#there’s an entropy there I think he would enjoy

[dungeonmessy]

I wish I could take the winged lion to a fuddruckers

[july-19th-club]

forced myself to finish this book even though by the last hundred pages or so all i was doing was picking apart the post-catholicism of it all. bc i feel like it's important to read shit you don't gel with . just because. even though the whole way through i was like they HAVE to prove it's not real. they HAVE to. so not the point of any of it but i was desperate for them to Find The Body etc. and of course instead they have mystical time travel experiences and all that because that is the kind of book the actual star is but i was desperate for them to realize that the star you see is the actual star. and then it wasn't

[ma1dita]

trouble always finds me

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader next -> entropy words: 1.7k  summary: (pre-established relationship) The one where he could tell you were trouble from the day he met you. Luke’s perspective on trouble & how they first met! think trouble’s origin story (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) warnings: none, fluff? Mr. D being a clueless dad lol also guys they’re 14 here a/n: welcome back to the trouble!verse hehe i was inspired by Mr. D being a bit of a jerk to Percy so that the kid doesn’t off himself. Similar concept but with Luke after he first gets to camp (posted 1/19/24, erm unedited and not beta’d so forgive me in advance)

—

You were always trouble, Luke knew that from the day he met you. 

Walking into Camp Half-Blood, worn out and weary after days of trying to not become harpy food, his arm was slung protectively over Annabeth’s shoulder as they were led onto the campgrounds. So many pity-filled eyes were focused on them after hearing what happened to Thalia, but the camp seemed promising, filled with other demigods who can resonate with what they’ve experienced. Luke thought it was too good to be true, but anything’s better in comparison to the streets they came from. You, however, looked at them in interest from afar, a playful expression on a pretty face watching their every move like him and Annie were shiny new toys to play with.

He was so sure something was off with you. 

Had to be, from the deranged glimmer in your eye that would appear when something bad would happen at Camp. He’d seen it in action a couple of times before you set your sights on him— setting off fireworks during capture the flag, replacing salt with sugar in the kitchens, cutting Mr. D’s hair in his sleep; all of this causing campers and staff alike to run amok and figure out who to penalize. Each time he’d find you enjoying how it all played out, excitement brimming on the cusp of revealing yourself as the culprit as he watched you bite your tongue. But as a mischievous kid himself, he wondered why you hid it. You preferred to orchestrate the show, to make a spectacle for your personal entertainment, and with a smile too soft to be considered guilty, you were a convincing actress. 

The other campers in 11 told him you’d been unclaimed for half a year now, keeping to yourself and making a safe haven within the busy cabin. You were a klutz to say the least, bringing chaos to Camp Half-Blood with a cool disposition, and you hardly seemed interested the one time Luke tried to say hi as he took the bunk next to yours. 

So why the hell wouldn’t you lay off of him?

At first it was small, shoulder bumps and raised eyebrows whenever he piped up in a conversation. That, he could deal with. Luke’s a tough guy, having gone through more than a typical 14-year old would. 

But then it just got annoying.

Glitter in his shampoo, his laundry load dyed purple, and shoelaces knotted together to make him stumble— things meant to be more of an inconvenience rather than an actual problem. Luke wasn’t sure what to make of it, or what to tell you. No one wants to be the new kid creating trouble, but you didn’t seem to have a problem with that.

Maybe you were a Hermes kid like him, but of that, Luke wasn’t so easily convinced—months of living in 11 would mean you’d learn all of the tricks of the trade, so it couldn’t automatically mean that you were related (a part of him also hoped you weren’t be half-siblings, or else the fact he couldn’t stop thinking of you would be slightly awkward). Perhaps a child of Apollo? When you weren’t being difficult, he’s seen you sprinkled in sunlight, usually humming a tune under your breath. Yesterday it was a song from the Sound of Music, and though he only remembers bits of a memory from a movie night with his mom years ago, he put his combat gear on slower just to hear you finish the song. 

Whatever you were, it was bound to be troublesome.

—

At this point in life, Luke hasn’t had many comforts while on the run. To him there’s no such thing as action without reason, without meaning.  Five years of running and not looking back makes this son of Hermes realize that he hasn’t had a chance to take a breath until he got here. It’s hard to let down your guard when you’re always supposed to be keeping watch.

He wriggles under his covers trying to relax himself before bed, purple socks sticking out of the scrappy hand-me-down blanket, and he hears a small giggle from the bed next to his. Luke shifts his weight onto his side, eyes darting to your direction in the quiet of the dark cabin.

“Nice socks.”

He blinks. Were you talking to him? His toes wiggle playfully, prompting more of your melodious laughter as he chews at his lip before he responds.

“Guess I’m getting used to them.”

“You’re getting used to a lot of things around here. That’s good,” you whisper, and thinks he can see you concocting something sinister in that brain of yours—he’s on the edge of the mattress hanging onto your every word as he realizes this is the most you’ve spoken to him.

“You did this. Why?” he says, more of a statement than a question. Why would you go out of your way for someone like him?

“Are you mad about it? Luke, right?” you mutter, a calm expression on your face shrouded in moonlight, and for a second he wonders if you actually don’t know his name until he notices the upwards quirk of your lip. 

Luke catches himself then, and the realization hits him like a blow to the chest— he’s not angry at all. If anything, he hasn’t had the time to feel anything negative with the antics you’ve been pulling. You’ve proven to be quite the distraction to his circumstances, and he can’t remember the last time he’s thought about Thalia or his mom since he got here. The melancholy falls on his countenance like a better-fitting blanket than the one he has on, and your words pull him from his thoughts before they can suffocate him again.

“Sorry about your sister. I lost someone right before I got here too. My mom.” 

This, he can tell, is not acting. Your eyes flicker to a polaroid strapped in the space underneath the top bunk above your head, two blurry figures huddled together in a memory.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not sure what to say. In the silence that follows, he swallows audibly. Everyone’s been worried about Annabeth, including himself that he hadn’t even thought of his own emotions being on display for everyone to see. Luke never thought you of all people would notice.

You shrug, “S’not your fault. I know when people are acting though. If you know I’m the one who’s been starting shit, why haven’t you told anyone?”

Luke almost laughs at that, a rough exhale leaving his lungs as he watches your hands clutch your quilt.

“It’s pretty entertaining, I guess. You’re annoying, but I don’t mind it. Kept my mind off of things.”

He watches you smile in the shadows now, and it shines—all lips, teeth, and sheer mirth that makes his chest feel a little lighter. A real smile from you, one that doesn’t hide your true intentions.

“I’m glad. Mine too.” 

The next thing you do confuses him further, but from what he’s gathered you’re always full of surprises. You chuck your quilt across the space between your bunks, and the end of it smacks him in the face as he grunts.

“Here. Keep it,” you chuckle a bit loudly, the both of you hearing a Shhhhh… from somewhere in the dark cabin.

“What… Why? Are we friends now?” Luke mumbles jokingly, inhaling the soft scent of berries and fresh linen. His purple laundry load smelled like this too.

“No.”

“Then why are you giving me your stuff?” he says, but still curls up underneath the handmade quilt stitched from memories of a past life, of motherly love and gentle hands. He doesn’t have anything like this, so he settles into this feeling of comfort instead, even if it wasn’t his memory to hold. You go quiet at the sight of him, eyes fluttering and chin tucked into the pink and purple fabric, and he looks as soft as a normal 14 year old boy should.

“It’s getting boring in here. Gonna have to change it up soon, I think,” you mumble, turning away and shutting your eyes before he can say anything else.

—

The next day, you get caught putting a month’s supply of bubble bath into the lake, but Luke’s convinced you did it on purpose. All of camp is standing on the shore, watching you wave at them from a river tube as Chiron and Mr. D yell at you in exasperation—finally revealing yourself as the troublemaker they’ve been searching for.

“Get on the beach this instant, young lady! You have no idea how much trouble you’ve put us through!” Mr. D’s voice echoes across the lake, his immortal form almost filtering through his frustration before you laugh in his face, unthreatened by the Olympian.

“Good thing I get it from you. Hello, dad!”

Jaws drop as everyone turns to look at Mr. D, the realization hitting his face as he points at you, his brain moving a mile a minute. Though you resemble your mother, your actions are all him. You revel in the grand reaction, looking up to see a purple thyrsus surrounded by grape leaves float over your head.

“Nice outfit, kid. I don’t think purple is your color. She do that to you too?” Mr. D notes Luke’s wine colored cargos and socks clashing against the harsh orange of his shirt as he pushes past him, scratching his head at the idea of another kid. Poor guy said two was the limit in a lifetime and he gets a grinning teenage girl who dares him to do something about it. He hasn’t raised a lot of girls….

“I don’t know. I guess trouble always seems to find me,” Luke laughs lightly, watching kids of all ages jump into the bubbly lake water happily. The glowing ember of his eyes are relaxed for the first time in a while— an inviting flame catching your own as you stare at him from across the sudsy water. Trouble, he thinks, a smile settling onto his face—how fitting.

He’s spent a lot of time running. But perhaps this time, he’s finding reasons to want to stay.

—

"After all, we are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal." - Sylvia Plath

Ask to be added to the general/luke taglist! 

luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

[angelremnants]

Thank you for answering my ask, I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable before i sent the request.

I'd like to request a Loki x reader where the reader is a shield agent with magic powers (however not the best with them due to lack of training.) Where she's at the base where loki first arrives on earth and she tires to sneak up on him (using her magic) but he uses the scepter on the reader to put her under his control and he sees her potential and helps her with her magic maybe there could be some romantic tension thrown in if you want.

I hope you enjoy the rest of your day :)

In the Gravity of You l L. Laufeyson

summary : You never expected to cross paths with a god, let alone have your destiny tangle with his. Tasked with retrieving the Tesseract for S.H.I.E.L.D., you quickly learn you're in over your head after getting extraordinary powers in an unfortunate occurrence. Your fate is no longer in your hands, and the stone, the source of your connection, seem to have sinister abilities. Its power will either bond you together... or tear you apart.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+) angsty angsty angst, Loki being the villain we all know and love, themes of manipulation, mind control, emotional turmoil, psychological distress, intense character conflicts, power dynamics, toxic relationship (overall platonic-ish but could be translated as a romantic one), referenced minor character death, strong language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 20.7k

author's notes : I sincerely apologize for the lateness of the publication, the resumption of my uni classes really grabbed me by the neck. Surprisingly enough, your request aligned perfectly with my initial idea when I read the rough version of it—I guess great minds really do think alike. I know this would technically suffice to answer your ask, but I do have the rest of the storyline thought of, so let me know if you'd like me to pursue and make a second part.

Thank you for trusting me with your concept, I hope what follows meets your expectations and that you enjoy it. <3

(ao3 version)

⠀⠀

The Tesseract was never just a relic, never a mere stone. It was the embodiment of infinite potential—a boundless power encased in crystalline geometry, a paradox of beauty and destruction. For centuries, it had altered the course of supernaturals and men alike, its light shaping destinies and shattering them in equal measure. And yet, here it sat, deceptively inert, its radiance subdued by the sterile walls of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, a tiger caged by human ingenuity.

Its glow was hypnotic, a rhythmic pulse that promised something beyond comprehension—something vast, something catastrophic. The energy emanating from its cerulean heart whispered of stars born and civilizations lost, of power so immense it demanded reverence, yet made no overt claims to it. Instead, the Tesseract simply waited, patient and silent, for the inevitable moment when it would unmake everything that dared to wield it.

To you, however, it was not a cosmic artifact or an object of worship. 

It was both a beginning and an end—a harbinger of ruin masquerading as opportunity. It loomed over you like the sword of Damocles, its promise of untapped power balanced precariously against the reality of your fragile humanity. And yet, duty, curiosity, and an innate selflessness had brought you here into its presence, as if you could tame the infinite. What you did not realize was that the Tesseract was no tool for mortal hands; it was entropy given form, the instrument of its wielder’s undoing.

And it was also the reason you crossed paths with him.

The reason you were irrevocably bound to the accursed dark prince—the fulcrum upon which your fates had pivoted, weaving a cruel tapestry that ensured your destinies were bound in a way that neither of you could foresee or escape. A cosmic entanglement, propelled by the very force that would ultimately undo you both.

The mission itself had been deceptively simple. Retrieve the Tesseract. Transport it safely to Dr. Selvig at the P.E.G.A.S.U.S. research facility. No surprises, no complications. For S.H.I.E.L.D., it was a routine operation—yet as you entered the chamber where it was to be housed, an almost imperceptible shiver coursed through you, charged with an energy that gnawed at the edges of your composure. Something was wrong.

You had been entrusted with this mission personally by Director Fury, a rare responsibility that spoke volumes about your standing within the organization. Though officially labeled a field agent, your consistent track record of competence and leadership had earned you an unspoken authority among your peers. When missions called for precision, discipline, and sound judgment, you were the agent to lead the charge.

The cube rested at the center of the room, ensconced in a sleek containment unit. Its glow was softer here, less urgent, like the calm surface of a tranquil sea. But the tranquility was a facade. Beneath its placid exterior, the cube pulsed with an untamed vitality, its light rippling in hypnotic waves that seemed to draw the eye and ensnare the soul. The air itself seemed to tremble in its presence, warped by its gravitational pull, as if reality itself were bending to accommodate its vast power. It seemed to distort reality as it pleased, bending the space around it in subtle, unnerving ways.

“Stay sharp,” you ordered, your voice steady despite the growing unease gnawing at your gut. Your eyes remained fixed on the vestige, even as the agents around you fanned out in a choreography born of years of training and with military precision. It was magnetic in its presence—a quiet siren’s call that whispered promises you could not fully understand.

The youngest of your team, Harris, shifted uneasily near a console. His nervousness radiated outward, every hesitant movement and squeak of his boots against the polished floor betraying a lack of confidence that had no place in a room like this. You saw his fidgeting in your peripheral vision, but there was no time for reassurances. Not here.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the Tesseract’s energy and the occasional scrape of boots against the polished floor. Its light painted the room in shades of blue, casting restless shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. Something about it felt alive, as if the artifact itself were watching, waiting. A resonant hum grew louder, its vibrations crawling through the steel floor and up into your bones in a low, ominous thrum that threatened to drown out the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. It demanded your attention, pulling at your senses as though daring you to confront the mysteries it held.

And then it happened.

A sudden metallic clang shattered the silence. Harris had stumbled, his elbow striking the console with a sharp impact. His face drained of color as he stammered an apology, but the damage was done. The Tesseract’s pulse shifted, its rhythm escalating into a frenzied crescendo. The soft glow erupted into bursts of light, chaotic and brilliant, like the heart of a star going supernova.

An invisible shockwave rippled outward. It struck you with the force of a hurricane, sending you staggering backward. Harris was thrown off his feet entirely, his body skidding across the floor until it collided with the wall. “Harris!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the chaos, but the Tesseract was not finished.

Its light flared brighter, blindingly so, as a guttural hum resonated through the room. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a vibration, crawling up through the floor and into your bones, sinking into the very marrow of your being. Then you felt it: a pull. 

It was subtle at first, a faint tug deep in your core. But it grew with terrifying speed, an insidious force that bypassed muscle and bone to grip at something deeper—your essence, your very soul. Your boots screeched against the floor as you fought against it, but resistance was futile. This was not a battle of strength. It was inevitability, as natural and unstoppable as gravity.

“Agent, fall back!” Agent Barton’s voice cut through the hubbub, urgent and commanding. But even as his words reached you, your body betrayed you. Your hand shot forward, drawn toward the cube by an unseen force. The world around you seemed to collapse, sound and light narrowing to a singular point as your fingertips grazed the Tesseract’s surface.

In an instant, the world dissolved. It felt like the universe shattered in one single motion.

Pain erupted through you—a raw, searing force that clawed at every corner of your existence. It wasn’t a mere sensation; it was an annihilation. It tore through muscle and bone, shredding you from the inside out, molecule by molecule, as if the very fabric of your being were coming undone. The agony was boundless, an unrelenting tempest that blurred the edges of reality. Each wave struck with merciless precision, splintering your consciousness into shards of unbearable light and dissonant sound.

Your scream ripped through the chaos but was swallowed whole by the deafening roar of the Tesseract. It loomed before you, pulsating with untamed energy, a singularity of infinite power that consumed everything it touched. Your body was no longer yours—it vibrated violently, oscillating between solidity and dissolution, between being and nothingness. One moment you were whole, anchored to the world; the next, you were scattered like ash in a storm, lost in a kaleidoscope of light that knew no boundaries.

The air around you rippled and bent, folding in on itself as the Tesseract defied the laws of creation. Space and time became indistinguishable, a swirling vortex of cerulean light that twisted the chamber into an incomprehensible nightmare. Reality itself seemed to fracture, each shard cutting deeper into the fragile thread tethering you to existence.

You tried to fight, to pull back, to resist, but your body refused. Your limbs were paralyzed, locked in the cube’s grasp. The pull was inexorable, a force beyond comprehension, as though the Tesseract was unraveling not just your body but your very soul. Your hand clung to it involuntarily, the skin fused to the cube’s impossible energy. It surged through you, a flood of raw power that stripped away every defense, every sense of control, until you were nothing but an echo caught in its current.

Through the haze of light and torment, you saw Harris’s face—a pale mask of horror etched in wide, guilt-ridden eyes. He stood frozen, helpless, as the storm swallowed everything. His lips moved, shaping words you couldn’t hear, his panic mingling with the chaos until he became just another fragment in the maelstrom.

Then came the sharp sting. A sudden intrusion, a dart piercing through the madness. Warmth spread like a balm, slow and creeping, as the sedative flooded your veins. The jagged edges of pain dulled, softening into something bearable, and the Tesseract’s roar receded into the background. Your vision blurred, the blinding light melting into formless shapes and indistinct colors. Darkness encroached, a welcome reprieve, as your body succumbed to the numbing tide of unconsciousness.

When awareness returned, it was fractured and incomplete. The world was muted, sluggish, and distant, as if you were watching it from beneath a deep, impenetrable surface. Every muscle ached with the ghost of the Tesseract’s fury, trembling uncontrollably as if the energy still reverberated within you. Overhead, the sterile glow of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility flickered, casting harsh, shifting shadows as figures moved around you. Their voices were muffled, urgent, like whispers carried on a breeze you couldn’t quite grasp.

