderful, and while some additional “new” scenes might have been nice to include, you really can’t go wrong with the story presented.

Plans for a Return of the Jedi radio drama fell through and the final chapter wasn’t released until 1996, and even then it was produced by Highbridge Audio and not broadcast on NPR. This may adhere the closest to the film story, save for a nice scene where Luke Skywalker constructs his new lightsaber. Most of the cast is back, but Mark Hamill was sadly absent (though he was enjoying a second career as a voice actor - the farm boy from Tatooine was the Clown Prince of Crime in Batman: The Animated Series). Joshua Fardon does a fine job as Luke, but it would have been a treat to hear Hamill revisit his iconic role thirteen years later. John Lithgow comes back as Yoda, and Ed Asner growls his way through a performance as Jabba the Hutt.

This six-part show suffers a bit in comparison to the first two chapters (as does the movie itself), but it’s still engrossing entertainment with all of the music and magic of Star Wars.

I’ve been revisiting the series and it’s as much fun as it was when I first heard it as a kid. The entire trilogy is available in a great CD collection from Higbridge Audio. If you’re a fan of audio drama and/or a Star Wars fan, or if you are looking for a gateway to introduce someone to radio theater, check these shows out and take a trip to a galaxy far, far away.

Check out this episode!

[moonscarsandstars]

toasters

Bright rays of sunshine illuminated the smallest particles of dust swirling in spirals in the air. 

Sirius had barely opened his eyes, before the strong, sweet smell of omelette and bacon had hit him. He licked his lips and stretched his arms as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the bedroom.

“Moony,” he whined dramatically. “Where’s my good morning kiss?”

“It’s out here preparing breakfast!” Called out Remus from the kitchen. Sirius responded with a loud sound, somewhere in between a groan and a whine.

“’m coming, just a sec, love,” said Remus, and sure enough, Sirius could hear footsteps getting slightly louder, before a slightly dishevelled- but in a way that Sirius loved- Remus appeared from the doorway.

He bent down, giving Sirius an indulgent kiss, before messing his hair as Sirius yawned.

“Unfair!”

“I apologise, your highness. Perhaps I can make it up to you?” Remus winked.

“I’ll consider it.”

“’Consider it’ my ass. Anyway, breakfast’s ready. I promise for once, I haven’t managed to summon a demon.”

“How could you? You know how I feel about Patrick!” Sirius flailed his arms around wildly, wiping away imaginary tears.

“Who the everloving fuck is Patrick?”

“Moony?!” Sirius wore a look of fake shock. “Patrick is the love of my life! The most beautiful demon to ever exist!”

“Me?!” Remus joined in, pulling on a mocking accused face.

“Sharing is caring, Moons, you know that.”

“But I’m not in the mood for sharing you,” growled Remus, slipping into the bed and kissing him deeply again. 

Remus’s hands travelled into Sirius’s hair, as the kiss deepened and grew more passionate. It was heaven to Sirius- really, he wished he was woken up like this every day.

That was, before Remus hastily broke it apart, muttering a small “shit,” to himself.

Sirius frowned, earning him a stuck out tongue from Remus. “I left the toaster on. If you don’t want your house on fire-”

“It already is with y-”

“It already is with my burning future, and that’s the end of it.”

“Moony, come back!” Sirius stretched his hands out and tried to grab Remus as he climbed out of bed, ignoring Sirius’s cries with a grin on his face.

Scowling fondly, Sirius rubbed at his eyes and decided to get out of the bed. Quickly using the bathroom, he was in the kitchen, where the delicious smell grew even more, in less than ten minutes.

“Moonyyyy,” drawled Sirius, wrapping his arms around Remus, and nuzzling his head in the crook of his neck.

“Yes Pads? I’m trying hard not to burn your toast, keep that in mind.”

“I want you.” Sirius started pressing small kisses along Remus’s neck, drawing a chuckle from Remus.