“Keep her stabilized.” Fury’s voice cut through the haze—sharp, unrelenting, and commanding. “I don’t want to lose her—or that damn thing. Move her to incubation, now.”

Hands lifted you, careful yet hurried, the weight of urgency palpable in every touch. The cold, clinical surface of the incubation pod greeted your trembling form as they lowered you into its confines. Tubes and wires snaked over your body, connecting you to machines that hummed with purpose, their efforts focused on quelling the storm raging inside you. The glass walls of the chamber sealed with a faint hiss, encasing you in a cocoon of light and machinery.

The sedatives pulled you deeper into oblivion, their cold embrace silencing the tremors and dulling the edges of reality. Your vision faded, the faint shimmer of the stone’s glow being the last thing you saw before darkness claimed you entirely. In the void, there was no pain, no light, no sound—only silence, immutable and consuming. For now, at least, the battle was over. But the Tesseract’s presence lingered, a shadow at the edge of your consciousness, promising that this was only the beginning.

The entire universe collapsed into stillness, leaving you adrift in an abyss where even the echoes of pain could no longer reach.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

Your first encounter with him occurred before your mind could comprehend its gravity, before the threads of reality around you could form a coherent picture of the calamity descending.

When Loki arrived, the air itself seemed to hold its breath. His presence was magnetic, regal, and laced with a menace that spoke of a king returning to a throne wrenched away from him too soon. The atmosphere shifted in a subtle tremor that most wouldn’t notice, but to those attuned to power, it was unmistakable—a quiet warning of the storm in his wake. The faint glow of the Tesseract intensified as though it recognized him, its pulse syncing with his own like a heartbeat answering its master’s call.

His sharp azure eyes swept the lab, calculating and cold, taking in every detail—the sterile containment machinery, the panicked agents scrambling like insects, the futile attempts of those who had already failed to protect what was his. And then his gaze faltered, caught by something unexpected. Amid the wreckage and chaos, his attention was drawn to a peculiar structure: an incubator.

It stood at the center of the room like a relic in a temple, its cylindrical glass walls shimmering with an ethereal glow that softened the surrounding chaos. Tendrils of mist swirled inside, diffusing the cerulean light emanating from the unconscious figure within. 

You. 

Suspended in fragile stasis, your chest rose and fell with faint, labored breaths, as though the incubator were cradling a dying flame. Wires and tubes snaked outward, connecting your fragile form to a pulsating core that emitted a low, rhythmic hum, keeping you tethered to life.

Loki's countenance changed, his typical sneer replaced by something more subtle—a flash of intrigue. It lacked sympathy and concern. It was deeper, sharper, the kind of curiosity reserved for something unusual and frightening, something worth investigating. His stare lingered on you, scrutinizing every feature, his mind trying to figure out what the Tesseract's energy had done to you. You weren't just a bystander caught in its aftermath. No, you were tied to it in ways he couldn't understand.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, his voice smooth and low, a velvet thread winding through the chaos. His fingers brushed the cool glass, trailing over its surface as though he could feel the energy pulsing within you. “So this is the vessel,” he mused, tilting his head. “How fragile.”

Emerald magic flashed to life at his fingertips, flickering briefly before coiling around his palm. Without hesitation, he raised his staff, the shiny metal reflecting the lab's dim light. The stroke was rapid and purposeful, breaking the chamber with a single, thunderous crack that rang throughout the room. Shards of glass shower down in jagged, sparkling arcs, spreading across the floor like frozen tears. The stabilizing field faded and flickered before failing completely, leaving your still body crushed in the wreckage.

Loki stood there, unmoving, watching. Waiting. Surely, if you were truly tied to the Tesseract, something would happen—a surge of energy, a glimmer of defiance, some spark of recognition. But there was nothing. You lay motionless, unnervingly quiet, the faint glow that had surrounded you now extinguished.

“Disappointing,” the god scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. The intrigue that had sparked within him faded, a flame snuffed out by the absence of resistance. To him, you were no more than an experiment gone awry, a failed attempt at wielding something far beyond your reach. With a dismissive glance, he stepped over the shattered remnants of your chamber.

His focus shifted, and with a graceful turn, he redirected his attention to the true prize—the Tesseract.

The stone rested obediently within its container, its brilliance a beacon of sheer, unbridled power. Loki approached with steady steps and careful movements. Around him, turmoil continued to unfold—agents yelling commands, alarms ringing, lights flashing—but none of it affected him. He was untouchable, a power unto himself. Dr. Selvig and Hawkeye stood nearby, their blank eyes reflecting the same cerulean light, their bodies rigid and immovable under his command.

Fury stood apart, weapon drawn, his posture rigid in defiance. But even he couldn't shake Loki's unwavering confidence. The god's grin deepened, and a gleam of enjoyment appeared in his eyes as he grabbed the Tesseract in his palm. 

“I believe this belongs to me,” the raven-haired man purred, his voice rich with arrogance. The director’s shot rang out, a sharp crack cutting through the din, but with an effortless flick of his wrist, Loki deflected it. The bullet clattered uselessly to the ground, and his expression darkened with wicked amusement. “How quaint,” he sneered.

The alarms screamed louder, the lab descending further into chaos as agents scrambled to intercept him. But Loki moved through the turmoil as though it weren’t there, his steps smooth and unhurried, his smirk unwavering. The pandemonium bent around him, powerless to halt the god who strode through it like a tempest, claiming all in his path.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

The world snapped into excruciating focus with a violent spasm, yanking you from the suffocating void of unconsciousness and thrusting you into agony. Your body convulsed, a ragged marionette caught in the grip of an unrelenting force. Energy tore through you, merciless, igniting every nerve as if your very molecules rebelled against their own cohesion. Pain burned through your veins, liquid fire coursing with wild abandon. Each breath was a desperate, jagged gulp of air that scorched your lungs, a brutal reminder that you were alive.

Fragments of memory swirled in chaotic fragments—flashes of the Tesseract’s blinding, celestial light, the shattering of the containment chamber, and the surge of overwhelming power that had consumed you. It wasn’t just recollection; it was an echo carved into the fabric of your being, a visceral reminder of what had been unleashed within you.

And beneath all, a deeper sensation pulled at your core. Something was missing. Something vital.

The Tesseract!

The realization struck like a blow to the chest, hollowing you from the inside. Its absence was an unfathomable ache, gnawing at the space it had once filled, leaving behind an emptiness that resonated in your very soul. The energy still thrummed within you, faint yet alive, but it was incomplete—like a melody with its center note stripped away. The absence wasn’t just noticeable; it was consuming.

Before your mind could process the void, your body responded on its own, instinct overriding all reason.

Tendrils of shimmering blue light coiled around you, alive with a life force too vast to comprehend. They twisted and pulsed, spiraling outward as your very essence flickered and fractured, teetering at the edges of reality itself. The sensation wasn’t conscious or deliberate—it was a visceral reaction to the loss. Desperation surged through you, bending the world around you and reshaping space to your will.

In one moment, you lay broken on the cold, fractured floor of the lab; in the next, you were somewhere else entirely.

A violent snap tore through the air as you reappeared near the facility’s exit. The displaced energy rippled outward, hurling agents back with wide-eyed disbelief. The world was a blur of sharp, blinding intensity—colors too vivid, sounds too loud, and sensations too overwhelming. Your gaze darted to the helicopter in the distance, its rhythmic blades carving through the air.

There it was. That faint, unmistakable blue glow pulsing from within.

The pull within you sharpened, more insistent now—a furious call that demanded action. It wasn’t merely anger, though rage burned beneath the surface. It wasn’t just desperation, though your chest felt tight with the weight of it. It was a connection, undeniable and unbreakable, as though the Tesseract was a part of you, an extension of your very existence.

The thought vanished as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath instinct. The energy spiraling around you intensified, wrapping you in a cocoon of light as the world dissolved again. You phased out of existence with a crackling burst of blue light, the chaotic din of the facility vanishing into silence.

When you surged back into reality, the helicopter was closer, its frame growing larger with each flicker of your form. You didn’t care about its occupants. You didn’t care about the destruction left in your wake. None of it mattered—not the chaos, not the consequences, not the searing pain coursing through you. All that mattered was the Tesseract.

It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a relic. It was yours.

Another burst of power enveloped you, and you phased into existence midair. The helicopter’s rhythmic hum became a deafening roar, its descent jarring, unstable. But the chaos of its movement was nothing compared to the storm you brought. As you reappeared, the very fabric of reality trembled under the weight of your presence. The air shimmered, rippled, and bent—distorting around you as if the world itself could not reconcile your existence.

A radiant, otherworldly trail of energy marked your path, shimmering in your wake like the tail of a falling star. The ground below came into sharp focus as you landed, the grass beneath your feet trembling as though bowing under the force of your power.

The Tesseract’s faint glow taunted you from the helicopter’s interior, and your grip on the world tightened. Space itself warped and quivered, a prelude to the storm that would come next. You would reclaim it. No force on Earth—or beyond—could stop you now.

The car’s pilot, already riding the razor’s edge to evade relentless pursuit, had no chance to react when you materialized before them, a sudden ripple in the fabric of reality. Hawkeye, perched tensely in the driver’s seat, spotted you a heartbeat too late. His reflexes took over, and the vehicle lurched violently as he jerked the wheel to avoid a collision. The sharp swerve shattered their tenuous balance, throwing the team inside into disarray. For a moment, the vehicle bucked and wavered, momentum faltering as the pilot fought for control.

Your sudden arrival had fractured their escape, shredding the precision of their retreat like glass underfoot.

Without hesitation, you leveled your hand toward the fugitives, your outstretched finger heavy with intent, as sharp as any blade. “You have something of mine.”

The words were not a plea, nor even a demand. They rang with the weight of an irrefutable truth, a force that demanded acknowledgment.

From his perch atop the roof of the pickup, Loki tilted his head, his smirk as sharp and cutting as the edge of a dagger. “Is that so?” he drawled, the disdain in his tone curling like smoke in the air. “How curious—I don’t recall seeing your name etched upon it.”

The sarcasm dripped from his lips, designed to cut, to mock. Yet as he spoke, his gaze lingered on you, and the smirk faltered. His sharp blue eyes narrowed, the playful veneer slipping to reveal something colder.

The air around you shimmered, bending unnaturally as though space itself revolted in your presence. Each flutter of your form was a ripple in reality’s fabric, twisting the world in subtle, incomprehensible ways. This was no ordinary threat standing before him. This was something far more volatile. Far more intriguing.

The shift in Loki’s expression was subtle but unmistakable. His curiosity sharpened, dangerous and calculating. Whatever you were, you had caught his attention. He straightened, his scepter rising in one fluid motion, its dark magic coalescing at the tip, pulsing with power. “You are in my grasp,” he declared, his voice smooth as silk, laced with dark promise. The scepter’s energy thickened at the announcement, crackling with intent as the spell hurtled toward your mind.

But you were not so easily bound.

The pulse of magic surged toward you, but the instant it touched the space where you stood, your form dissolved in a burst of blue light. One moment, you were there; the next, you were gone. You reappeared several yards away in a swirl of ethereal smoke, the fabric of reality bending and twisting around you. The world itself seemed to shudder, as though struggling to reconcile your presence. What was left behind in your wake was not emptiness but a distorted imprint—an abstract chaos that flickered briefly before fading, leaving the air trembling as though it had witnessed something it could not comprehend.

Loki’s gaze snapped to you, frustration simmering beneath his cool facade, though his interest only deepened. He had faced many adversaries, but none quite like this.

Hawkeye reacted with instinct, spinning the vehicle on a screeching axis and charging toward you like a steel predator unleashed. The tires shrieked, the metal groaned, and the car hurtled forward—a weapon aimed to destroy.

You didn’t flinch.

With another flicker of gleam, you vanished, the car barreling harmlessly through the space you had occupied a moment before. Its path left nothing but rippling air, bending and twisting in your absence. When you reappeared, you were behind them, your body trembling as a sharp, icy cold gripped you. It wasn’t merely the chill of the air but something deeper—an invasive frost that gnawed at your very being, a cruel side effect of the power surging through you.

Your form wavered as you landed lightly on the warped ground, reality itself struggling to stabilize under the chaotic force that clung to you. Every movement left faint traces of distortion in the air, like a wound to the natural order that refused to heal.

Loki leaped down from the truck with predatory grace, each step carefully considered. His piercing gaze locked onto you, and the corner of his mouth twitched with something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was the expression of someone who had found a puzzle worth solving, a weapon worth wielding.

“Impressive,” he remarked, his voice velvet-smooth but laced with danger, like a shadow sliding over the edge of a blade. His words carried the kind of weight that chilled the air between you. There was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes—the hunger of a man who had glimpsed something extraordinary, something he intended to make his own.

Before you could draw a breath to react, he lunged, a blur of predatory precision, his every movement a testament to his otherworldly prowess. Yet you were faster. You flickered again, your form dissolving into a cascade of blue light, his grasp cutting through empty air as though the lack of corporeality mocked him. The space between you rippled and trembled, charged with a tension so thick it seemed to vibrate against the senses.

A flicker of frustration flashed across his face, a crack in the marble calm of his composure. He stepped back, his sharp gaze narrowing, tracking the elusive distortions in space that betrayed your movements. “What are you?” His voice was sharp and demanding, laced with a ravenous curiosity. It wasn’t a question; it was a challenge.

Confusion churned within you, tangled with a fear so visceral it clawed at your chest. The force inside you surged again, a tidal wave that pushed and pulled, relentless in its intensity. Each breath you drew felt like a battle, the air itself foreign and heavy. The cold that coursed through your veins gnawed at you from the inside, an unrelenting frost that left your body trembling and your teeth clenched against the shuddering.

“I don’t... I don’t know,” you gasped, the words barely more than a whisper, each syllable filled with helplessness. “It’s... happening to me.”

His lips curled into a slow, serpentine smile, a smile that carried no comfort. It was the kind of smile that promised danger, that whispered of schemes yet to unfold. “Fascinating,” he commented, his voice low and velvet-smooth, thick with an unsettling intrigue. “You are far more than you appear.”

He tilted his head, the glint in his eyes cutting through you like a blade. The weight of his gaze sent another shiver racing down your spine, its intensity a silent declaration of ownership, of intent. “I’ll be back for you.”

His words lingered, suspended in the charged air like the final note of a symphony, both a promise and a threat. Without a second glance, he turned, retreating with his team and the Tesseract, the space around him crackling with residual tension, as if reality itself bristled at his departure.

You exhaled sharply, your chest heaving as you struggled to steady your breath. The power within you thrummed wildly, a chaotic rhythm that echoed through your very core. It was untamed and overwhelming, but it was yours. No longer were you a victim of its force; you were beginning to feel it bend, however slightly, to your will.

Loki disappeared into the distance toward his newly acquired posse, and your gaze snapped to the truck where the Tesseract gleamed, tantalizingly close. Its light pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm that seemed to resonate with your own, beckoning you. Desperation drove you forward, your hand outstretched, trembling with effort. You could feel the Tesseract’s pull, its energy singing through the air.

But as your fingers brushed the cold metal of the truck, your body betrayed you. The familiar flicker of energy surged too late, and in an instant, you phased out again, vanishing into the blue haze of your power. The Tesseract slipped from your grasp, its light receding into the distance, impossibly far yet seared into your mind like an unfulfilled promise.

Frustration burned in your chest, but you didn’t falter. You willed the flicker to return, your body instinctively bending to the chaotic current within. With a sharp burst of energy, you reappeared, the familiar, sterile walls of the P.E.G.A.S.U.S. base snapping into focus around you.

The battlefield's disarray—the warping space, the crackling tension, and the suffocating presence of Loki—faded into the periphery. For the moment, you stood anchored in the only place that still felt real, the only tether you had to a world rapidly slipping beyond comprehension. Here, amid the sterile calm, you could breathe. For now.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

The second time you awoke wasn’t to the haunting quiet of a shattered lab. Instead, the low, steady buzzing of engines surrounded you, accompanied by the slight, rhythmic sensations of an airplane in flight. It crushed on your senses, a bewildering bubble of noise and movement. The lighting around you was dark and flickering, producing shifting shadows on an array of medical monitors and gadgets crowded into the cramped area of a mobile lab.

Your body first recognized the restrictions laid upon you. Straps held your wrists and ankles to what seemed to be a hospital bed—not cruelly, but tight enough to send shivers down your spine. Anxiety zipped in your veins, making you acutely aware of your imprisonment.

Fragmented memories resurfaced: Loki's frigid, triumphant smirk; the Tesseract sliding from your hands; the painful warping of space as you faded away. Now you were fastened down like a laboratory specimen. Fantastic. Simply wonderful.

You shifted, testing the restraints. The faint creak of the straps broke the sterile silence, blending with muffled voices that drifted through the thin walls of your enclosure. Their tone was disturbingly casual, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within you.

“She phased through a car? I’ve seen some weird things, but that’s a first,” a smooth, sarcastic voice quipped.

“Don’t forget the spatial distortions she caused,” another voice countered, sharper, more clinical. “She’s unstable. That’s the real issue here.”

“Unstable doesn’t necessarily mean dangerous,” came a calmer, measured response.

“Right,” the first voice shot back. “And unstable doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous, either.”

You strained against the restraints, your heart pounding as the conversation grew clearer. The door creaked open, and a group filed in, their presence commanding the room.

At the forefront was the infamous Tony Stark, clad in partial armor, his sharp eyes scanning you with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Behind him came Steve Rogers, his steady stride exuding quiet authority, and a man you hadn’t quite met yet. His dark hair was tousled, and his expression looked like someone who had seen more than his fair share of exhaustion. Agent Romanoff’s sharp gaze swept the room with cool precision, while the mighty Thor loomed behind them, his formidable presence unmistakable. And finally, Director Fury entered, his singular eye cutting through the room’s tension with practiced ease.

All eyes landed on you, and under their collective scrutiny, you felt like a rare, caged specimen being examined.

“So, this is her,” Stark drawled, his voice light but his gaze piercing. “She’s... smaller than I expected.”

“Thanks,” you deadpanned, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Natasha tilted her head, her expression unreadable. “She doesn’t look like a threat.”

“That’s what they said about the Hulk the first time,” Stark retorted, gesturing toward the quiet mant. “And we all know how that turned out.”

“Can we please not compare people to me?” The presumable Hulk guy sighed, raising a hand as though to defuse the brewing tension. 

Steve stepped closer, his voice steady but firm. “She’s been through enough. Let’s treat her like a person, not a problem.”

Your patience snapped. “Hello? I’m right here!” You cut in, your voice sharp as glass. “Maybe stop talking about me like I’m a science experiment and explain what’s going on?”

Stark smirked, unfazed. “Hey, Jumper? Let the big men talk while we figure out what to do with you.”

Your brows furrowed. “Jumper? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Stark replied with a shrug. “Like that movie. David Rice, teleporting, stealing—ring any bells?”

“Haven’t seen it,” you said flatly.

“You should. It’s a classic,” he answered, unbothered.

Their debate about your powers, your instability, and whether or not you were dangerous carried on, as though you weren’t even there. Each word stoked the fire of your frustration until it burned white-hot.

Finally, you’d had enough. “Shut up!” You shouted, the anger in your voice reverberating through the air.

The energy within you surged, wild and uncontrollable. A pulse burst outward, rippling through the space around you. The walls groaned under the strain, lights flickered violently, and the medical equipment rattled as though caught in the eye of a storm.

“Stand down!” Fury barked, his tone cutting through the chaos.

You clenched your fists, trembling as you fought to contain the volatile force. The chill of your power seeped into your skin, biting and relentless, but you wrestled it back, forcing the storm to subside. Slowly, the distortions eased, and the aircraft steadied. Every pair of eyes bore into you, equal parts awe and caution.

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s cranky.”

Fury stepped forward, his expression unreadable but his voice firm. “Let her up.”

The medical bay was cloaked in an eery silence, broken only by the low hum of machinery and the faint shuffle of boots in the corridor beyond. You flexed your fingers, the ache in your joints a cruel reminder of how long you’d been bound. The restraints clicked open, and you pushed yourself upright, the cold press of the metal bed frame biting into your back as you adjusted to freedom. 

Meeting Fury’s gaze, you kept your voice as even as possible despite the tremor in your hands. “Alright,” you said, steel in your tone. “What’s going on? Why was I strapped down like some lab rat?”

The one-eyed man didn’t flinch. His gaze was unwavering, his words carrying the weight of something far greater than yourself. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, weighted with unspoken tension. "We found you unconscious in the lab. Loki had made his escape, taken Barton and Selvig. When I came back, the incubation chamber that was stabilizing you was shattered. Loki smashed it, thinking it was part of the Tesseract’s containment."

You blinked, trying to piece together the fragmented memories of that chaotic moment. "Come again?"

"After you touched the Tesseract, your body went into a molecular spectacle," Fury explained, his words clipped. "That chamber was keeping the energy from ripping you apart. Without it..." He gestured vaguely at you, his meaning clear.

Your breath hitched as the weight of his words settled on your chest. "So Loki didn’t just free me—he left me like this?"

Fury nodded grimly. "And now we’re cleaning up the mess."

The unknown man stepped out of the shadows, his gaze analytical, though tempered by a quiet compassion. "It’s not just a mess," he started to explain, his voice softer than Fury���s but no less serious. "The Tesseract’s energy didn’t just destabilize you—it altered you on a fundamental level. Your molecular structure has been rewritten to... well, interact with dimensions in ways we don’t fully understand yet."

Your head throbbed as he continued, spilling out terms that blurred together in a haze of scientific jargon. Dimensional instability. Fourth-dimensional access. Something about space-time manipulation.

"English," you interrupted, rubbing your temples. "Please."

Steve, standing near the door, raised a hand in solidarity. "Seconded."

Tony stepped forward, letting out a dramatic sigh. "What he means is that the Tesseract got cozy with your DNA. Now you’ve got some nifty tricks: teleportation, spatial distortion, maybe more. Think of it like a surprise party—except the surprise is you’re the cake, and the Tesseract’s the one doing the slicing."

You glared at him. "Thanks for the metaphor. Really clears things up."

He smirked but didn’t respond.

Your thoughts churned, piecing together the implications. "That explains how I caught up to Loki after he escaped," you mulled. "He tried to hit me with his scepter, but I... phased out before it reached me. He looked... entertained, to say the least. Told me he’d be back for me."

The room went still, the atmosphere shifting from analytical to deeply uneasy. Natasha straightened, her gaze sharpening as she exchanged a glance with Fury.

"If that guy said that," she said, her voice steady but edged with steel, "it means he sees you as valuable. With those abilities, you’re exactly the kind of weapon he’d want to control."

A chill travelled down your spine. "So what, now I’m just some prize to be claimed?"

Fury’s voice cut through the room, cold and decisive. "We’re not letting that happen. Until we get to Stark Tower, you’re staying on this jet. No exceptions."

Before you could speak, Thor’s booming voice rang out from the doorframe. "A prize?" he repeated, stepping forward with his usual, thunderous stride. His golden hair caught the light as his eyes softened with an almost protective intensity. "You are no prize for Loki to claim. He may be cunning, but he will not have his way with you—not while I am here."

You raised an eyebrow, slightly thrown off by his earnestness. "Thanks, but I’m sure he’s got plenty of other ways to torment me."

The god of thunder's brow furrowed, as if the idea of Loki tormenting you was an affront to his very being. "You have my word, Lady... you will not be his puppet," he swore, his voice carrying the weight of Asgard's nobility.

Fury’s face remained unreadable, but his voice was firm as he turned back to you. "We're still not taking any chances. You’re staying here, safe for now. And if Loki comes back, we’ll deal with it. We need to get to Stark Tower as quickly as possible, it's the only place available with the resources to stabilize your condition. If we don’t, these dimensional instabilities could tear apart more than just this jet."

You opened your mouth to argue but stopped, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Fighting them wouldn’t change the facts. "Fine," you acquiesced, resigned that you had no other option available. "But I’m going to need food. And something to keep me from losing my mind in here."

Tony’s smirk returned, lightening the tension just slightly. "Snacks and movies, coming right up."

Despite his jab, the weight of the moment lingered. As the team drifted into hushed conversation, their words a low hum in the background, you sat quietly, your thoughts spinning.

The Tesseract had changed you and marked you in ways you couldn’t yet understand. And Loki—Loki had noticed. Whatever game he was playing, you weren’t just a spectator anymore. You were a piece on the board, and the stakes were only getting higher.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

How exquisitely bitter the irony: one prison traded for another. If you had a nickel for every time you had been detained in the past forty-eight hours—whether conscious or not—you’d have three. A meager sum, yet one that, in the context of your current plight, was profoundly unsettling.

The monotony of your confinement gnawed at your nerves with a relentlessness that seemed to seep into your very bones, its suffocating grip tightening with every passing moment. Time itself in this sterile, airless void became an elusive specter, slipping away like sand through trembling fingers. It felt as though you had been locked in this white-washed tomb for an eternity, the walls too pristine, the air too cold, the silence too profound—a crushing weight pressing against your chest, as if the very space around you sought to drown you in its emptiness. 

Your once sharp, purposeful thoughts had shattered into disjointed fragments, fragments that drifted aimlessly in a haze of mounting frustration, their clarity dissolved like mist in a rising storm. Boredom, slow and insidious, bled into paranoia, each second stretching interminably, as though the very passage of time had turned traitor, conspiring to magnify your suffering. The silence was no refuge; it felt like a blanket too heavy and suffocating, threatening to smother the very thoughts it once cradled, to extinguish the last flickers of your sense of self.

You were on the verge of testing the limits of your power, of daring to see what lay beyond the fragile boundary of your current abilities. Maybe the Tesseract had granted you more than the simple gift of phasing in and out of reality. What if you could tear the walls apart? Warp time itself and bend space into your will? The temptation surged within you, a primal urge almost impossible to deny. 

Yet the room—engineered with cold precision to temper anomalies like yours—stood as an unyielding barrier. There was something about its design, a constant, subsonic hum in the air, a pressure against the edges of your consciousness, that suppressed your abilities, keeping them tethered like an animal on a leash. It was a constant reminder of your limitations, a cage disguised as a sanctuary.

With a scowl, you turned inward, focusing on the wound that throbbed at the center of your being: the anomaly. The term stung like salt on an open wound, grating against your very essence.

Anomaly. As if you were some broken thing, some glitch in the machinery of the universe. You were no glitch. No, you were now pure power. Raw, untamed, and beyond their—and most of all, your comprehension. The more you thought about it, the more the resentment swelled inside you, bitter and untamed. Loki. The Tesseract. S.H.I.E.L.D. All of it—how it twisted and manipulated you, how it branded you, how it reduced you to something less than human, something to be controlled, to be feared. You had never asked for this. Never sought to be a pawn in some cosmic game, dragged into a struggle far too vast to understand. And yet, here you were—trapped in this sterile cage, reduced to an "anomaly," herded into a prison of white walls and cold silence.

Everything was a lie. The world, the system, and the very purpose they had forced upon you. And finally, the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface, hidden behind the layers of fear and confusion, found its voice—a guttural growl of pure, seething bitterness lodged in your chest.

Without warning, the air itself seemed to splinter. The jet convulsed violently, as if some unseen hand had seized it, and wrenched it from its course with reckless abandon. The shockwave slammed you against the cold, unyielding metal of the wall, a violent jolt that left your limbs momentarily stunned, your body trembling in its wake. The delicate web of electric circuits, already on the edge of failure, surrendered with a crackling roar. The hiss of shorted wires split the air, and sparks erupted in wild, erratic bursts, casting a flickering, spectral glow that pulsed with a life of its own, as if the foundation of the ship was fighting to escape its confines.

In the aftermath of the disturbance, the door to your lockup—once sealed tight—groaned in protest under the weight of the disturbance. Its mechanisms, unprepared for such a violent upheaval, faltered, stuttering before finally giving way. It creaked open, the sound faint but unmistakable, its defiance ringing through the stillness like an illicit promise. For a heartbeat, you wondered if the sound was a mirage, a trick of the senses, born from the exhaustion of confinement. But no, it was real.

You weren’t meant to leave. The door wasn’t meant to open. You had been told to stay put. The order had been clear, simple, and unambiguous. Yet, here you stood, poised at the threshold, caught between obedience and instinct, as if something—some invisible force—was drawing you forward. A whisper, deep within, gnawed at your resolve, an instinct honed by years of dangerous work.

You couldn’t stay. You had to move. You had to leave.

A strange, insistent pull surged through the air—a sickening, familiar energy that brushed against your skin, tugging with a force that seemed to seep into your very bones. It was unsettling, unlike anything you had ever felt, as though the atmosphere itself was charged with anticipation, electric and restless. You could not resist. Your feet moved, step after step, as if some invisible hand guided you forward. The hallways of the jet stretched before you like a twisting labyrinth, their shadows thick and oppressive. Each movement felt deliberate, yet as if the world around you held its breath, suspended in some unknowable pause.

Adrenaline surged, flooding your veins with a jolt that quickened your pulse and set your limbs into frantic motion. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but the warning was unclear—run from what? From whom? The urgency of it felt like a call you could not answer, a compulsion you could not escape.

In the distance, the muffled shouts of agents reverberated down the corridor, their hurried steps echoing against the steel walls. Yet no one noticed. No one saw your door swing open; no one cared. 

The lack of attention only made the panic rise in your chest. Why was no one reacting? Why was it as though the world had forgotten you when you were supposed to be under the scrutiny of the highest surveillance possible? 

The jet itself seemed to tremble under the weight of unseen forces, jolting violently as if it were struggling against some invisible pressure. But you couldn’t focus on that, not now. You had to keep moving. You had to follow that strange, magnetic pull.

The sensation of that energy, that invisible tether, grew stronger, a force pulling you deeper into the heart of the ship. Each step felt heavier, as though the walls themselves were pressing in on you, narrowing your path. Your body was on high alert now, your every sense heightened, your mind a whirl of caution and confusion. And then—there he was.

Loki.

His silhouette loomed at the end of the hallway, tall and imposing, barely illuminated by the flickering lights above. His presence was unmistakable—like a black hole of power, consuming the very air around him, draining the light and warmth from the space. The energy surrounding him was palpable, cold, and twisted, making your stomach lurch.

That power. It was him. You knew it without question, yet even now, something urged you forward like a moth would to a flame. A force beyond reason, beyond understanding, that would undoubtedly leave you with burning wings should you not be careful enough.

At the far end of the corridor, Loki stood with his back turned, a dark figure framed by the erratic flickers of overhead light. The space around him rippled with alarming vigor, warping the air itself, as if the atmosphere recognized and bowed to him for who he truly was. Your pulse quickened in response, and the beat of your heart thunderous in your ears. You couldn’t stop yourself. You had to move closer.

Step by cautious step, you advanced, adrenaline coursing hot and sharp through your veins. The corridor stretched endlessly before you, dimly illuminated by flickering lights that cast jagged, restless shadows on the cold, metallic walls. It felt as though the jet itself was alive, its unseen breath mirroring the erratic rhythm of your own.

Every step you took reverberated in the oppressive stillness, each shuffle of your boots against the floor magnified into a drumbeat that echoed through the narrow passage. You moved as silently as you could, but the sound felt deafening, a betrayer of your presence, heralding your approach. The air grew heavier with every step, thick and suffocating, pressing down on you like unseen hands. You weren’t sure if it was the atmosphere—or him.

At the far end of the corridor, Loki stood like a statue carved from shadow and light, framed by the weak, flickering glow. He was still, unnervingly so, but the air around him was charged with a menace that set every nerve in your body on edge. His presence was a gravitational force all its own, exuding power so palpable it prickled across your skin like static. Your breath hitched, but something inexplicable pulled you closer, even as dread whispered at the edge of your mind.

Your steps faltered for an instant, instinct screaming for you to turn back, but the pull was merciless, driving you forward. Loki didn’t move. He remained motionless, his presence a coiled tension, a predator biding its time.

A single movement—so slight it might have been imperceptible—broke the stillness. His head tilted, just enough to send a jolt of alarm surging through you. The subtle shift in his posture was deliberate, a tightening of his shoulders that radiated the kind of precision only predators possessed. The air seemed to ripple, trembling under the weight of his awareness, as if the space itself recoiled from him.

Your body locked in place, breath frozen in your lungs. He hadn’t turned; his face remained hidden in shadow. Yet somehow, you knew. He knew. He had felt you, heard you, sensed you in a way that transcended understanding.

Time suspended. The corridor stretched infinitely in that moment, an expanse too vast to cross and yet suffocatingly narrow, leaving no room to retreat. The silence pressed down, interrupted only by the faint hum of the jet’s machinery, a sound that seemed almost mocking in its calm. Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, a frantic drumbeat that surely he could hear, though he gave no sign.

And then he moved.

The motion was almost inhuman, fluid as ink spilled into water, his form melting into the shadows with a grace so seamless it was unnerving. He didn’t glance back, didn’t speak, didn’t offer any acknowledgment of your presence. One moment he was there, his figure a looming threat at the end of the corridor—and the next, he was gone. Swallowed whole by the darkness, leaving nothing but the echo of his absence and the electric charge of a predator who had simply chosen to bide his time.

You froze, panic clawing its way up your throat. 

He was fast. Too fast.

But the irresistible temptation of the thrill remained. You had to follow.

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a drum of desperation as you ran, your feet slapping against the cold metal of the jet's floor. You turned the corner, breath ragged, but when your eyes swept the hallway—nothing. It stretched on endlessly, an empty, hollow void. No sign of him. No trace.

The jet lurched beneath you, as though responding to the shift in the air, but you didn’t stop. You pushed on, driven by a force you couldn’t comprehend, only to be met with silence—unnerving, profound silence.

Loki was gone.

And yet, the feeling lingered, crawling under your skin like the echo of a distant storm. He was out there somewhere, you were sure of it—watching. Waiting. 

Your feet struck the cold metal floor with a rhythm that mirrored the frantic pulse of your heart. The jet lurched again, the walls groaning as if they too shuddered at his absence. You ran, each breath a jagged gasp, every step weighted with the gnawing certainty that you were chasing something—no, someone—into danger, right into the sharp claws of a prowler who coveted the sponsor of your essence.

Keep going. You’re almost there.

But as you reached the next turn, the hallway stretched before you, empty. An oppressive, suffocating void of quietude awaited you, curling around you like a thick fog. There was no sound, not even those of the scattered units working on the disturbances going on—no hint of movement, no trace of him. 

No Loki. Only the cold, hollow echo of your own footsteps.

A sharp, crawling panic gripped your chest, spreading out like wildfire as you spun, searching frantically—any sign, any trace of him, anything to pierce the silence. The quiet pressed in, as heavy as a weight in your ears, suffocating, making the world spin around you, dizzy and unsteady.

It was subtle at first—barely a whisper—but then the temperature dropped and the chill seeped into your bones, a cold so deep it felt almost unnatural. You thought your mind was tricking you as you saw puffs of your breath fog before you, but you definitely trusted your nerves at sensing the inevitable approach of something—someone.

The jet jolted again, harder this time, as if it too had felt the shift. The floor tilted beneath you, and the walls groaned, their strength buckling under an unseen pressure. They seemed to bend, their shape distorting unnaturally, the very corridors twisting around you. Reality stretched and warped at the edges of your vision, blurring the world into a disorienting swirl. The ground shifted, and the panels seemed to close in on you,as though space itself was contracting.

And then—there he was.

He emerged from the shadows like an omen wrapped in its cloak of darkness, all towering and sinister. He presented himself as a monolith of malice, his very being an affront to the fragile world around him. A cruel smile twisted on his lips, laced with venomous amusement that grated through the silence like the harsh screech of a violin's strings, cutting through the quietness with a sharp, discordant note. His eyes—cold as the deepest winter—shone with a sharp hunger, the glint of a predator toying with its helpless prey.

You lurched back, your pulse racing in your chest, but your legs felt heavy—as if they had switched muscles for sludge. Fear clutched at your throat, but a resolute murmur in the back of your mind propelled you forward.

Desperation seized you. You reached for it—the power that had always been your tether to survival, the force that had kept you one step ahead. You tried to summon it, tried to feel the familiar hum of energy coursing through your veins, to rip open the rift and vanish into the unknown.

But it was gone.

Panic slammed into you like a tide. You reached again, your fingers trembling, but the power slipped away, evading you like smoke, elusive and intangible. The rift shimmered on the cusp of existence—so close, so near—but something had severed the connection, leaving you stranded in a world that had turned against you.

Loki’s laugh rang out, a low, mocking sound that reverberated off the warping walls of reality. His voice, thick with dark amusement, slithered through the air, each word dripping with a promise of doom.