“One sec, just finish your meal- don’t you dare say what I think you will. I’m gonna use the bathroom.”

“Moony, are you leaving me? Moony,” Sirius wailed as Remus walked towards the bathroom.

“Jesus, Sirius, I’ll be back before you know it.” 

And with that, he slammed the bathroom door shut.

“Who even is Jesus,” grumbled Sirius, walking towards the frying pan, which instantly lifted his mood.

He could spend hours watching Remus somehow heat up food, or fry an egg, or do millions of other mesmerizing things with this metal plate that lit up on fire.

Some of the muggle gadgets Remus used were quite extraordinary, and Sirius felt really foolish for not having such efficient things in the wizarding world. Such as a frying pan.

Suddenly, a large, metallic sound scared Sirius out of his skin. Two pieces of black bread jumped up and almost towards Sirius, and a tearing scream escaped him.

Cold fear filled his body, and his mind was filled with hundreds of different types of dark magic swirling through the insides of the machine. With counter-curses ready on his tongue, Sirius aimed his wand at the thing, shouting the spells at the top of his mind.

The machine shook, before metal springs jumped out of it, scaring Sirius even more. 

“Moons! Help! Something’s here- oh no- please!”

“Pads?!” Remus’s worried face could be seen through the smoke now coming from the damned machine.

“It- it made a huge noise! And the bread you put in it threw itself at- at me! Listen, we have to take it to the ministry- or at least James’s-”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” said Remus with a grin, before bursting into fits of laughter. He sounded almost delirious.

Sirius felt confusion, and the smallest shred of sadness that he pushed aside. Was his spell wrong? Did he aim the spells at the wrong thing?

“Oh my- oh my god, Pads, I- I love you,” said Remus between giggles, slowly nearing Sirius.

As he got closer, Sirius saw tears in his eyes, and with that contagious laugh, he couldn’t help chuckling too. Though he didn’t know what for. Remus’s palms cupped his face, and he quickly kissed his cheek between laughs.

Once the laughter died down- which took far too long- Remus waved his wand and mutter a quick “reparo totallum,” getting the machine back to new.

“Okay, Pads,” he started, waving to the machine, which made Sirius feel oddly uncomfortable. “This is a toaster. When you keep the bread in, it toasts it.”

“So why’d it explode and throw bread at me?!”

Remus burst out in laughter again, but managed to only just compose himself. “When it’s done, it does that. The bread jumps out, so you know when it’s ready.”

“It was supposed to make that fucking possessed sound?!” Sirius looked frantically between the toaster and Remus, his hands flying wildly above him.

“Yeah, it sometimes scares muggles too. But no, it-” Remus chuckled, and wiped a tear from his eye. “It’s not filled with dark magic. It’s normal.”

“That- that thing is normal?! Get it out of our house!”

“If you insist, Pads,” chuckled Remus, slowly kissing Sirius in between breaths of chuckles.

Which would explain why, later that afternoon, the strange but lovable couple on the fifth floor of an extremely old apartment were selling the most efficient- possibly altered by magic- toaster, that everyone seemed to fawn over.

[angelfishofthelord]

wishing too hard for them to stay

You tell me you’re going to die and I don’t yell at you.

Instead I say “Let’s go for a walk.”

Read on a03

Read on ff.net

Story title inspired by this song that I first discovered from an amazing gif-set by @flowersforcas . This is my first time to write Sam Winchester and I hope I did the character at least some justice.

________________________________________________________________________

You tell me you’re doing to die, and I don’t yell at you.

You seem surprised by this. The way your shoulders tilt forward, as if you were ready to shield yourself. Your hands are twisted in the coat fabric at your side, prepared to steady yourself if I storm forward, hurtling accusations in hurricane force. Your eyes look right at me, but they’re hovering, able to dart quickly to the side to parry the full force of what you assumed would be my judgement.

Instead I say, “Let’s go for a walk.”