“Do you truly believe you can outrun me?” He mused, his eyes never leaving yours. His eyes twinkled with wicked glee as he approached, hands militaristically behind his back. “I know you’re trying to escape, but you’re trapped, agent.”

You twisted, struggling to break free, to flee, but your limbs felt frozen—rooted in place, shackled by an invisible force. His hand shot out, catching your wrist with an ironclad grip. Cold spread through your veins like ice, locking you in place and the world seemed to tilt, your body buckling under the sheer force of his touch.

“So desperate,” he tutted, his small pout dripping with mockery. The words slithered over you, as smooth as silk, as venomous as a serpent’s bite.

Before you could react, he effortlessly pulled you close, his gaze fixed on yours. The fear within you burst, suffocating your breath as his power smashed down on you, infusing you with a blackness that threatened to engulf you completely. His gaze, blank and vast, as deep as the void, pierced your very soul. The minute his stare met yours, a searing, suffocating cold swept through your chest, as if the very light within you had been sucked. His gaze seemed like a weight crushing down on you, with each second stretching into eternity and drowning your will. You could feel the tendrils of his power burrowing deep into you, twisting and corrupting, like poison coursing through your veins and chilling you from the inside out. It was as though his eyes alone were rewriting your very essence, turning you into something hollow, something lost.

“You’re mine now,” he sauntered with finality, each word laden with inevitability.

Every fiber of your existence cried out for freedom—each heartbeat a drum of urgent desire, each thought a keen, frantic claw digging at the bars of his hands. Your muscles burned with the effort of defiance; the power that had once flowed through you with effortless grace was now a raging fire under your skin, waiting to be released. You pushed with the last of your power, pushing against the iron of his grip and straining for the rift—the barrier between you and freedom.

But no matter how hard you fought, it was as if his very existence had become interwoven with yours, a smothering cloud that cut off your connection to the energy you had previously commanded. It was as if the entire area surrounding you bent to his will, denying you any outlet or opportunity of escape.

You fought for control as you saw him approach with his mind controlling weapon, whipping your arm around to summon a burst of energy. A tempest of force crackling through the space—and with a cruel twist, Loki shoved you backward, sending you crashing into the walls. 

"Well done," he applauded as your lungs heaved for oxygen at the abrupt impact. "But it will take more than that." 

You could feel your strength slipping away. Every respiration was a battle, each movement a desperate attempt to resist the crushing weight of his presence. The rift began to widen, the very fabric of reality humming with your power, vibrating with an intensity you had yet to fully understand. Using it this way—on the jet, with no true grasp of how to control it—had been reckless. But for a fleeting moment, freedom had seemed within reach, one step away from redemption.

Unfortunately, Loki was faster.

In the blink of an eye, he was upon you, his hand wrapping around your throat with a grip that threatened to crush bone. He shoved you violently against the partition of the jet, his body pressing hard into yours. Dazed, panting, you fought him with renewed fury, your will surging back to life. But his hold on reality tightened, suffocating, relentless. Every possible escape was sealed, every path to liberty shut down by the sheer force of his control.

You refused to yield.

Summoning what little force remained, you raised your free hand, unleashing a blinding burst of energy. The flash surged toward him, but rather than faltering, Loki seemed to draw strength from it, his eyes gleaming with a dark delight. The energy you unleashed only seemed to fuel the fire within him, causing ripples of chaos that sent you reeling. A dizzying wave of power knocked you off balance, your head colliding with the wall, and you struggled to stay conscious.

"You fool," Loki hissed, his voice thick with cruel disdain. He swung his scepter, striking it against the floor with an ground-shattering crack. The foundations of the jet groaned under the impact. With a flick of his wrist, the back of the scepter struck you, sending you crashing to the ground, your body jolting violently. Pain exploded through you, a shockwave of agony that seemed to reverberate in every part of you.

Gasping for air, disoriented, you looked up at him through a blur. Loki’s eyes—those merciless, fathomless eyes—were locked on you, glinting with cold amusement. A twisted smile curled at the corners of his lips, and his gaze never wavered, fixed on you with a knowing, cruel intensity.

"You cannot escape," he asserted, his voice heavy with the finality of doom. The words landed like a death sentence, woven with both victory and irrevocable defeat.

As his grip tightened once more around your throat, pulling you deeper into the inevitable, a chilling realization settled in your chest. He was right.

The world spun around you, every inch of your body screaming for freedom. But the harder you fought, the more futile it became. Loki’s power had already woven itself around you, binding you in ways you could not escape. It pulled tighter, drawing you deeper into his grasp, unraveling every thread of resistance beneath the weight of his will.

And when he smiled, it wasn’t with kindness.

It was with victory.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

The third time you regained consciousness, you were bound to a cold, unforgiving metal chair. Your hands were shackled on the armrests as your ankles were on the joints, the skin around your wrists raw from the futile struggle. At first, everything was a blur—shapes and colors twisted together, indistinct and shifting like a dream on the edge of clarity. You blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the haze, your senses sluggish as you registered the cold, hard surface against your back, the rigid splats pressing up beneath you. A faint scent of iron mingled with something sterile, almost clinical, as though the very air itself sought to keep you at a distance from comfort.

Gradually, reality sharpened, crashing into you like a cold wave. Your heart thudded erratically in your chest, a rapid pulse that betrayed the disarray in your mind. You could feel the chains digging into your flesh, their cruel bite not nearly as unbearable as the gnawing sense of dread tightening around your chest. You were in an unfamiliar place, vulnerable, helpless—at the mercy of a god who thrived on chaos.

The scrape of boots against the floor echoed from the shadows, and instinct flared within you. You tried to move, tried to scramble toward the door, desperate to flee, but the sensation of his presence loomed heavy in the space, suffocating. Loki, that elusive god, was somewhere in the dark, and you could feel him drawing nearer.

"You disappoint me," came his voice—silky, smooth, and laced with venom. He appeared in the doorway, standing tall, his imposing figure casual yet drenched in superiority. His arms were crossed, the epitome of arrogance, but there was something more in his gaze—something darker, colder, that made the hairs on your neck stand on end.

Your stomach twisted, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away. There he was, standing in the doorway like an ominous figure straight out of a nightmare, his presence as unnerving as the storm behind his eyes.

“I thought better of you,” he continued, the words dripping with disdain. “You could have been something greater. And yet here you are—shackled and easily subdued.”

You clenched your teeth, fighting the instinct to show any sign of fear. No. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Despite the steel in your resolve, you felt a sliver of unease crawl beneath your skin. His calmness, his composure, was like a storm on the horizon—a quiet before a cataclysm.

“I’d suggest you fuck off with your unwanted opinions, serpent,” you spat, your voice hard despite the tremor beneath.

Loki raised an eyebrow, amused by your feeble resistance. He took slow steps toward you, his boots clicking against the floor with each movement. “How crude. You know, I can see it in your eyes. The fear, the doubt. You feel it, don’t you? That chaos inside of you. The power you don’t understand.” His voice dropped lower, a thread of venom coating his words. “How does it feel, to know that something so powerful is inside you, but you can’t control it? To know that it could tear you apart at any moment?”

You inhaled sharply, your breath ragged. “I’m not afraid of you.” You wished it were true. You wished you could push the fear down, but it gnawed at the edges of your mind.

“You should be.” He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curl of his lips. “But it doesn’t have to be like this.” His voice softened, growing more persuasive, coaxing. “I’m feeling rather lenient. I can help you, if you let me. I can show you how to control it, all this power inside you. You could be free—free from this constant battle, from the chaos. All you have to do is let me take it. Let me take you.”

The sincerity in his voice was almost convincing. For a split second, you found yourself lowering your guard, your eyes tinkling at the thought of release. Of peace. Of finally understanding this frightening power was wreaking havoc on your body and mind and that only a superior being—as much as you hated to admit it—could master it. A wave of temptation surged through you—his words sounded so safe, so soothing, like balm to your aching mind. It would be so easy to let him take control, to let him guide you. 

But no. You clenched your fists and forced yourself to stay grounded. “I will never let you get me.”

Loki’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of anger. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a mask of serenity. He tilted his head slightly, as though he were studying you, eyes narrowing as if he was peeling back the layers of your being and see into the very depths of your soul. “You’re stubborn,” he observed, almost to himself. “I understand. I know you. I know what you’ve been through, what you’ve lost. Clint Barton told me all about you, after all.”

Your heart skipped a beat, a cold shiver running down your spine. “What did he tell you?”

Loki’s lips twisted into a sly, satisfied smirk, his voice low and laced with venom. “Oh, everything. Your life, your pain, your endless losses. The way you've been forced to fight—alone—without a single soul to trust. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? How you, of all people, found yourself at the helm of such a 'noble' unit in your precious secret services? How utterly pathetic. Righteousness... What a farce. All of you, so-called patriots, parading around like saints, when in reality, you’re nothing more than fools. Jesters, wearing masks of morality while you destroy each other in ever more barbaric, senseless ways.” 

He leaned in closer, his shadow looming over you as did the light over his head, making him appear even more menacing than he already was. “But not you, of course. You think you’re the only one who’s ever suffered, don’t you? The only one who’s ever been left to fend for themselves?”

You shook your head, but the words hit harder than you expected. “I see you, the real you.” he pursued. “You don’t have to fight it. I could be the one to guide you. I could show you how to wield that power, how to become what you were always meant to be.”

He moved then, just a step closer, and it was like the world shifted on its axis. Loki paused in front of you, his face softening just for a moment. “We’re more alike than you think.” He crouched down, bringing himself to your eye level, his gaze intense but strangely understanding. “I know what it’s like to have something inside of you—something uncontrollable, something powerful.” His eyes darkened. “I know what it’s like to be consumed by it. To feel like it could tear you apart if you don’t keep it chained.”

You blinked at him, confusion mingling with your frustration. Was this… empathy?

“I’ve been there,” he continued in a hushed manner, like he was sharing a secret with you. “You’re not the first to feel overwhelmed by power you can’t control. Believe me, I’ve spent lifetimes struggling with that very thing. But you… you’re different. You have the potential to be more. You don’t have to fight it anymore. You don’t have to suffer. Let me help you.”

Your pulse quickened, but not from the dread of what he might do next—more of because his words resonated deep within you. Every single one of them felt like a key, unlocking the very parts of you that you had spent your entire life burying through your diligent work. His voice, so soft, so knowing, slid under your skin like a lover’s caress, coaxing out the parts of you that longed to be understood.

Loki was dangerous. You knew that. But the way he spoke, the way he looked at you—he made it so easy to forget.

“I can teach you,” Loki whispered, his breath cool against your skin. He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the chains that bound your wrists, a silent promise of liberation. “Let me show you how to embrace it. How to wield it. Let me show you what it feels like to let go.”

The words glazed on your defenses like honey, and for a moment, you thought you might give in. His gaze was so understanding, it felt like he truly cared. His hands, now resting lightly on the chains, made your hair stand on end and felt warm against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold metal. It seemed almost… familiar?

You didn’t know how to feel about that.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmured, his voice almost tender. “You’ve been alone for so long, haven’t you? You don’t have to do this alone anymore. I’ll help you. Let me take control, just for a little while. I can give you peace. I can give you what you’ve always wanted.”

You tried to pull away, but the chains held you fast. Your heart raced as his words wrapped around you like a vice, and the conflict within you grew more unbearable with each passing second. Part of you wanted to scream, wanted to break free, but the rest of you… the rest of you was listening, was waiting for his touch, for the release he promised.

Was it his eyes? The way he seemed to know exactly what you were thinking before you did? Or was it the power, that seductive undercurrent to everything he did, that promised you could slip into dangerous water, without ever fully understanding the cost of drowning in it?

It was a tempting offer. Too tempting. You could almost feel the warmth of it—the weight of control that you had never known. It felt like the answer to all your struggles, all your years of pain, all the times you had been forced to fight. Could it really be that easy? All the pain, all the confusion—it could all fade away. If you just let him in. You were spiraling now, your mind reeling with the possibilities, with the allure of it. You had suffered for too long, and he made it sound so simple, so easy. You knew better. You had to.

But the temptation… God, the temptation was overwhelming.

“No.” The word felt foreign in your mouth, a last defiant breath in the face of everything he was offering. “I won’t let you control me. I won’t be like you.”

For the briefest moment, Loki’s expression flickered—like the mask of compassion he’d so carefully crafted slipped just slightly. His eyes hardened, the warmth vanishing, replaced by cold fury. The air seemed to drop ten degrees.

“You refuse?” he asked, his voice a dangerous whisper, low and menacing.

You didn’t answer, but your heart raced, the uncaged power churning beneath your skin like an unrelenting tide. Loki’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl.

“Very well,” he murmured, his fingers curling into a fist. “But you don’t get to make the rules.”

Before you could react, his hand darted out like a serpent, seizing your face in a bruising grip. He leaned in, his blue eyes searing into your very soul, their intensity whispering the horrors of your darkest, most twisted nightmares into your mind, each image more agonizing than the last.

“I gave you a choice. You should have taken it.”

A burst of pain suddenly slammed into your head, a vicious wave that made you cry out, your body jerking against the chains. It was only then that you realized, far too late, that his scepter was pointed directly at your heart, the cool tip barely a breath away from your skin. The last remnants of your resistance faltered as the power of the scepter sank deeper into your being, the force of his control sinking like iron chains.

It felt like a glacial wave crashed into your mind and seeped into your thoughts. Loki’s voice was nothing but a muffled sound now, cutting through the haze in a calm and satisfied tone. “Feel that?” His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight. “That’s the power you have. The power you could have had all along. You’re mine now.”

Your thoughts were spinning, the room closing in around you. The Tesseract’s energy was flaring inside you, the raw power scrambling for control, and you could feel Loki’s influence seeping in, overtaking your thoughts, wrapping around your mind like a vice.

“No…” you gasped, weakly, trying to shake him off, but the words were swallowed by the overwhelming pressure.

“Yes,” Loki purred. “You belong to me now, and you will thank me one day. When you realize that everything I’ve done, everything I’ve shown you, was for your own good.”

With a cruel laugh, he twisted his grip, and a flood of darkness poured into you, overwhelming your mind with every painful, searing detail of his power. He controlled you—body, soul, and everything in between.

The world went black.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

The noise of reinforcement units coming in for repairs filled the background, the steady hum of machinery punctuated by the occasional clang and whirr of tools at work. Outside the small, utilitarian debriefing room, the distant sounds of jets being repaired and refueled echoed through the corridors—a constant reminder of how close they had come to the edge. The Quinjets, once sleek symbols of precision and strength, were now battered and broken, their forms twisted by the brutal assault in the skies above. The jet bay, a hub of efficiency just hours ago, now stood as a grim testament to how quickly things could fall apart.

The room itself, stark and functional, lacked windows—its white walls offering no reprieve from the sterile atmosphere that weighed heavily on those gathered inside. A massive holographic display at the center of the room flickered with damage reports and strategic movements, casting an eerie glow across the faces of the Avengers as they processed the chaos they had just endured. The room buzzed with a quiet sense of urgency, the kind that comes when everything hangs by a thread, when the adrenaline of the mission has subsided but the aftermath still lingers in the air like a faint echo of destruction.

Natasha Romanoff paced at the front, her every step deliberate and measured, her hands clasped behind her back in a posture that suggested both authority and restraint. Her expression was unreadable, a carefully crafted mask that hid the storm beneath. Steve Rogers leaned over the table, his eyes scanning the data with practiced precision, his brow furrowed as he took stock of the damage—not just to the equipment, but to their mission, and to themselves. Tony Stark, ever the restless soul, paced nearby, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a study in concern and frustration. Bruce Banner, though seemingly calm on the surface, shifted uneasily, his eyes darting between the reports and the quiet hum of the room. His mind was still reeling from his recent transformation into the ‘Other Guy,’ and the weight of his own unpredictability hung over him.

"So, what’s the damage?" Bruce’s voice cut through the tension, his words soft but tinged with a quiet apprehension. "I’m guessing we’re not going anywhere anytime soon with the jets looking like they do."

"Repairs are underway," Natasha replied, her voice as clipped as ever, though there was a flicker of exhaustion in her tone. "We’ll be fine for a short-term flight, but it’ll take some time before we’re combat-ready."

Clint Barton, standing near the glass overlooking the hangar, gave a tired shrug, his face etched with the weariness of battle. His hand brushed across his brow, wiping away the sweat that had accumulated there, and he nodded toward the Quinjets in the distance. "Well, if you’re asking if we can leave anytime soon, I’d say no. We’re grounded for now. That one over there..." He gestured toward the wreckage of the Quinjet, its tail section reduced to a mangled heap of metal and fire. "It’s a total loss. We’re looking at days of repairs."

Tony shot a glare at the nearby repair bay through the glass, his mind already working at full speed as he assessed the damage. His eyes traced the outline of the battered Quinjets, the destruction evident in every twisted part. But as much as the sight of the wreckage stirred a sense of frustration, it wasn’t what had his blood boiling.

"Great," he muttered, his voice thick with resentment. "We’re grounded for the time being, and half the damn world’s going to burn because I’m stuck here playing babysitter. Meanwhile, Fury’s getting more irritable by the second."

"Fury’s always irritable," Clint quipped, though his tone lacked the usual bite, his words more a fact than a joke.

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he stood, hands resting on the table, his jaw clenched. "That’s not what’s bothering him, though. We’ve all seen how he’s been. This isn’t just about the mission—it’s personal for him. He feels guilty about her."

"Who, the agent?" Natasha asked, her voice sharp with curiosity. "Why would he feel guilty about her?"

"Because he let her go," Steve answered, shaking his head slowly. "He’s the one who pushed her into the field. He’s the one who didn’t anticipate Loki going after her like this. Fury’s the one who’s responsible for her being on the front lines. And Phil..." His voice trailed off, the mention of Phil Coulson’s name cutting through the room like a cold gust of wind. The weight of his death hung in the air, a shadow that none of them could escape.

Clint’s face hardened, his gaze flickering to Natasha before he broke the silence. "Loki’s got her, right?" His voice was low, raw with the weight of his own regret. "I remember him asking me about her, pressuring me for information. Something about turning her into his prize warrior. I didn’t realize how far he’d already gone." His words lingered in the air, filled with the sting of failure.

Natasha’s eyes darkened, a sharp edge creeping into her voice. "Whatever Loki’s done to her, it’s more than we’ve seen. It’s safe to assume he’s fully gained control of her now."

Tony’s mind raced, his thoughts tangled with the anxiety gnawing at his insides. "And what happens if he unleashes her powers? I’ve seen what she’s capable of—teleportation, molecular distortion. She could level an entire city if she’s pushed far enough." The grim reality of what they were up against settled in the pit of his stomach.

There was a moment of silence, the weight of Tony’s words hanging heavily in the room as they all considered the consequences. Bruce was the first to speak, his voice low but resolute. "We can’t let that happen. We have to intercept her before Loki does more damage. Before... she does more damage."

The room fell into a heavy silence again, each person lost in their own thoughts. The stakes were higher than they had ever been before, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead weighed on them all.

Finally, Tony broke the silence, his voice tinged with bitterness. "So, where are we going?"

Steve’s gaze met his, determination flickering behind his blue eyes. "We’re going to your tower."

Clint raised an eyebrow, confusion briefly flashing across his face. "The Stark Tower? Why there?"

"Because it’s the perfect place for Loki," Steve replied with certainty. "The guy thrives on theatrics, on flair. Stark Tower has the kind of symbolism he’d love. It’s big, bold—exactly the kind of place he’d make his base."

Tony’s eyes widened slightly as realization set in. "You’re thinking what I’m thinking?"

"If she’s there, we’ll have the best chance of getting her back," Steve continued, his voice steady with purpose. "And if Loki’s there, it’s the place where we’ll have the best shot of stopping him."

Tony sighed, rubbing his temples as the weight of it all bore down on him. "Alright, but we need to hurry. The longer we wait, the more dangerous this becomes. And with her powers, we don’t know how much time we have before..." His words trailed off, unspoken fears hanging in the air.

"Before she becomes a weapon we can’t stop," Natasha finished for him, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her resolve was unwavering, her eyes sharp with determination.

Tony tapped a few commands into his wrist console, and a hologram flickered to life. "I’m sending the signal to Thor. If anyone’s going to be able to face Loki head-on, it’s him. We need to have him on standby in New York, ready to come to our aid if this goes sideways."

Steve nodded. "We have to be ready for anything. Loki won’t make this easy, and he’s always got a trick up his sleeve."

Clint nodded grimly, his jaw tight as he looked toward the hangar, his mind already on the mission ahead. "Yeah, well, it’s not like we’re giving him a choice. We’ll be there, we’ll find her, and we’ll stop this before it gets any worse."

Nick Fury stood outside the briefing room, pacing with impatience, his mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. The guilt that had been building in his chest for days threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow his fault—that by putting you on the front lines, by sending you into this mission, he had given Loki the perfect opening to manipulate you. He had created the perfect weapon for him.

“Damn it,” Fury muttered under his breath, his words sharp and biting. “I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve known what would happen. I’m the one who signed off on this. I’m the one who put her in harm’s way.” The thought of you, of your powers, your vulnerability—haunted him. But it wasn’t just you that gnawed at him.

Phil. The name seared through him like a burning coal. His jaw clenched, and the memory of Phil Coulson’s lifeless form flashed before his eyes, a haunting reminder of another failure, another loss. The weight of it all pressed down on him, and he couldn’t escape it.

The Avengers emerged from the briefing room, their faces set in grim determination, but Fury remained frozen, consumed by the suffocating weight of his guilt. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his eyepatch, the sting of failure cutting deep. If it wasn’t already too late, they were going to have to fight harder than ever before.

And God knows how you were faring up.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀

The fourth time you came back to your senses, a strange sensation overtook you, an out-of-body experience that felt almost too literal. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to stretch away, like you were hovering above it, distanced from your own existence. You watched as events unfolded, disembodied and detached, your mind observing from an unfamiliar perspective. The space around you was no stranger—it was cold, metallic, the steady hum of energy vibrating in the air. Yet it felt as though you weren’t fully tethered to reality, as if something in you was pulled just out of reach of the present.

Loki’s influence lingered, like a shadow veiling your thoughts, a faint pressure that continued to tighten around your consciousness. But it was different this time, less suffocating, as though you could almost stretch your fingers and reclaim your mind, resetting it, pushing the fog of his control aside. It wasn’t complete freedom, but it was a crack—a hint that you could break through.

It had been a few days since the takeover. The sensation of being mind-controlled was nothing like you had imagined. It wasn’t some visible force pressing down on you, suffocating you with weight. It was far more insidious—a creeping intrusion that slid under your skin and flowed through your veins, weaving its way into the very fabric of your mind. It was a whisper at first, a soft murmur against your will, growing louder, more forceful until it became a wave that swallowed your thoughts whole, drowning you in its depth. The overwhelming sensation was like drowning in your own mind, fighting for air that was constantly out of reach.

Each flicker of resistance you managed to summon was met with a violent recoil, an electric shock that surged through your brain, disorienting you. Your vision swam, fractured between moments, reality blurring and snapping back in quick, disorienting flashes. You tried to hold onto yourself, to anchor your sense of identity, but each struggle only seemed to tighten Loki’s grip. There were no chains, no physical restraints—just a far more personal, insidious force that felt like an extension of him, an inescapable presence that filled your mind, shaping you, controlling you.

And Loki… He was everywhere, his influence like a suffocating cloak, draped over your every thought. His power radiated around you, inside you, as if it had seeped into your very bones. His presence was relentless, constantly guiding, twisting, and reshaping you in his image. He wasn’t simply a teacher, not in any traditional sense. He wasn’t trying to help you understand your power. No, he was breaking you down—remaking you in the process.

Training under him was nothing short of grueling. Each session felt like an endurance test, an ordeal that pushed you to the edge of your capabilities. Every command he issued, every flick of his wrist was an exercise in both frustration and fear. You were nothing more than a pawn in his twisted game, subjected to his whims as he tested your limits in mock battles, moving with predatory grace, sizing you up. This was no place for nurturing or protection. He wasn’t here to teach you; he was here to force you to become something more—something stronger, something more deadly. Every sparring match felt like a war of attrition, each blow a reminder of your own fragility, each movement an attempt to break you down, mold you into something that would serve his whims.

But then, in moments that made no sense, he’d pause. His usually cold, calculating demeanor would crack for just a fleeting moment, revealing something tender and nearly unrecognizable. There were times when he would brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering a moment too long, as though he could feel the weight of your exhaustion, your pain. He would offer you a drink of water, his eyes scanning your face, searching for signs of weakness, yet almost as if he cared. His voice would lower, just slightly, when he spoke to you, as though offering words of encouragement, though veiled with the same cutting edge of superiority that tainted everything else he said.

In those brief, inexplicable moments, you found yourself warming up to him in a sickening way. It twisted in your gut, a dangerous familiarity that began to seep into your thoughts. When he offered small, rare gestures of clemency, like letting you rest or even acknowledging your progress, you couldn’t help but feel something shift within you—a fragile connection that you knew should never be there, that you hated for being there.

You hated that you somehow felt a semblance of comfort in his proximity, even in those rare, fleeting instances when he allowed you to see a hint of his true self, when he was almost... kind. But that kindness was always tainted with a darkness you couldn’t ignore, a reminder that beneath the surface, he was the same ruthless god who controlled you, who tested you, who owned you.

It was dangerous. It was the most dangerous thing you’d ever felt. But you couldn’t stop it.

You would never admit it, not even to yourself. But deep down, the quiet warmth he showed—however brief—had you questioning if there was a part of him that truly saw you, beyond the pawn. And in that sickening realization, you knew that this power he wielded over you wasn’t just physical; it was psychological, emotional. And you suspected this exact power wasn’t even his to begin, more like he was a slave to it. The lines between torment and care blurred in ways that left you confused, torn between your desire for freedom and the strange, almost intimate connection that had begun to grow, against your will, in the shadows of his manipulation.

The first time you phased through the air, an accident in the chaos of the training, Loki’s smirk was immediate. “That’s it,” he languildly praised, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re beginning to grasp it. But you’ll need to master it fully. Let me push you further.”

Before you could process his words, he was upon you, commanding you to fight. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt in his voice—it was an order, and your body obeyed without thought. Your movements were fluid, unnatural, like a puppet whose strings were pulled by forces beyond your control. Weightlessness flooded your mind, and before you could fully understand it, you phased again, reappearing inches from him. The amusement in his eyes was evident, but it was not pride—it was a predator's pleasure.

“You’ll need to be faster,” Loki remarked in an unforgiving tone. “Faster. You’re too slow. I expected more. Show me the depth of your power, or will you disappoint me?”

You had no choice but to obey.

You lashed out, your limbs moving with a speed you could barely comprehend. Power surged through your veins like liquid fire, filling you with both exhilaration and terror. The world around you seemed to blur, the space itself warping as you teleported again, this time behind him. But before you could register your success, he was ready, his body already turning, hands outstretched. In an instant, you found yourself caught in a vortex of his power, the space around you twisting and pulling you into a storm of his will.

“You’ll need to understand this more fully before you even think of using it against me,” Loki said coldly. With a casual flick of his hand, your body froze in mid-air, held by the invisible grip of his power. Every inch of you was locked in place, the pulse of your own abilities stifled by his sheer force.

Inside your mind, you screamed. You fought, clawing at your thoughts, trying to regain control, but Loki’s mind was a labyrinth, and you were lost within it. Each attempt to break free sent shockwaves of pain through your head, the weight of his presence pressing down on your neural pathways until they felt like they might snap under the strain.

“Still resisting?” His eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure as he approached. “This is nothing. Wait until I truly unleash it.”

And that was when you understood. He wasn’t teaching you. He wasn’t trying to help you. He was breaking you.

But there was a flicker—a momentary lapse, a crack in the control. And in that instant, you phased again. It was instinct now, not power, that guided you. You broke free of his hold, stepping back, your mind screaming in defiance. You didn’t know how you did it, but in that one brief, desperate moment, you reclaimed a piece of yourself.

Loki’s smile faltered. His eyes narrowed, irritation flaring in his gaze. “You think your little tricks can free you from my control?” he spat. “You are mine—body and soul. You’ll bend to my will. You’ll master your powers—not because you want to, but because I will make you.”

His biting words struck deep, but there was something else in his eyes. Something more than just control. A flicker of something deeper—something he was desperately trying to hide. You didn’t have the strength to confront it, not yet. But somewhere, deep in the dark corners of your untouched subconscious, you swore you’d fight. Even if it meant destroying yourself in the process.

Loki came at you again, faster this time, his movements precise, fluid, each strike a test of your endurance, each attack a deeper push into your limits. But with every blow, you saw more. More of the man beneath all of the godliness. More of what made him tick. What made him… human, for the lack of a better term.

For the first time since your powers had awakened, you weren’t completely afraid. You were scared, yes. Terrified, even. But you were also intrigued. You needed to understand him. You had to. It wasn’t just about breaking free anymore. It was about finding what layed beneath the surface. What drove him to wield such raw, unrelenting power.

And maybe, just maybe, you could use it against him.

As the god pushed you further, you began to realize just how far you’d come. The simple act of teleporting had become a foundation—a means to control space itself. You had only begun to understand your abilities, but now, under Loki’s relentless training, you were beginning to unravel the layers of power that the Tesseract had gifted you.

“Focus,” his voice sliced through the fog in your mind. It was sharp, commanding, precise. “Control it. Master every aspect. Your power is disorganized, but it can be more. It can be your weapon, your shield. Learn to wield it.”

With a flick of his hand, he sent a burst of energy hurtling toward you. Instinctively, you phased through it, the familiar sensation of weightlessness taking over as you reappeared a few feet away.

“Good,” Loki murmured. But there was no approval in his voice. Only calculation. “But you’re still holding back.”

You glared at him, frustration building in your chest. How could you not hold back? Every time you unleashed that power, it felt like you were teetering on the edge of something far darker, something that could consume you. You didn’t know where it would take you—or what you would destroy in the process.

Loki saw it, of course. The hesitation. The uncertainty in your eyes. He raised a brow, his lips curling into a smirk. “What? You think you can’t handle it? That you’ll lose control?”

“I’m not afraid of losing control,” you shot back, your voice wavering despite your defiance. “I’m afraid of what happens when I don’t.”

The smirk on his face deepened, his eyes calculating, as if he were deciding just how far he could push you. “You have no idea what true power feels like. You’re afraid of its potential. But that fear is what’s holding you back.”

With a casual flick of his hand, he created barriers around you, walls of energy that hummed with his power.

“Break them,” he commanded.

You couldn’t wait to see how far you could push him.

The walls around you shimmered, their surface unnatural, like liquid glass caught in perpetual motion. They weren’t walls in the traditional sense; they were space itself, bending and warping as though it was alive. The air grew heavy, charged with invisible tension. You stared at them, willing yourself to see, to understand.

And then, in a flash of clarity, it hit you.

This wasn’t just about moving from one point to another. This was something far greater. You could feel it now—the infinite potential swirling within you. It wasn’t merely about stepping through the fabric of space; it was about bending it to your will. The molecules around you, so subtle and elusive moments ago, now felt tangible, pliable. You could rearrange them, reshape them. This wasn’t just teleportation. This was the ability to reshape matter itself.

You extended your hand, trembling slightly as you reached toward the shimmering walls. The strain in your head was immediate, but it was an exhilarating kind of pain, like the edge of a storm waiting to break. The air around you rippled in response, and slowly, the walls began to shift. Small rifts, windows into other spaces, opened like jagged wounds in the room’s fabric. You gasped softly, watching as they revealed glimpses of places far from here—a corner of the room, an entirely different plane.

A portal blossomed before you, its edges glowing faintly as it stabilized. The tear in space stretched outward, showing the opposite side of the chamber.

Loki’s eyes widened, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through his composed mask. He recovered quickly, a slight smirk curling his lips as he took a step forward. “Passable,” he grumbled, though his usual amusement was absent. His voice was sharper now, edged with something colder. “But don’t get cocky.”

His words struck you like a challenge, daring you to push further. You clenched your jaw, determination flaring in your chest. With a mental snap, you pulled the rift closed, the portal dissolving into nothingness. The room settled again, but the air still vibrated with your energy.

You turned your focus inward. The molecules around you felt alive, humming with energy as though waiting for your command. You could almost taste their vibration, their power. Extending your hand again, you exhaled slowly, this time pulling not to open but to still. The energy around you tightened, and with a rush of intent, the space itself froze.

The room went utterly still. Objects suspended mid-motion, their trajectories arrested in a silent tableau. Even your own breath faltered, caught in a moment of frozen time. You stood in the center of it all, holding the room together by sheer force of will. The power surged through you, intoxicating and overwhelming all at once. For a brief, flickering moment, you allowed yourself to bask in it.

Until Loki moved.

Of course, he was never one to let his adversaries savor victory for long. With a flick of his hand, he sent a barrage of objects hurtling toward you, shattering the stillness. You reacted instinctively, the power in you surging again. The air around you obeyed your silent command, freezing the projectiles mid-air before they could strike.

“Not bad,” the raven-haired remarked, though his voice was colder now, a faint hint of disappointment lacing his words. “But you still don’t understand. You’re holding back. You haven’t learned to truly channel it.”

You felt it then—his presence pressing against your mind like an unseen force, urging you forward, demanding more. The pressure built, an oppressive weight you couldn’t ignore.

And so, you gave in.

The next wave of energy he hurled at you didn’t stop. It didn’t freeze. Instead, it absorbed into you, the force coursing through your body like molten metal. Your veins felt alive, filled with raw, chaotic power. The intensity was almost too much, threatening to split you apart, but you held on. And then, without thinking, you redirected it.

A pulse of energy exploded outward, aimed squarely at Loki. The impact sent him staggering back, a rare moment of imbalance breaking his usual grace. His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable as he stared at you.

“You… redirected it?” he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with something you couldn’t place.

Panting, you nodded, the strain catching up to you. The energy of the Tesseract pulsed within you, wild and untamed. It had given you the ability to absorb and harness attacks, but the cost was steep. Your body felt like it was burning, every muscle trembling with the effort of holding it together.

“That’s enough,” Loki commanded, his voice devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable finality that echoed through the tense air. Your legs buckled beneath you, your head spun with a nauseating dizziness, and your arms felt as though they were made of lead. The world around you seemed to melt away, the edges of your vision blurring into a cacophony of shifting shadows.

It was then that it happened—the flicker.

For the briefest of moments, you felt yourself again, as if your very essence had returned to you. The sensation of shifting between spaces, phasing in and out, was familiar, grounding. The molecular alteration that had become second nature to you—an innate force deep within your cells—began to reset your mind. It was only a heartbeat, a small second where Loki’s overwhelming grasp on your thoughts loosened, allowing you a sliver of clarity. 

The flickers grew more frequent, the moments of clarity more profound. Each time your molecules unraveled and reassembled, your thoughts sharpened, became clearer, more lucid. The oppressive fog that Loki had woven over your mind peeled away, layer by layer, leaving you with sharp clarity—if only for mere instants.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t know why it worked, but you clung to those fleeting moments as if they were your lifeline. Each time you phased, you felt something inside you shift, like your brain was being reset, free of the chains he had bound you with. And in those moments, as your clarity returned, you found yourself watching him.

Not just observing him as an enemy or a captor, but seeing him—his every movement, the tension in his shoulders, the subtle tremor in his hands. You noticed the cracks that began to form in his facade. His orders, once laced with effortless authority, now carried an undercurrent of something else—frustration, hesitation, or maybe even doubt. His piercing gaze, so sure and unyielding, sometimes lingered on you for a moment too long, as though searching for something he could not name.

In one of your moments of freedom, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Why do you do this?” Your voice, low but steady, cut through the tense silence of the room, hanging in the air like a challenge.

Loki froze, his step faltering as the flickering light of the room cast jagged shadows across his face. He slowly turned to you with an unreadable expression. “Do what exactly?” His voice was dangerously soft, but the hint of something darker lingered beneath the surface.

“This,” you pointedly said, your hand sweeping between the two of you, gesturing vaguely to the invisible war that raged. “The mind games. The controlling. Why do you hide behind this power of yours? What even is your point in all of this?”

A tight, humorless smile curled at the corners of his lips, but his eyes, those eyes that once burned with amusement, darkened with something far less playful. “Careful,” he warned, his voice a venomous whisper. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

But the words were already out of you, spilling faster than you could control. “You act like you’re untouchable, like you’re above all of this, but you’re not. You’re hiding. From what, I don’t know, but I see it. Every time I phase out of your control, I see it. You’re just as trapped as I am, aren’t you?”