It rained this morning and the earth is still preening from the glitter of heaven’s shower. A few stray droplets roll down the back of my hair as I step outside and pull on a jacket. Your footsteps fall behind mine, tentatively crushing the damp eaves of grass. It takes about ten minutes of walking before the rhythm of your steps even to a more relaxed pace. There’s an alcove of trees a short walk away from the bunker; it’s the starting point for me when I go out for morning jogs. A white-painted bench sits beneath the spreading branches. I usually prop my feet up on the edge of one of the railings to retie my shoelaces before heading off.

“Still wet,” I mutter, brushing a hand across the few pools of water when we reach the bench. “There’s another bench up and around the hill

You make no move to show that you’ve heard me. You keep your hands nestled in your trenchcoat pockets, chin titled upwards to the burgeoning rays of sunlight, serenity ghosting over your closed eyelids. I wonder how long its been since you left the bunker with no mission or purpose in mind, just to take a walk.

Then the thought comes to mind that maybe you’re savoring the warmth of light because you’re already counting down the number of days you have left to feel the sun embracing your face and my knees betray me, buckling down until I catch myself and fold into that drenched bench.

The water soaks into my jeans and I remember that you’re going to die.

You sit down at my side, your head still lifted skyward. I follow your gaze to a small red-breasted bird birched high up on the tree across from us. A few leaves are swaying from the branches above, offering a kind of curtain with dramatic timing as the bird hops and preens its glossy feathers.

“I remember when birds didn’t have wings,” you say at the same time as I ask, “Why?”

“Because they were still learning to walk,” you reply, deliberately misunderstanding. “A creature has to master the ground before taking to the sky. They grew limbs that later developed into wings, and once they learned to fly,” your eyes drift after the bird that has hopped to the next tree, “they were never quite inclined to return to the ground.”

“Do you miss them?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

You blink for a moment, as if trying to figure out what I’m referring to, and I realize there’s so much that you’ve lost. Your home, your celestial family, your connection to Heaven, your closeness to the hope of a Father, your full strength of power, even your species is at risk now. Your wings are just one in a long procession of burials you’ve been forced to go through, and often alone. Before I can apologize and pull out the pin I’ve stuck in your chest you raise an eyebrow in comprehension.

“Oh. My wings.” The bird takes to the wide blue above and your eyelids flutter to watch it dip and weave over the horizon. “Not really. I sometimes wish I had them when one of you is in danger, but I don’t need them to go places anymore.” You turn to face me and I wish you hadn’t. “I have enjoyed my time right here, with you.”

Have enjoyed. 

“We love you,” I say, trying to smile through the tears in my eyes. “You know that, right?”

You look mildly affronted at the question. “Of course. Why do you think I have to do this? You are my family and I won’t let you die. None of you.”

I open my mouth to argue that family includes you, too, and if you die that counts as one of us dying, but something sounds familiar in your words. You said them to me, to us before. When you took on the burden of cosmic consequences to save us from a deal we had made in desperation.

“I will not let you die, I won’t let any of you die,” was what you said at the time, standing on an open road at midnight with a blade in hand and body at your feet. “You mean too much to me.” My brother, mother, and I had done nothing but watch the torrent of your words and stare in silent shock. Because we didn’t know. We didn’t know that we didn’t just occupy a place in your heart but taken up the entire place, first, second floor and the basement. That you would put your name down to suffer without question if it meant keeping us safe.

The first time you died was only a few months after we first met. You stepped boldly into the wrath of an archangel, holding to nothing but a feather of hope that we could change the course of an already rising tide. The second time you died was also at the hand of one of your elder brothers. Again you walked into that execution likely knowing full well what would happen, yet putting one foot in front of the other because of that fraying barb of faith in us.  