The air around you both shifted. It grew heavier, dense with the weight of the unspoken. The silence stretched, thickening with the tension of your accusation. Loki’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His gaze flickered for the briefest moment—pain, raw and unguarded. It flashed so quickly, you almost wondered if you had imagined it. But it was there, and it was real.

Then it was gone, replaced by cold, seething fury.

“Silence,” he hissed, his voice low,dangerous. “You presume to know me? To understand me? You, a pawn caught in a game far beyond your comprehension?” His power surged around him, crackling with energy as the room seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his presence. The air around him felt as if it were bending under the pressure, each word carrying the weight of a threat you could almost taste.

But before he could act, you phased.

The sensation was like slipping through water, the atoms of your body rearranging with effortless grace as you disappeared and reappeared on the far side of the room. Loki’s gaze whipped toward you, a mix of surprise and fury painting his face.

“You will not defy me,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.

“Oh, but I think I just did,” you shot back, your grin widening as you phased again, this time landing on a ledge above him. “What’s the matter, boss? Losing your touch?”

He whirled toward you, his composure unraveling with every word, every flicker of movement. “You dare mock me?” His voice trembled with barely contained rage.

You phased again, this time directly behind him. “I think I just did that too,” you replied, your voice dripping with insolence. 

His hand shot out, crackling with energy, but you were already gone before he could even touch you. Each time you phased, his control weakened, and with it, his mask began to slip.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Loki bellowed, his voice echoing through the chamber as his magic lashed out, sending another pulse of energy to the space you had just vacated.

But you were already gone, phased to the other side of the room. You couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled up as you taunted him. “Not used to someone slipping through your fingers, yeah?”

He lunged toward you, his hand glowing with power. But once again, you phased out of his reach, reappearing behind him with maddening ease.

It was working. You could see it in the way his movements grew sharper, more erratic. His control, his perfect composure, was beginning to unravel. And for the first time since your capture, you felt like you were in control.

“Stop this!” he roared, his voice cracking on the edges of his fury.

“Why?” you taunted, your tone almost teasing now, every word cutting through the tension like a blade. “Are you afraid of what I might do? Or are you afraid of what this says about you?”

“I am warning you,” he snarled, his voice trembling, the power crackling in the air. “Do not push me further.”

You took a step forward, closing the distance between you with deliberate defiance. “Or what?” you challenged, your voice softer, but no less cutting. “I don’t need to understand you to see the truth. You’re unraveling, Loki. Just like I am. And the more you push me, the more I see it.”

Something snapped in him then. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance, gripping your arm with bruising force, his presence suffocating, his eyes alight with barely contained fury. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he might break you—his force pressing down on you like a vice.

But then, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your throat—not tight enough to choke, but enough to remind you of his strength.

“You forget your place,” he growled, his voice a deadly whisper, every word dripping with menace. “I could end you with a thought.”

You gulped at the threat, your heart hammering in your chest, but you refused to look away. Even as his grip tightened, even as his power bore down on you like a mountain, you held your ground.

“Then do it,” you finally said, your voice trembling but resolute. “If you want me silent so badly, then end it. But we both know you won’t. You need me.”

His breath hitched and for a moment, he looked at you like you were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The tension in his grip faltered, just barely, before he yanked his hand away as though your very touch burned him. His sharp intake of air was the only sound that punctuated the quiet between you, a pause that felt longer than it should.

“You are insufferable,” he spat, though his tone lacked the earlier venom, the conviction of his anger dimmed. “Your defiance will be your undoing.”

An almost weary defiance burned in your chest as you rubbed your neck where his fingers had left their mark, a small, throbbing reminder of his touch. “Maybe,” you said softly, eyes never leaving his. “But it might just be yours too.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line, a mark of something teetering on the edge of unsaid utterances. With deliberate slowness, he took a step forward. His movements were predatory, as though he was testing your resolve. His gaze drilled into yours with such intensity that you could feel it like a physical weight against your skin, an invisible pressure that seemed to hollow out your lungs. He was close now—so close that his breath, warm and almost tangible, mingled with yours. His presence surrounded you, overwhelming, filling every corner of the space. 

The adrenaline that had fueled your defiance started to dissipate, leaving a quiet exhaustion in its wake. The fight had drained more from you than you cared to admit. With a sigh, you took a few steps back and sank to the floor, your knees folding under you as you sat cross-legged, your shoulders sagging with the weight of fatigue.

“I’m tired,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair as if the action could somehow soothe the tremors beneath your skin.

Loki stood motionless, his chest rising and falling with the effort of suppressing the raw emotions that were still simmering beneath the surface. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching faintly, as if they couldn’t decide whether to lash out at you or reach for something instead. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing every inch of your weary form as though searching for something he couldn’t name, something you didn’t even understand.

“You’re persistent, I’ll grant you that,” he said finally, his voice low, the words sharp, though they carried a hint of curiousness beneath the surface.

You glanced up at him, too drained for anything other than the bitter truth of the moment. “Persistent? Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment,” you retorted, the wryness in your tone at odds with the ache that seemed to consume every inch of your body.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth and a faint softening in his gaze passed quickly over his face. It was gone in an instant, buried beneath his practiced mask of indifference. “Hardly,” he corrected, his tone clipped as he stepped closer. “It’s an observation. You’re like a moth flitting toward the flame, heedless of the danger.”

You leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to meet his gaze, the spark of defiance still stubbornly burning. “And you’re the flame, I suppose? Burning everything you touch because it’s easier than admitting you’re just as fragile as the rest of us.”

His jaw clenched, a brief flicker of something raw flashing across his face—anger, pain, or perhaps both. “You presume too much,” he said, his voice cold, though it lacked the sharpness it had carried earlier.

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe. But you’re not as good at hiding as you think you are. You wear the mask well, Loki, but it slips. And when it does… I can see you.”

His expression quickly hardened, though his lips were still tight with something you couldn’t quite place. “You see only what I allow you to see. Do not mistake my mercy for weakness.”

You raised an eyebrow, your gaze unwavering. “Mercy? Is that what you call this?” You gestured vaguely around the room, your words cutting through the tension. “Because it feels more like a war of wills.”

His figure loomed closer still until his boots nearly brushed your knees. He hovered over you, his shadow swallowing you whole, yet there was something in his posture now that lacked malice. “You speak as though you know me, as though you understand the choices I’ve made,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “But you don’t. You can’t.”

You met his gaze, unfaltering. “You’re right,” you admitted, surprising even yourself. “I don’t know you. Not really. But I see enough to know there’s more to you than this…” you searched for the right word, your voice soft yet firm, “performance.”

A raw and unguarded emotion crossed his face for the briefest of moments before he suppressed it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, the sharpness of his words dulled, the usual bite missing from his voice. “Or your insights.”

“It’s not pity,” you said quietly. “Curiosity, maybe. Frustration, definitely. You’re not just a villain, Loki. Actually, I don’t think you ever wanted to be one in the first place.”

He scoffed, though it lacked the conviction it usually held. “And what would you know of my wants? Of my purpose?” The bitterness in his tone was sharper now, though his words seemed to betray more of a wound than venom.

You gave him a small, tired smile, the weariness of the moment tempered by a fragile understanding. “Not much. But I know enough to say this: I don’t think you’re as evil as you want people to think you are. And if you weren’t on the wrong side of all this…” You hesitated, then shrugged, a glimmer of misplaced hope in your voice. “I think I could’ve been your friend.”

It was like a chord struck in the dark. Loki stared at you, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes betrayed a whirlwind of emotions—shock, confusion, and… vulnerability. “A friend?” he repeated, the word tasting foreign on his tongue, almost as though it were a language he hadn’t spoken in centuries. 

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. A friend.”

He was Loki—an outcast, a trickster, recently a monster in his own eyes. Friendship was not for him, not for someone like him. Yet here you were, offering him a concept he had long dismissed as alien. Your words were not a gift—no, not in his mind. They were a lie. A cruel jest. But something about them, about the way you said it, seemed to unsettle him just a little.

His hand twitched at his side, and for a moment, you thought he might reach out—reach for you. But instead, he stayed still, his gaze filled with something he couldn’t quite name. Then, like a crack forming in his ironclad armor, he spoke, his voice low, barely a whisper against the silence between you.

“You are a fool.”

The words stung, yet you didn’t flinch. Instead, you met his gaze, unyielding. “And you’re a liar,” you softly countered. “But you’re not that bad. Or at least, I’d like to think so.”

For the briefest of heartbeats, the world seemed to still around you. The invisible tension pulled you closer even as his walls, so meticulously built, held you apart.

Then, like a thunderclap in the midst of a quiet storm, it happened. A sharp, involuntary twitch in his jaw. His expression faltered, his usual composure slipping away for a moment, leaving him raw, exposed. His body jerked violently, a sharp intake of breath escaping him, and his hand flew to his temple, clutching as though something inside him was unraveling. A guttural sound ripped from his chest.

"What’s wrong?" you instinctively asked, concern lacing your voice despite the turmoil in your own chest.

"Silence," he hissed through clenched teeth, but there was no venom behind the words—only a desperate plea. His gaze snapped to yours, vulnerable and raw for just a fraction of a second. In those fleeting seconds, desperation passed through his eyes, a storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface. The sight of it made your chest tighten, a jagged breath catching in your throat.

"What’s happening?" you pressed, your voice softer now, hesitant, unsure if you were even allowed to breach this moment. "Let me—"

"Quiet!" His voice shattered the fragile silence, a barked command that reverberated with cold authority. His hand fell from his temple, but the movement were jerky and unnatural, as though he were trying to force himself back into the rigid state he had been in for the past few days. His posture straightened, and the ice that had replaced his features now belied the chaos brewing beneath, his eyes betraying him with a tornado of clashing thoughts.

"You should not concern yourself with things you cannot comprehend," he accused, his voice sharper than before, yet it wavered at the edges, a crackling vulnerability buried in the syllables. He took a step back, his movements stiff, as if his body itself were rebelling against the order he demanded.

Before you could respond, he stretched his hand out, a flash of blue energy spiraling from the scepter nestled in his palm as it hummed ominously in the air. "You are far too meddlesome," he declared, his voice cold, detached, though the tremor beneath it betrayed his growing frustration. "I think it’s time we corrected that."

The energy hit you like an avalanche, its cold tendrils sinking deep into your mind before you could even react. It was different this time. Stronger. The force of it suffocating, relentless—consuming. It swallowed every fragment of your thoughts, your will, your very sense of self, leaving no room for resistance.

It was as though he had learned from your earlier defiance, amplifying his grip until there was no escape.

A gasp tore from your throat as the world around you blurred, dissolving into a haze of chilling disorientation. Your vision spiraled, your thoughts scattered in every direction, unable to hold onto anything. Somewhere beneath the overwhelming force of his control, the faintest flicker of your consciousness lingered—but it was distant, buried beneath layers of icy, impenetrable control.

And through the haze, you could still feel him—watching, observing. You could see his hands trembling ever so slightly as he gripped the scepter with an almost desperate force. His face was a mask of unrelenting authority, but his eyes—his eyes held something else entirely. Frustration. Anger. And beneath it all, something undeniably close to regret. For a moment, the scepter’s glow dimmed, as though he hesitated—but it was only for a moment. The unsureness passed and his grip tightened once again, the power surging back to full force, driving you deeper into submission.

"You will not defy me again," he sharply stated, yet unable to conceal the faint tremor beneath them. It was a promise, or perhaps a threat. But as he spoke, a mournful aftertaste lingered, a whisper that could hardly be heard over the pounding of your heart. Loki lowered the scepter slowly, his chest rising and falling as if he had just waged a battle—and won. His gaze lingered on you for a long, silent moment before he spoke again.

"You will remain here," he announced, and the words were not just a command but an ominous finality. "Until I decide what to do with you."

He turned then, almost mechanically—as though his body, too, were beginning to betray him. His footsteps echoed in the room, hollow and final, but just as he reached the door, something halted him. His hand hovered over the frame, the faintest dubiousness in his posture as his eyes found yours again.

In the silence of the room, you stood there, frozen, helpless under his command. Your body obeyed him, no longer your own, while your mind screamed in rebellion, trapped in the suffocating grip of his mind control. Your eyes dulled with the weight of the scepter’s influence, and somewhere deep within, a faint ember of your will still flickered, but it was too weak—too far gone to challenge the force consuming you.

He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line, his expression conflicted. For a heartbeat, something almost tender passed between you, but then it vanished, replaced by the hard, unrelenting figure he had built himself into.

"You shouldn’t have followed me," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. "It would have been easier for the both of us."

And with that, he was gone. The door closed behind him with a dull finality, its low thud echoing in the silent room like a death knell that reverberated in your chest. Loki leaned against the cold metal wall outside, his back rigid as though the weight of the universe had settled on his shoulders. The scepter trembled faintly in his grasp, the gemstone atop it glowing softly, a faint pulse of light that seemed to reflect the last remnants of a power that bound you both—cosmically, inevitably—together. It was the final tether between you, a cruel connection that neither of you could escape, no matter how far you tried to run. 

The power he had once thought would offer him control was now a cruel mistress, bending his will like a fragile branch in a typhoon. He had sought to vainquish, to conquer, but now he was its prisoner. He could feel the grip of the mind binding tightening, its influence sinking deep into his bones. It promised him everything: power, control, victory. But it demanded something in return. His freedom. His agency. And now, it had even begun to take from him his character.

And you… you were the proof of that.

Loki closed his eyes, his breath uneven, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye, trailing down his face like the last vestige of something long lost. Friend. The word you had spoken earlier echoed in his mind, foreign and unwelcome. He had no use for such things. Glory, domination—those were the only truths he understood. Sentiment, compassion, kindness—these were weaknesses to be eradicated. Yet, there you were. A living contradiction. For a quiet instance, you had defied everything he had ever known, everything he had ever believed.

The god reopened his eyes to glance down at the scepter in his hand. The cold, alien light pulsed with intent, one that he could not decipher but could feel deep in his bones. He hated it. He hated everything it stood for. The whispers it carried, the promises it made, the power it offered—it had taken everything from him. And yet, there was no escaping it. He could not let it go, because the Tesseract, the scepter, wasn’t just power. It was survival. His survival.

He took a step away from the wall, his movements stiff, mechanical, as though he were some puppet on strings. No different from you. No different from anyone who had dared to touch the infinite and had been torn apart in the process. The golden instrument was a testament to his burden, his curse—his salvation and his undoing.

As Loki strode down the corridor, the cool metal floor beneath his boots clicking rhythmically, the tear on his cheek had already dried, leaving behind only the bitter taste of a fading regret. He had made his choice, and there was no turning back. The scepter had ensured that.

In the cold, hollow silence that stretched out before him, he knew one thing with terrifying clarity: the Tesseract had bound you to him in ways that would destroy you both. It had never cared for you, for him. It had only cared for its own purposes—its own designs. And in this brief, agonizing moment, Loki understood the true cruelty of its force. It hadn’t just doomed you. It had made him see you. Truly see you—your fire, your strength, your humanity and made him gravitate towards you. Only to take it all away, piece by piece. 

Once again, Loki was alone.

⠀

⠀

Want to read more of my works? Check out my masterlist !

taglist : @sessa23 — @stilleobjection — @the-fandoms-onceler .

⠀⠀

dividers ©️ @angelremnants .

angelremnants ©️ 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.

[onlyluxalo]

This will my first time doing headcanons after like forever so I apologize that I’m rusty at it

For Welt ones I’ll be using in game gifs and/or pics of him from the manga (mostly younger welt since it’s more younger Welt but it’s still Welt) so don’t get confused and I’ll be using a older reader in mind since I believe Welt deserves a older S/O than a younger one imo

Welts lore that isn’t in HSR while being shown here!

This is a gender neutral reader btw!

Welt Yang hcs

Welt is a bit insecure of his age and thinks reader doesn’t love him but reader loves him regardless

If you aren’t from Welts world and if he gets comfortable enough, he’ll let reader call him “Joachim” instead of Welt but only in private since only those we trust well enough get call him by his real name

From time to time Welt would call reader “Rakas”, “Rakkaani”, “minun rakastettuni”, and other loving names in Finnish (Welt is canonically German, Chinese, and Finnish. And anyone that is Finnish, please correct me for the right spelling)

If you aren’t from his world, Welt might show reader pictures of people he holds dear to, mostly his son and (deceased) father

If you are/aren’t from his world, he will let out his childish side (it’s canon that his consciousness/inner self is him as a child)

I’d like to think he’d teach reader Finnish since it’s his native language

If you are from his world, he’d already would vent a lot from time to time since Welt had to grow up at a young age and have a lot of responsibilities and burdens to protect humanity

Welt actually likes it when reader would trace his scars and kiss them since it makes me feel loved and reminds him that he’s still alive due to rebuilding his body so much (I think about 3-4 times?)

Welt lets reader watch him workout and loves it when they give him words of encouragement and praise (He is canonically buff due to being the Herrscher of Reason and former Sovereign of Anti-Entropy)

Sometimes I think he’d explain the Power of Reason/Core of Reason to reader in private (whether or not you or aren’t from his world) because his power is a bit complicated with all his gravity and black holes

He’d definitely would sketch reader and show them his animations that he worked with Bronya (Zaychik) on

He definitely falls head over heels if reader gave him a shoulder and back massage because Welt knows he needs it so bad due to 74 years of responsibilities and burdens (Welt is canonically 82 and did get traumatized at the age of 8)

If you aren’t from his world, Welt would explain why he has a hatred for Luocha which ends up with talking about Otto Apocalypse in the end when the blonde man traumatized him at the age of 8

He absolutely loves it when reader kisses his wrinkles and acts like a desperate kitten for attention because he craves it

Has definitely shown Star of Eden’s true form to reader if they aren’t from his world (the cane is originally in a orb like form)

Hope you enjoy the hcs even though it’s a bit rusty 💀

Have a Alien Space manga Welt

[monstrousmuse]

They released a Word Search for The Book Of Bill….and I have thoughts.

Thank you to the wonderful @trickengf for bringing this to our attention over on Twitter/X.

POTENTIAL SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT!

These keywords are…intriguing, to say the least. They seem rather broad, and give the impression of being either chapter titles, or general topics that will be covered in the book.