You have brokered dangerous deals and said yes to the devil and sold your happiness for us, for this family. You who has lived long enough to remember birds without wings and see creatures learn to abandon the dirt for the clouds, you who could once soar to galaxies we only dream of and traverse the world in a heartbeat, has chosen us to be the ones you die for. You have witnessed wonders language cannot describe, you have watched humanity build itself up from the ashes, and still you choose to sit at our dinner table and call us your own. You might live for another millennium but you rather limit your days to be here with us in this crumbling world.

“Is this what it feels like? To be loved by God?”

A sad chuckle sounds beside me and I realize that I’ve spoke aloud.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say with a slight shrug. “I’ve never been.”

“That’s not–you don’t know–” I falter, because part of me wants to tell him that a father always loves their child at some way, but another part of me knows that God is no ordinary father. “Maybe in the begin–”

“He killed my son.” The words come out low and bitter. “He watched me search for him, he watched me pray to him, he watched me–” your eyes fall to the twisting of your thumbs in your lap. Your chin is lowered now, almost touching your chest, and a shaft of sunlight from the tree above washes over you unnoticed. “He never cared about me. Or any of us.”

“But you do.” I tug an arm around you, nudging my shoulders against yours until you look up at me. “You’re better than him.”

The feeble smile you offer hardly feigns belief in my words. “I try,” you mumble. “My attempts often come out quite poorly, but I do try to do right, like you and your brother.”

“Us?” I can’t but laugh at the thought of us being the role models in your life. You have witnessed the fall and rise of mankind, have seen gods being created and kingdoms spread, but you would look to two incredibly cracked and perennially stumbling human beings for guidance?  

You look at me with such sincerity it’s almost blinding. “You’ve taught me everything I know about how to live well.”

“Not everything,” I say quietly, patting my hand first to my chest, over my heart, and then to yours. “This, this right here is all yours.” We didn’t teach you to love like this. You had no template for how to open your heart so wide the seams would splinter. You never felt your Father’s presence, much less His affection. Your Heavenly sisters and brothers only understood love as far as it extends to loyalty to the rules. They have tried to kill you and you have been forced to kill them, over and over.  

My brother and I, we may have had a childhood fraught with neglect and absence, but we never doubted our father’s love. Or the love of our mother, even after the complexities of her return. Or the love of those who stepped into familial roles of care and attention, like Bobby.

But you, no one showed you to how to love; no one taught the gentle kindness you show to strangers, or the fierceness with which you defend and protect the helpless; or the tender patience you give to your son, or the undying faith you bestow on me and my brother. No one taught you to love this wildly, recklessly, and completely. That’s the boldness and beauty of your own soul.  

The one thing we might have taught you was to throw yourself on a grenade instead of disarming it. To put the price of salvation over the cost of sacrifice. To walk backwards towards a cliff face just to keep others from falling off the edge.

You told me you were going to die and I wish I could yell at you. I wish I could yell, no scream, at God, at Death, at all the forces trying to poison the little bit of light we have, trying to shred the worn fabric of my family apart. Instead I clench my fingers tighter into the fabric of your coat and pull you closer, as if the gathering wind itself might steal you away. You shift a little, but you don’t move away.

You let me hold on, just a little longer.

[advernia]

fic: heaven just called, said it wants you back

— y'see, things naturally fall from the sky. for example, rain. hail. dead birds. bird poop. oh, then there was you. - ace of spades & alice the second.

1: alternatively - fenrir godspeed gets a bad case of the shoujo eyes, made possible by cradle's local random substance-making association ╮( ꒪౪꒪)╭

Fenrir's hands are loose fists with tingling fingers, pinching away at the fabric of his pants. Were the Ace of Spades a couple years younger and seated in front of a desk again, Dean would've taken that as a sign of another beloved student forgetting that somehow, there was a hundred-point exam waiting to be finished in five minutes.

Ah, good times.

"So - how am I, doc? Am I still good to go?"

Kyle chuckles, looping the stethoscope around his neck. "What's with the jitter, Ace of Spades? You're in tip-top shape. Heck, if I could smack some of that health onto my worst patient, he'd be outta my hair for a month or two."

"Even an untrained eye can tell that you're energetic as ever, Fenrir," Dean adds, snapping his book shut. "What made you run after Kyle when you heard that he was done doing his rounds here in Central?"

"Yeah, about that..." a scratch of the cheek, a boyish grin. "One of the smugglers I chased down earlier suddenly threw some sparkly liquid to my face. Kinda stung, yeesh."

"Oh. Sounds like a regular morning to me."

Dean does not address that comment. At all. "I see. So you sought out a doctor to check if the liquid had some adverse effect on you as a precaution."

"Right you are, prof - but if Cradle's best doc says I'm fine, then I probably am!" Fenrir beams, rising up from the bench. "Should've known though, just the usual weird bunch making all sorts of stuff with bogus effects!"

"Hm?" Kyle frowns, leaning back on the bench. "So you're saying that the sparkly stuff wasn't just meant for distraction, but it should've had some actual effect on you?"

"I guess? The smuggler did say that it will make you powerless at the face of sheer beauty, hah!"

Doctor and professor exchange glances: the no-trace-of-a-single-expression variety, face-so-perfectly-neutral variety.

Then, turning back to face Fenrir and in deadpan unison:

"What."

"I know, right? Like, what kind of effect is that?!"

.

.

.

Fenrir scours the Central Quarter's streets for at least four more hours, and he doesn't go weak in the knees at all.

Oh no, Central was already loads of pretty to begin with anyway, with its tons of market stall rows and crowds of people and various shops open for business. There's all sorts of energy teeming about from every road and alley be it good or bad, and each day there's always something new just waiting to be discovered - that's the sheer beauty in Central, if Fenrir would say so himself.

But the thing was, everything in Fenrir's perspective still looked as fine like usual: no change on how he saw his favorite spots around town (they're still the best), no change on how he saw all the people he passed by be it the group of young ladies (charming, they're all wearing new makeup) or that old man by the bookstore (pudge and wrinkle galore), no change on how he saw those stuffy Red Army goons in all their whitewashed uniform glory.

But then again, no sparkle in the world could make any Red Army goon's toothy grin look the least bit prettier in Fenrir's book.

So, yeah. In conclusion: local smuggler's liquid that will make you powerless at the face of sheer beauty?

Bogus. Slip-up. Dud. The usual back alley magic shenanigans, nothing to see here, case closed. What would true beauty even look like, and how would that render him powerless, anyway?

Ah, well. Another successful patrol under his belt, Fenrir whistles a tune on his way back to Black Army headquarters, choosing the scenic Central Quarter market route.

He regrets that in five seconds. He cringes, a shiver running down his spine, legs moving faster.

Sheer beauty, my foot.

That one tomato stall could make him walk away, but it didn't mean that it was beautiful, dammit!

.

.

.

Making his way past the Black bridge, a couple more villages, a short hike up a hill, and at last stepping within the familiar grounds of Black Army headquarters; he passes by the old man and his raccoon-skin-wearing-imp for a pet.

Nope, nothing beautiful there, especially with those sharp rows of teeth. The blooming tulips look great though!

He runs into Seth by the hallways, who, for all his claims of being the prettiest guy in the whole barracks; still looked pretty manly to the eyes.

... Okay, so maybe his hair was far from manly - did he seriously brush all those strands every single morning?

Then, at long last, the kitchen: something lingering about in the air had become a siren's call to both Fenrir's nose and stomach, amplified to the extreme when he finally makes it to the source. He just sort of stands there by the doorway for a moment, taking in a strong savory scent.

Hmm, meat in brown sauce, maybe? Or some stew or soup that was heavy on the onions?

Another sharp inhale of Fenrir's catches the attention of one of the backs facing him, of the person standing near the stove.

"Oh - welcome back, Fenrir," Luka nods, a ladle in hand.