Right. Time for some speculation:

Global Domination - I think we were all expecting this one, since there was an overt reference to the book containing a ‘key to overthrowing the world (laid out in a handy step-by-step guide’ in its description.

Possession - will we be given insight into how possession works/the ‘mechanics’ surrounding it, and how it feels to possess a human body from the perspective of a being such as Bill? Why he finds physical sensations like pain to be ‘hilarious’, and why ‘body spasms’ are so uncomfortable for him? Maybe he’ll tell us about some of the famous historical figures he enjoyed tormenting, or how ‘itchy’ their meat suits were. 0/10, would not recommend. Will be returning to the store tomorrow. Someone forgot to cut off the tags.

Triangle - triangle anatomy…? A trigonometry lesson? Information surrounding the Second Dimension, perhaps? The book is intended for a ‘mature audience’…Show us what you look like without your exoskeleton, Bill!

Death - either this could mean that Bill will reveal what happened to him after he was ‘erased’ from Stanley’s mind and how he subsequently survived the whole ordeal (including that rather painful-looking punch to the face), or Bill joins the likes of Heidegger and Camus and philosophises for several pages straight. I would personally be happy with either, or both. Although…I still find the idea of the entire book just being some sort of postmortem soul-searching project assigned to him by The Axolotl, and Bill begrudgingly going along with it because it was in the terms of the deal he made to ensure his survival to be absolutely hilarious.

Relationships - …excuse me? Relationships? …With whom, pray tell? Platonic relationships? Romantic relationships? Filial relationships? Bill’s relationship with his family? With The Axolotl, with Time Baby? With Ford?

AXOLOTL - ah, well, there we are. So Bill is most likely going reveal more about his connection with the Big Frills and divulge some interesting bits of lore. …Or not. Does he even know about the ‘sixty degrees that come in threes’ poem?

Demons - interesting. I wonder if there will be a catalogue of the different demons that Bill is aware of/has encountered/is friends with, in a similar fashion to the section in Journal 3 on the categories of ghosts. I also hope that the whole ‘dream demon’ thing will touched upon, since this was an aspect of Bill’s nature that was never really explained in a satisfactory manner, and was arguably even retconned by the time that Weirdmageddon rolled around. Is Bill a ‘dream demon’, or is he a being from the Second Dimension who was somehow rendered both omnipotent and (nigh-)omniscient, and thus merely shares characteristics with true ‘dream demons’, but is not one himself? Neither? Both? And what about the Henchmaniacs? Bill referred to them as ‘demons and nightmares’; are they all different species of demons native to different dimensions across the multiverse, or were they born of the Nightmare Realm and its natural entropy? How is all of this connected to the Mindscape and mortal dreams? So many questions…

Codes - again, will the book include a similar set of pages to the ones that can be found in Ford’s Journal? There are most definitely going to be new ciphers and codes to crack, but for some odd reason, I highly doubt that Bill is going to make it easy for us.

Straws - Silly Straws chapter has been confirmed!!! …In all seriousness, I genuinely have no clue as to what role the illustrious Silly Straw will play in this book. Perhaps there really is going to be an entire section devoted to Bill’s apparent fascination with them, or perhaps there is simply a little throwaway comment tucked in the margins somewhere… I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out when the book is released in *checks calendar* five days.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

do you think Eridan would listen to kpop ? (either the human or Troll variant)

if not...then which troll would be the most likely to :3c

LOL no way, he's a hipster. KPop is mainstream as hell; if anything, he'd have disdain for it (and for pop as a whole). One of the less emotionally perturbed trolls would probably enjoy that stuff, though I don't know that I'd call any of the Alternian crew the kind who'd consider it to be their favorite, since nearly all of them are at least a little alt in some way, and kpop (and idol culture as a whole) is heavily tied up in politics, propaganda, capitalism, and consumption - so the troll version of it would be that times a thousand.

I'd say Feferi, Gamzee, and Kanaya probably quite like it because they're most at ease with their society, but it's not their favorite. Equius probably sees it as being aimed at the lower castes, and therefore crass and beneath him. Everyone else would probably get the propaganda vibes and dislike it on principle, even if some of them might secretly find some songs catchy (cough Karkat cough).

If you want to get into Beforan trolls, haha, oh man. I think more of them would like it than not.

Normally, I'd say that Eridan would at least make a show of liking it, given how much he makes a show of being a Sea Dweller(TM), but his hipster tastes, like his interest in magic, don't appear to be things he can shake. Karkat even calls him a hipster, so you KNOW he's out here dissing Trollor Swift and making disdainful faces when people bring up Troll Marvel.

I have as a selection of bands for Eridan Have a Nice Life (post-rock/post-punk/shoegaze), Sprain (noise rock/experimental rock), and Tool (alternative metal/art rock/progressive rock). Generally, I find he vibes with stuff on the darker side of post/prog rock, or the more lyrical side of heavy metal - both in terms of themes (lots of darker topics, like death, murder, suicide, child abuse, etc.) and in terms of sound. It also fulfills the requirement of being "hipster" by nature. Eridan is a very troubled, angry, violent guy, and I personally like to call the linked bands "angry man music". Just a smattering of lyrics for those who don't want to listen:

I've been doing a lot of damned things without you And all the damned things I do confound you Yeah, Satan and his devils try to take my hand And the angels on my shoulders try to tell me that they understand Oh well, oh well

Imagine this: I'm the guest on some obscene talk show In a cell of moral compromise The audience is made up of everyone that I have ever met in my entire life Every sin I've ever committed is put up on display by screens hung around the stage And we watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch The host says "I now present to you an elaborate choreography of failure!" The audience erupts with seemingly coordinated jets of jargon laughter "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Shame on you!"

I'm broken, looking up to see the enemy And I have swallowed the poison you feed me But I survive on the poison you feed me, leaving me Guilt-fed, hatred-fed, weakness-fed It makes me feel ugly

I think even when his tastes do venture lighter, they still never really cross the threshold into pure pop. There's always going to be a hipster, indie, punk-y, shoegaze/post-rock bent to his tastes. I also list for him Dirt Poor Robins, Family Crest, Johnny Hollow...

Wisdom unearned is Intrepid and proud Till we’re dragged by the tide and nearly have drowned Entropy thrives In conditions enclosed Innovations arise When humanity chokes

Cast your heart to the floor, love Feel the sting, feel the weight Of a love, of a love not strong enough Your head's on fire Your hands and feet come off the ground Oh, sweet desire, when your mind, when your mind When your mind's not strong enough It's not that your head is gone It's just that your heart is on fire, fire It's not that the beat is off It's just that your heart is on fire, fire

Once when I was all alone I called you, and you weren't at home My heart fell like a stone, to the ground To the ground, to the ground Why, when morn had dawned on me And anger grew like ecstasy And Leda threw the swan on me and I fell to the ground To the ground, to the ground

Hilariously, this alt/hipster taste means that he runs up against stuff that's ridiculously anti-government; I personally like to believe he does actually listen to outright anti-fascist songs, but if you point it out, he's just like. No it isn't. So SWMRS, Silver Mt. Zion, Vansire.

Well, you gotta keep it up But it will never be enough No sonrisa teenage shit pop Well, you gotta keep it up But it will never be enough No sonrisa teenage shit pop Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic

There's fresh meat in the club tonight God bless our dead marines Someone had an accident Above the burning trees While somewhere distant peacefully Our vulgar princes sleep Dead kids don't get photographed God bless our dead marines

So I convalesced in the middle west And fell for Ohio's roads I'm standing still by the windowsill Where I once watched the world explode So when it's looking dark in your narrative arc I'm here and you can talk with me A hackneyed fool under fascist rule Wasting days singing about his dreams

It's a pretentious-ass taste, but one that fits in with the vocabulary he likes to use:

CA: all of her FRAUDULENT MAGICS cannot come close to posin threat to my mastery ovver the TRUEST SCIENCES CA: an wwith my empiricists wwand i servve as the righteous hope that wwill incinerate delusion and the deluded alike CA: my holy fire is the wwhite fury bled from the wwrath-wweary eyes of fifty thousand nonfictional angels CA: and wwhen theyre finished wweepin they wwill boww before their prince GG: wow what are you talking about

I miss the days when stars were saintly They sang to me in ways innately Before we enslaved the symphony To playing anthems for selling things I used to wonder, wander farther Into awe, but those days were squandered My ghost was lost to the grownup gallows So I find my spirit in the bottle

Those modal masterworks Atonal oeuvres it seems When I ask afterwards All message lost in between The shifting aperture Depicting sun-soaked scenes I guess they resonate That's Universal Consciousness

Fate’s a funny thing It makes a victim of the will and brings a suit of broken bands A snake so full of tail That it can barely breathe to say it “doesn’t understand.” So, what am I to think? What am I to think? I’m doing it now At least I know I am At least I caught myself before I sent this out Into a stupid world that doesn’t give a damn Oh, what kind of fool do you think I am?

Like, I really can't stress enough, but Eridan is abjectly fucking miserable, angry and violent, anxious and unhappy. And his taste in music should reflect that, his feelings of impotence, his angry and anxious energy, his desperation. Have a Nice Life is probably the band I pick for him, because their discography reflects so greatly these emotions of anger, impotence, self-loathing and self-destruction.

The thing about being a hipster is that there's, the way I see it, three main reasons people wind up falling into it - the first is that they want to feel special, feel better than other people (not really Eridan's deal); the second is that they're just generally a music liker and their taste is indiscriminate enough to include indie stuff, too (and this is also not really Eridan's deal); and the last is because there is something in their soul that cries out for validation that they can't receive in the mainstream - for example, emotions, impulses, thoughts, and urges too dark for radio play (such as an obsession with genocide and murder). It's actually really important to me that Eridan IS a hipster, and specifically the type of hipster who's super pretentious and looks down on stuff that's "popular."

He has a massive fixation on being understood - complaining constantly that people don't "get it," that "nobody understands." This would extend to his taste in music. He would seek out genuine-ness, something grungy, something real, and unfortunately, stuff that's made for mass-market consumption must have the edges sanded off by nature. Given he actually gets upset when people don't "get" him, I'd wager that he doesn't treat media that he feels doesn't "get" him pretty poorly, too.

To be clear, I'm not trying to diss KPop in any way. It's not really my thing, but I get why people like it, and I'm not saying you shouldn't. Just feel like I have to toss that in there. I just really don't think Eridan would like it. And also he would probably be mean about it if you told him you liked it.

[queenmuzz]

Five Stages of Grief: Chapter IV

Depression

Read it HERE on Ao3

It feels a bit strange, Emmrich thinks, to have so many people in his quarters.  Even before Tearstone, when there was light and hope and love in his life, very few people entered his study, save for when they needed his services.

He was fine with that, after all, he was used to solitude.  He was perfectly happy living his own life by himself with only Manfred as company

…And then Rook came along and changed everything.  It wasn’t just that she was a fellow Mourn Watcher, well versed in the ways of the dead.  It wasn’t just that she was kind, thoughtful, selfless, willing to befriend and aid anyone.  She held no judgments on the possessed assassin, she enjoyed listening to Bellara’s conversation on ancient elven artifacts despite not understanding any of it.  She somehow managed to endear herself to Taash, even with the latter’s obvious dislike of necromancy.   She was brave… oh so brave.  At Weisshaupt, when she had willingly placed herself in the line of danger to take down the archdemon.  At the Blackthorne Manor, where she shielded him from the monstrosity’s deadly aura. She could have had her pick of any of her companions, but she had  chosen him. Even now, he still does not know why she chose him.  But now… he would make himself worthy of her.

Manfred places the bar of pure raw lyrium upon the desk, the only being able to touch it without suffering from ill effect (He forbade even Harding to touch it, he couldn’t risk anyone else getting hurt).  

“Do you need help?” Neve asks, but he shakes his head.  He cannot afford to have any distractions.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and begins to channel the mana at his fingertips.  

Begin the infusion.

It’s like making a cake, measuring the magic in precise amounts, layering it as he folds the bar a specific number of times.  Creation Magic first, allowing it to shape the blade into its rough shape.  Entropy Magic, to modify its magical absorption.  A hint of Primal Magic to provide the ‘spark’.  And lots of Spirit Magic.  He’s thankful that his training had him specialize in it, as many other countries’ Circles shy away from it, confusing it with blood magic.  He sandwiches each type of magic between layers of lyrium, cross hatching so that every surface of the blade is equally suffused.  His focus must not waver, any mistake could render the blade useless, or even worse, cause a backlash that could kill him.  He feels drops of sweat drip down his brow as channels more Spirit Magic, infusing the blade with the fade itself.  

She would love to have seen this, she always loved the way his hands moved as he did a corpse whispering. Focus…

His mouth is dry, and he can hear Harding whisper, “Can you hear that?”

“Nope.” Taash’s voice.  “Hear what?”

“It sounds like a song… but a sad song”

“Perhaps it's the lyrium you hear,” Neve’s voice is soft, “you’re more sensitive to it than the rest of us.”

The blade needs more Entropy magic, to balance it out, and his fingers flick.  

Her eyes full of wonder and admiration as he showed her the depths of the Fade.

“Emmrich… that was… amazing! I wish I could see the world of magic as you do all the time”

FOCUS!

“Emmrich, are you alright?”  Lucanis’s voice is concerned, and he senses his approach.

“I’m-I’m fine.” He insists, as he begins the final infusions, a large amount of Spirit Magic flows from him. His entire body is trembling from the exertion.  This is taking more out of him than anything he’s ever done.  He keeps his eyes closed, but he can picture the green twinkling lights that always occur during these rituals.  

He sees her delight as she reaches for one light, holding it in the palm of her hand like it’s a snowflake.

Emmrich Volkarin, FOCUS!

The blade is almost finished, but is missing something.  He can’t put his finger on it.  There’s a presence the original blade had that he can’t replicate.  Still, he presses on, mixing a touch more Primal magic to help keep the lyrium malleable for the last adjustments.  No, that’s not it. “Something’s wrong, the song is changing… it’s getting angry”  

He can feel a strong pushback now, something that he attempts to ignore, pushing himself to his utter limits to channel every last bit of magic he has into the blade.  He cannot fail.  He MUST not fail.

“Emmrich!”

A blow of energy blasts him back, and he blacks out.

He comes to, as something is poured into his mouth, tasteless yet chalky.  He feels the grit settles between his teeth and he tries not to cough it up as it irritates his throat.

“Easy Emmrich…easy…” Lucanis’s voice is calm, yet tinged with worry. “Get me another Lyrium potion.”  He blinks as Manfred hands the assassin a flask, who uses his teeth to remove the cork, spitting it to the side, before bringing it to his lips.  “Drink.”  

He resists. He’s not a child.  He won’t be treated like one, but even the act of trying to push it away takes energy he realizes he doesn’t have. SMELLS LIKE ROCK AND BLOOD! He hears Spite with his ever so helpful commentary as he reluctantly allows the liquid to flow down his throat.  He blinks, trying to figure out how he ended up in this state.  It’s been decades since he’s drained his mana reserves to the point of exhaustion.  It takes a few moments to remember what he was doing that would take so much energy…

“The Blade!”

He tries to sit up, but that takes up so much of his energy, that if it wasn’t for Neve on his other side, supporting his shoulder, he’d probably collapse on the floor.  But his own condition doesn’t matter, what he needs to know is if the ritual was a success.

“It’s here…” Harding kneels down by his side, holding it reverently, like it’s being presented to an Orlesian Chevalier at his induction.  It looks exactly the same as the original, bright azure that contrasts with the lingering green sparks that linger in the air.  He takes it,  feeling its weight.  To an untrained eye, it’s like he’s holding the very same  blade Solas created untold ages ago.  The same shape, same weight, same texture..  But holding in his hands, using his dwindling reserves of magical energy, he peers deep within it, trying to sense if that amalgamation of magical energies has combined to create a sustaining deep well of power.

He senses…

“Shit. Is he gonna be okay?”

“Professor, are you alright?”

“Breathe, Emmrich…breathe”

“Mierda.  Don’t scare us like that, Emmrich.”

There’s something there, small, barely detectable. The ritual was a success…but a failure all the same.  The dagger will never be able to kill a God.  At best, it may be able to rip open the veil, once… and for only a brief moment.

 All his work… all those sleepless days and nights.  The research. the note taking.  The mathematical calculations. The countless cups of coffee.  The depletion of almost every scrap of magical energy in his body has resulted in…

A fancy Lyrium paperweight.

Where had he gone wrong?  Had he mixed the Lyrium too quickly?   Too much Entropy magic suppressing the flow?  Not enough Spirit energy? Had the original included some ancient ingredient that was unknown to mages nowadays?

 Had his momentary loss of concentration been the deciding factor?  

That last thought is what almost breaks him.  That he caused this all to fail.  He holds it against his chest, embracing it as if it was her as he takes shaky breaths.  He’s falling apart at the seams, that carefully maintained facade is beginning to show its cracks.  But even now, in front of the rest of the companions, he must remain strong.  So he shoves the self hatred, the anger, the sorrow down, its glass like shards ripping down his throat, before settling down into his stomach, along with the blood of an ancient wronged people.

“I- we… still have work to do.”  is all he can say.  He can’t bear to tell them that he’s failed them, that he’s failed her.

--------

The next week and a half is a blur to him.  He tries to start from scratch, to look for other ways to break the impenetrable prison she seems to be held in, but the books Manfred retrieves for him about pocket areas of the Fade are nearly unreadable.  He can’t seem to focus on anything, save for his failures.  The only straw he can grasp is that if he can find out where she is located, a place where the veil is very thin, he may be able to cut through to her with the almost worthless knife. But only once. So he must be certain that it’s the correct place. 

Lucanis brings him food that he makes a show of eating, if only to satisfy the man that he’s not wasting away.  Neve checks up on his progress, but as it's all under a guise of checking up on him specifically, so he resists the urge to snap at her.  Not that he has the energy to feel much emotion anymore.  Taash and Harding drag him out of his room for a walk, every other day, the latter asking about the nature of dreams, the former remaining silent, solid, and supportive as a tombstone. It helps, a little, the way they care for him, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it. 