"Heya, Mister Head Chef!" a wave back, a couple of sure paces forward. "Sooo, what're you and our assistant chef cook... ing..."

Fenrir feels his breath abruptly catch in his throat, words losing their coherence the same time his feet just stop themselves from taking another step closer.

Eyes open wide like they've never done before, as if determined to capture every detail what was unfolding before him.

.

.

.

Illuminated by bright rays of midday sunlight passing through the windows, hair he had always perceived to be a shade of honey-brown has turned golden, shining with a beautiful luster that gold itself would envy and desire to possess. The vivid color has a dazzle to it that achieves a delightful balanced feast of soothing and fascinating to the eyes, not making one have the urge to turn away or squint due to its sheer brilliance.

Its waist-length entirety had been gathered together, pulled up high, and was held secure by a white ribbon, but every single strand and every lengthy lock of gold followed and swayed; a shimmering veil dancing along in accordance to the movement of their owner - a turn of the head to look back, an action almost so painfully slow as it was simple, and the veil gives way to reveal what it has kept hidden.

Fenrir could literally feel his throat go dry.

Oh boy.

An even skin tone with touches of rose-pink undertones, absent of any prominent blemish from the tip of the forehead to the base of a very bare neck -

A face longer than it was wide, with a soft jawline that tapers from the cheeks to a rounded chin -

Neat eyebrows with delicate arches towards the tail, plump cheeks and pert nose blooming with a gentle flush perhaps due to the heat in the kitchen -

Innocently round eyes complementarily framed by long wispy lashes, holding in irises painted repeatedly with the combined natural hues taken from the clearest summer skies and cleanest waters of the sea: the end result was such an alluring blue, a shade that not even the finest jewel in the world could compare to, a color that could capture passing gazes and never let go; rendering one lost in the wonder of those eyes -

Then finally, full lips with both ends perpetually curved upwards; unpainted yet bearing a delicate peach-like tint, drawn closed but parting themselves open to say just one na -

"Fenrir!" Alice the Second smiles and just like that her face lights up - she's the sun in that very moment and he's hopelessly drawn to her, to those eyes visibly crinkling at the corners, to those eyes that were set solely on him and him alone. "Welcome home!"

Oh, man.

Seth always called her cute, but that one word hardly gave any of her features a single shred of the justice they deserved.

Here in the kitchen, standing not so far away and with the sun generously bathing her in its light, she was beautiful. Lovely. Enchanting. Divine.

Perfect.

A shaking hand pulls up to cover his mouth, fingers press down on cheeks that feel warm to the touch.

Not good. So not good.

She and Luka exchange a glance when he doesn't say anything, when he doesn't as much move from his spot. Then she - she with the blue Mary Janes protecting her dainty feet, she with the pure white socks modestly hugging her shapely legs - takes a step forward.

Towards him.

His heartbeat roars in his ears. Quite loudly, complete with relentless echoing.

Oh no. Oh no, oh n -

"Fenrir?" those pretty, pretty lips spell, with a voice kind and beckoning. He grips his face a little tighter, takes a step back, tries not to look at her lips. Tries. For his efforts, his eyes reward him with quite the pleasant view of her clothed chest - two buttons of her blouse are undone, giving way to a tantalizing view of more unblemished skin and the shape of her very prominent collarbones, and -

She takes another step forward, her lithe figure still occupies his whole line of vision, and he swears something in him is slowly dying.

Aw, shit. Remember rule number three! Rule number three, you're not supposed to -

He bumps into something as he takes another shaking step back and he takes that whatever he bumped into was a person, so he quickly turns on his heels; eyes brimming with a desperation and sorrow of a sinner as he pleaded rather loudly:

"Punch me."

Behind Fenrir, two voices say: "What?"

And standing in front of him, the bulky Seven of Spades, with his understanding heart as big as his brawn; offers Fenrir a toothy grin and not a single question as he replied: "Okay!"

.

.

.

The Jack of Spades and Alice the Second could only stare in horror as the Seven of Spades demonstrated an uppercut right before their very eyes.

2: it's february and i should be writing lighter things, aka a crack prompt revolving around the wonder that are the many odd substances being smuggled in cradle asides from aphrodisiacs 乁( ◔ ౪◔)ㄏ happy valentine's day! (‘∀’●)♡

[johannstutt413]

Happy Birthday

(continuing from this post)

Texas woke up the next morning to the sound of someone in her kitchen; after a brief moment of internally-resolved panic, she sighed as a slight smile crept onto her face. That was the Doctor, no doubt - he’d stayed the night, saying he’d make sure they both had the day off so they could make the most of her birthday, but even after being together like this for the past few months, she couldn’t say for sure what he was planning...Was that sausage he was cooking?

“Good morning, Tex,” he smiled as she walked into the living/dining room. Just as she’d suspected, there was a pan on the stove and sausage frying in it. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. What are we doing?”

The Doctor shrugged. “Nothing crazy - I’m making breakfast, we’ll go to lunch, and after everyone’s done with their shifts tonight, PL wants to celebrate with us. Those are the only plans I made, but if there’s something you want to do, just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”

“No, that sounds good.” She hovered by the kitchen table for a minute before walking over to hug him from behind. “Actually, there is one thing.”

“Like I said, just say the word.”

Texas took a moment, making sure this is absolutely what she wanted. “I want Projekt Red to fluff my tail.”

“Really?” He nodded. “I can make that happen, no problem. Do you give presents on your birthday?”

“I don’t like being scared of anything, Doctor. My present to myself this year is overcoming this one.”

The Doctor turned off the burner, slid the pan he was working with to the side, and spun around to return her hug. “When we’re done with breakfast, I’ll let Kal’tsit know and ask her to send Red over.”

“Thank you. Doctor.” A quick kiss. “I’ll let you finish.”

“How do you like your eggs?” He asked before letting her go.

She shrugged. “Warm.”

“...I can work with that.”

After eating, the Doctor did as he’d said, and less than an hour after she’d made her request, Projekt Red walked through Texas’ door. “Kal’tsit told me you wanted to see- Texas?”

“Good morning, Red,” he smiled, gesturing for her to come in. “We were hoping you could help us with something today.”

“Good m-morning, Red,” Texas greeted her, half-mumbling.

Red looked from one to the other, her eyes gradually wandering to the fluffy Lupo tail so close to her. “Good morning. Why do you need my help?”

“I...” She took a deep breath. “I want you to touch my tail.”

“You want me to?” Her eyes were shining.

The Doctor gestured to the couch. “Let’s all take a seat. Can I set a few boundaries before you start, Red?”

“Boundaries?” Red grabbed onto his sleeve as they walked across the room. “What kind of boundaries?”

“If Texas or myself say ‘Stop’ at any point, you’ll stop right away; take off your jacket and leave all of your knives in it; and don’t try to touch anywhere but her tail.”

She cocked her head. “Why would I touch anywhere else?”

“...No reason,” he smiled to himself, earning a soft glare from Texas. “I’m going to sit at this end; Red, go ahead and sit over there. Texas, whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay.” Deep breath. She looked from the Doctor to the spawn of He- Projekt Red, wondering why this creat- child scared her so much. She was harmless to her friends, and the Doctor seemed to like her, even, so why was this murde- young Operator so terrifying to her?

Texas sat down, letting her tail settle in Red’s lap. “Alright, Red. Go ahead.”

“Thank you~” As the fur touched her, there was a look in her eye that it took a moment for the other Lupo to place, partially because looking at her made her head spin: gratitude. Projekt Red, for all her coarseness and practical savagery in the field, gently stroked Texas’ tail, as if it would break at a moment’s notice. Her face was a ray of sunshine brightening the entire room. “It’s so soft.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her heart still racing but calming down. This was...nice. Why didn’t the Doctor ask to touch her tail more often? It was certainly fluffy enough, wasn’t it?

With her mind suddenly far away from Red, Texas didn’t notice when the younger Lupo’s tail drifted within arms’ reach, and it was only when the Doctor spoke up that she returned to reality. “Hey, Texas?”

“Yes, Doct-” Instantly, she was aware of the tail in front of her...and her own hands running through it, slowly but steadily removing the tangles from it. She frowned. “Red, your tail needs brushing.”

“Does it? Is that how you make a tail soft?”

The Doctor chuckled. “She’s so precious, heavens above.”

“Yes, that’s the best way. Brushing it yourself is hard,” Texas glanced at her paramore as she said this, “but I can take care of- it worked.”

“Now we just need to figure out how to show the others,” he nodded.

Red glanced between them. “You want to help me not scare the wolves?”

“Today is all about Texas,” the Doctor shrugged, “but that’s something we can do from tomorrow on.”

“Oh. Happy birthday, Texas.”

For some reason, hearing that from Red caused her to have a sudden allergic reaction as water pooled in her eyes. “Thank you, Red...Doctor, please get my brush.”

“On it.” He dashed off to her bathroom, thinking to himself, ‘I wonder if I can get a turn with their tails...’

-

The rest of the day was exceptional - arguably her best birthday yet. Projekt Red left once her tail was thoroughly brushed by both Texas and the Doctor, and from there they spent the day watching TV on the couch together. As was tradition, the party with the Emperor and the rest of Penguin was fun as always, especially since the Doctor, Bison AND Mostima were in attendance to absorb some of the insanity for themselves. Some good-natured ribbing, some high-octane brawling, and a decent amount of alcohol later, and the two of them were walking back to Texas’ place in good spirits.

“Hey, Doctor, tell me somethin.’” They were supporting each other evenly, knowing if either of them slipped, they’d both tumble to the ground. “Do you not like my tail?”

“What d’ya mean, I don’t like your tail? I like everything about you, darlin.’” He’d caught on to her native accent earlier in the evening, and now he couldn’t stop himself from talking the same way.

She huffed. “You never brush it, or fluff it, or aaaanything. Do you know how hard it is to keep it soft like this?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I don’t even have a tail.”

“I know that.”

The Doctor snickered. “You really want me to give your tail more lovin’, then? I can do that.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Oh, you’ll feel it, darlin.’” He let his hand drift into her tail-fur as she opened the door and chuckled as she let out a yip. “Told ya you’d feel it.”

Texas pulled him inside and half-slammed the door behind him before following him to the bed. Things got a little blurry, but the next morning, she woke up in the Doctor’s arms. She licked his cheek. “Doctor, it’s time for work.”

“Huh? Oh, I forgot to tell you...” He yawned, his stretching being one of his hands drifting along her back to stroke her tail.

“Tell me what?” She scratched at his back just enough for him to feel it. “It’s time to get up, either way.”

The Doctor shook his head. “I got us another day off...You still have to open my present, anyway.”

“Present?”

“Yeah...” He finally relented and sat up. “Stay here, I’ll go get it.”

Several minutes later, Texas was staring at a box roughly the size of a dresser. “What did you buy?”

“Something I know you’re going to like.”

“Let’s see what’s inside.” She ran a finger along the outside, and the paper shredded without any trouble. Looking inside, her eyes widened. “This is all Pocky. Doctor, where did you find somewhere that sells this much at once?”

The Doctor tapped his temple with a smile. “I’m the head of a company, Texas; they let me buy in bulk.”

“Have I told you how much I love you today?”

“You haven’t,” he shrugged, “but you and I both know you do.”

Her eyes flashed. “Let me rephrase that.” So saying, Texas bounded forward and tackled him. He’d given her another day, and she knew exactly how she wanted to spend it...