He thinks back to the words the Dread Wolf said, although he never wants to hear that voice again

“The Rook had to be sacrificed so that the King would not be captive in a prison of regrets”

Perhaps he wasn’t speaking in metaphors.  Perhaps that prison, the one capable of containing a GOD, needed chains that were stronger than even the veil itself.  He knows how hard it is to escape regret, as he’s struggling against it right now…  The only way Solas was able to slip past its impenetrable walls was a bait and switch maneuver.  But Zea is not just some chess piece that can easily be taken off the board.  She must be fighting with all her might to find a way to get out.  So for her, he keeps researching, keeps studying, keeps himself running, both mentally and physically, as he searches for the way to reach her.

-----

He must have drifted off, he thinks.  Because he’s not in the Lighthouse anymore.  In fact, he’s never seen a place in the Fade like this.  The Fade is a strange place, with some areas covered in rapidly growing trees and flowers, others a cacophony of horns and trumpets as eternal wars are waged.  He’s seen libraries that contain every thought ever conceived, even a slimy bog where the world's fears congregate (He hates that one in particular, that’s where there is constantly falling masonry, and a tombstone with his name carved on it).

This place is bare rock, no vegetation, no spirits. It may have once been a thriving city, he thinks, as there are remnants of paved walkways and columns, but there’s a constant wind that howls like a wolf that has worn down most of the features.  He’s been told that the Necropolis was dreary and dark, but compared to this place, his home is a verdant flower garden. He’s never felt a place so lifeless, and never has he felt alone…

That’s probably what makes the figure in the distance stand out crisply against the grey horizon.  His pace picks up as he approaches it.  He’s still far off,  and  her back is turned to him but there’s no mistaking who it is.  He can see her greathammer slung on her back, her shield on her arm when she’s not fighting, but not certain that she’s safe.  There’s the way she stands, favouring her left leg just like she was at the end of the battle.  He’s now running towards her, but the ground is treacherous, and he stumbles over the rocky terrain more than once.  And now he can see that she’s not alone.  There’s a figure with her, shorter and stockier, at first he thinks it's a child, before realizing it’s a…. Dwarf?  That confuses him, as aside from Harding, he hasn’t heard of any dwarves entering the Fade.  

“ZEA!”  He screams, but the wind takes his words and blows them back in his face.  Still, he keeps running until he skids to a stop. In front of him is a crevasse so deep, and so wide that there’s no way he can cross it.  Countless stone hands reach out on both sides, as if they are trying to make the crevasse wider.

She’s so close, and yet so far.  If he yells her name out louder, she’ll hear him, she’ll turn around and see him, he can tell her how much he loves her, that he will stop at nothing to bring her back.  But the howling gales rip the words out of his throat and cast them into the abyss.  He hears a creak, and the once stable rock he’s standing on shifts, then slides into the darkness, leaving him to plummet along with it.

She never turns around.

----

He blinks his bleary eyes, and the side of his face feels cool.  There’s another creak, and then an embarrassed gasp.

“Oh professor, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up!”  He sits up, realizing he’s passed out at his desk, a stack of scrawled notes, the last trailing off into an illegible line.  There’s something on his shoulders, and he realizes Manfred must have placed his coat on him like a blanket.  It's small little things like this that keep him going. 

“It’s fine,” he admits truthfully, not wanting to go back into that hellish landscape of his dreams.  He forces a polite smile on his face, “What can I do for you?”  

“I wanted to go into Rook’s room…” she hesitates as she studies his face for any reaction.  He doesn’t really have the energy to do anything but remain passive.  “See if there was something in her room that could help us. But…” she kicks her feet, “I didn’t feel comfortable walking in someone else’s room uninvited, and since you were the one closest to her…”  

He slowly gets up, feeling his joints protest, and nods his head.  He’s been dreading this moment, but with Harding at his side, the pain might not feel so bad.

The room still smells like her.  There’s hints of her perfume that lingers in the air, of jasmine and tuberose that she only wore when she wasn’t intending to go out to battle.  Her blue cloak that shielded her from the bright sun lay hung over the chaise lounge, as if she had thrown it off after a long day of shopping in the market.   Even her pack, where she carried all of her necessities when they travel, is still here, leaning against that nonfunctional eluvian they found while out in Alathan and had stored in her room.  He can’t help but look at his reflection and notice how haggard he looks.  He’s lost weight, and if he felt he was too old for Rook on the night before the battle, he certainly looked twice as old now, with the bags under his eyes, and the sunken cheeks now covered by an ill maintained beard.  He looks closer to death than the corpses he’s attended all these years, or like one of those evil necromancers that play the villain in those ridiculous tales in the south.

“Oh… I found something!”  Harding picks up a carefully folded series of pages, set beside a stack of journals and romantic literature,  sealed with red wax, along with an envelope. He can’t make out the words, but he can see at a glance it’s Zea’s distinctive Nevveran writing, highly formalized with strict angles, no doubt from learning to read and write by studying tombstone engravings.  “It’s addressed to us, and this…” she holds out the envelope to him, “has your name on it.”  He doesn’t want to take it, doesn’t want to know it exists, because he knows exactly what the letter contains.  Hadn’t he been writing a letter that night before their argument?  Where he had prepared for things in case he did not return?  Of course, he had burnt that letter as soon as he had gotten back to the Lighthouse, as he did any of those types of letters.  But to have hers in his hand… that meant accepting something he could not bring himself to do.  Still, he forces himself to reach out and take it with trembling hands and study her handwriting, the wax seal whose impression looks so familiar… it takes him a few moments to realise its the impression of a skull, specifically of the brooch she once wore.

“Oh…” she gasps, and he can hear the grief in her voice as she comes to a realization at what she has om hands, “It’s a… will. She looks up at him, and even in the dim light of the aquarium, he can see her eyes are glassy with unshed tears.  “Should I open it?  I mean… she’s not dead… but she’s gone…oh, I don’t know what to do.”

“Open it, share it with the others,” he gently advises her, placing a hand of support on her shoulder, “when we get her back you can laugh at whatever confessions she made.”  

She looks at the letter he holds, “Are...you going to read yours?” 

No is what he wants to say.  He does not want to break that seal, to go down the first step of healing from the wound he has taken.  He’s afraid of what words she wrote down.  Perhaps she wrote them right after their argument, and she scribbled them out in anger, that the last words he had from her were words of hatred.

But instead, as he makes it back to his study, he slips a finger under the edge of the envelope, trying his best to damage the seal as little as possible.  He will accept whatever words she has given him, spoken in anger, or sadness, or love.  

My Dearest Emmrich:

I’m so sorry about that argu

Of course I would open my big fat mouth and

I know nothing I will say will take the pain away.  No apology, no self-deprecatory joke will bring relief.  I know this, I’ve seen it happen many times as loved ones interred their dead.  It is a wound that only time may close, and even then, there will be scars.

So instead of dwelling on how and why I am no longer with you, let me bequeath you this:  Who I was and what you mean to me.  You know the basics, of me being an infant foundling left on top of a pile of bones.  It was the bedrock of who I was. That from the very start, I was unwanted.  Unneeded. To be discarded when inconvenient.   When the magic talent I was certain would manifest eventually never came, I fell deeper into despair.  I would never be a proper necromancer.  At best I could be a weapon, a bulwark to protect the living and the dead.  And Maker, how I tried to find my place in the Mourn Watch, tried to earn the respect of my peers.  Only to be cast out when I could not even do that.  Yes, Varric and the others helped in their own ways, but I still felt like I was not worthy of anything.

And then, I met you.  You, a man of exquisite talents and grace.  A man who saw the world of the living and dead as I did,  a man of incredible empathy and intelligence.  You did not look down upon me, nor did you even pity.  Instead, your words were of admiration and respect.  You were like a mirror being shown to one who had never encountered one before.  You saw me as I could not even see myself.  That I was worthy of your love and affection.  And slowly, you chipped away at the self loathing that had accumulated, and made me realize the truth.  That I was not only worthy in your eyes, but in the eyes of everyone else.  The only regret  is that I had not met you sooner.  Perhaps if I had gone to the memorial gardens to enjoy the ambience more often instead of viewing it as another chore to tend the graves, we may have encountered each other, and had more precious moments to spend together.

When you stated your desire to become a lich, I would never stand in your way, as who was I to tell you otherwise?  But secretly, in my deepest thoughts, I desired you to remain mortal, not because I preferred flesh to bone, but because I knew that you would lose something essential to you.  When you gave up your dream to bring Manfred back, and I saw the delight and joy in your eyes, I loved you even more. There, I said it. I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Like I said, I cannot take the pain away, nor your fear of death, but I say one thing now:  That no matter how long it takes, I will remain on the threshold, waiting for your arrival. I can only pray that it gives you peace to know that we will find each other again.

Yours in eternity, Zea Ingellvar

He reads it.  Then he reads it again.  And again.  And again.  He reads it until a splash of water drips on it, and he quickly pushes the letter away, lest he damage her precious handwriting any more. He’s secretly thankful he’s at his desk because had he been standing, he would have collapsed to his knees.  There’s a sound in his throat that’s been begging to be released for the past few weeks, and he can’t hold back any longer, he lets the pain, the anguish, the fear, the torment of the better part of a month to be poured out in a torrent of sobs and tears.

His shoulders shake uncontrollably as cries, holding himself.  He has not felt like this since he was a child, curled up in a ball to protect his mother’s prized teapot from breakage.  But this time, he can't stop what he holds, his heart, from breaking.  She had every right to be angry, to be furious with how stupid he sounded that night, with his damn stupid fears.  Here he had been so concerned about what his eventual death would do to her, that he never even contemplated what would happen if their positions were switched.

And yet, instead of being upset, her last words to him were of love, compassion, and hope.  The only hatred she reserved was for herself.  That she had borne these undeserving  thoughts of self-loathing under a mantle of gentle smiles, humour, and empathy had never crossed his mind until this moment. She had deserved better than the man that had attempted to push her away because of his petty fears of his mortality.

He sobs dejectedly, letting every emotion drain out of him.  It’s a lance to a boil, draining the infection so the healing can attempt to begin.  It oddly gives him energy, now that he releases everything that has been damming up inside him. And after what feels like a good hour, he sits there, still weak, but oddly refreshed.  Like a sick man whose fever is broken and who is attempting to get out of bed.  His mind is clearer.  His Zea would not want him like this, he knows.  It would break her heart to know that he’s been wallowing in self hatred for all this time.

He picks up the letter and reads it one last time.  He’s already beginning to memorize some of the lines as his finger traces the geometric script.  

One word sticks out to him.  Regret.   

‘The only regret  is that I had not met you sooner’

Followed by: 

‘Perhaps if I had gone to the memorial gardens to enjoy the ambience more often…’

He thinks back to the gardens, on how they were the source of his greatest sorrow, his parents gravesite, and his greatest joy, his first kiss with her.  The veil is naturally very thin there, allowing spirits to pass to and from the fade as they please, and yet is peaceful enough that demons rarely show up.  His heartbeat races at the realization as he pulls out the dagger from the locked drawer where he placed it, safe, yet unable to mock him for his failure.  

Perhaps…

No, not perhaps.  He knows where to go now, what to do.  First thing tomorrow, when everyone else is asleep, he’ll go.  Alone.  He only has one shot at this, and there is also the possibility that the prison will require an exchange.  He cannot afford to have any other distractions.  He cannot afford to fail.

He folds the letter and places and the daggert in the drawer as his mind whirs at top speed.  After weeks of setbacks, dead ends, and more bad news from the outside world, a ray of light and hope shines.  He, and only he is the one who can shine it into the darkness. Whatever it takes.

[privatecyberstalker]

Okay, so now I want to think only about einjoyce that are living happily together in some alternative universe. No matter in which one, I just need some fluff with them.

Especially I need to see how Anti-Entropy crew would celebrate Ein's 18th birthday and try not to joke around Welt because - I bet - he was one of who organised party, so boy would be already stressed out, hoping that everyone will enjoy it. Especially Ein.

And I need to see Welt witnessing the real summer. See how Ein and Welt going to the countryside to collect flowers, yapping about plants from «critically endangered» list, about the symbolical meaning of each type of them, and ended up being covered in grass, but at least with flower crowns (Tesla wouldn't appreciate their look, but fully understand it)

And how Tesla will deal with denying that Ein and Welt are dating, because gosh even Planck would be more condescendant toward them. Imagine Nancy saying Tesla to chill out, because «you're worrying about their relationships more than about ours» (Finn and Nancy being first einjoyce supporters wasn't in your bingo, right?)

...I will leave it here for now till I didn't went too far into alternative universes🩵

[miharuhebinata]

now that i've sat with it a bit longer...

i'm definitely starting to enjoy the story of stp more than i initially thought i did. it's big and cosmic, but at the heart, just like the game tells you before you even reach the main menu, it's a story about love. all the ways it changes you, how it can be both terrible and beautiful, cruel and forgiving. and how being afraid of letting yourself change or be known can ruin you—but also how trying to force others to change to your liking can ruin you just as much, if not worse.

i guess my main issue is that the truth of who you are and why you're supposed to slay the princess was... i can't really say it was underwhelming, because it's pretty much anything but, but i guess a tiny bit unsatisfying imo? like, it didn't quite land like a blow. i wasn't sitting there with my mouth agape or anything. and that's probably not the fault of the game itself (honestly i'm hardly if ever 100% completely satisfied by the actual answers in stories with big mysteries like this), but still, i found it a little bit disappointing.

i was also disappointed we didn't get to learn more about the narrator and his role in everything. he said he was once a mortal, so how the hell did he manage to split a god in two and trap both pieces inside a pocket dimension, or whatever the construct is supposed to be? and what exactly does it mean that you are the long quiet personified? is it supposed to be representative of the universe itself, vast, mostly empty, and only truly impacted by Her, i.e. life and everything that comes with it (death, change, entropy)? i suppose that interpretation is what makes the most sense to me, especially when i consider this line—

—but i could be wrong.

all that being said? regardless of my personal gripes, it's undeniable that the writing in this game is still utterly phenomenal. stp is definitely the kind of story that makes you want to think more than it wants to give you every single answer, and the more i do, the more i start to see. even just writing out this post, it's like yeah, this is a love story, but it's also about the inescapable symbiotic relationship between life and death, how meaningless life would be without that constant cycle of change. it's about relationships, how needless cruelty and rejection of the unknown—especially when born out of ignorance—will always have dire, far-reaching consequences. to me, it even touches on themes about the experience of being a woman, having to learn and adapt inside the (sometimes gilded but oftentimes not) cage others have trapped you in.

in conclusion? what a fascinating game, there truly is nothing like it. and hopefully you're not reading all this if you haven't played it for yourself, but if you are, do yourself a favor and GO PLAY IT!!!!

[indignantlemur]

Can we have some information on Thoris's partners? He's the most attractive in my opinion and knowing more about his spouses will help mitigate that I think. Plus I am so curious about him.

Hello darling! I'm so sorry, it has been a hot minute!

To be fair to you, Thoris is fantastic and you are far from the first to decide to sexualise that (not that old!) old man. I literally have an entire mirror 'verse fic planned around the concept.

But, if it helps, Thoris' spouses are:

Vrasoan sh’Kor - Thoris’ bondmate and wife to Idraal and Shrathaa; Minister of Justice.

Idraal ch’Kor - Thoris’ husband and bondmate to Shrathaa; General of the Imperial Guard. 

Shrathaa zh’Kor - Thoris’ wife and bondmate to Idraal; Bio-engineer, acclaimed researcher and inventor.

Now, some of the specifics are going to remain shrouded in mystery because they are significant in some way to the plot of Emigre. Others, however, are just fun details that came to me as I was creating Thoris' quad.

Details below the cut, as usual:

VRASOAN

Vrasoan often comes off as severe and foreboding even by Andorian standards, but most of that is down to her job. She's in charge of running the Arbiters, overseeing the crafting and introductions of future laws pertaining to the criminal justice system and its immediately adjacent systems, and proactively anticipating - and solving - problems that occur within the system as it currently exists. It's a big job, and it requires constant vigilance to ensure nothing slips through the cracks!

Vrasoan also hates all shades of yellow-green, can't stand the smell of whatever those ridiculous Thaan Clansmen put in their (in)famous mustard sauce, and would honestly rather be at home tending to her various botanical experiments than attending whatever social engagement is required of her. She's very direct, and once she makes a decision she goes after it without delay.

A daughter of a very high ranking Clan and raised with the expectation of seeking a similarly high ranked mate, it must be said that when Vrasoan was initially introduced to Thoris as a young girl, she was not impressed. The feeling was mutual, as a much younger Thoris found Vrasoan to be stuffy and boring. Meanwhile, Vrasoan viewed a young Thoris as a hellion and immediately disliked the sheer amount of entropy that followed in his wake. Indeed, their first encounter involved the two coming to blows - and not in the manner their parents had hoped!

Despite some rough beginnings, ss they both aged and continued to move within overlapping social circles, Vrasoan found she was beginning to like the new, more responsible Thoris in their brief and infrequent encounters. After a time, she started to seek out his company more and more often, and despite his numerous duties and demands on his time Thoris found himself quite looking forward to their time together, seeing it as something of a respite from the rest of the world. Acquaintance yielded to friendship and play, and from there nature, as they say, took its course. They would be bonded within the following year - quite an abrupt courtship, by all accounts, but not entirely unexpected.

It was, after all, the outcome their parents had been planning for all along.

IDRAAL

Idraal is a very active fellow, and while he's not as boisterous and gregarious as he was in his younger years, he still enjoys himself. A high-ranking man with a keen eye for strategy and always the sort to keep a weather eye on the morale of the Guardsmen serving under his command, Idraal distinguished himself in the field several times over, actively seeking out assignments which would have him slapping down border incursions and routing Orion pirates regularly. While not outright bloodthirsty, Idraal was known to be relentless in pursuit of a target and adept at setting cunning traps for his prey. If someone wanted a rogue ship hunted down and brought in, Idraal was the one to send. Nowadays, Idraal chafes under his rank as a general; he's much more removed from the frontlines and from his crew than he prefers, but he begrudgingly admits that the sharp increase in authority and the coveted ability actually get things done instead of battling bureaucracy has its merits.

Idraal has a fondness for Rigellian plums, is indifferent to Andorian ale, and while he claims to have no preference for one colour over another has been known to gravitate occasionally to indigos and violets. He has a little known gift for storytelling, and of the quad it was Idraal who was most requested by the children to read to them before bed.

Idraal met Thoris during their initial training for the Imperial Guard, and had enjoyed having such a robust playmate and sharp-minded companion during that time. There was an inherent compatibility present between the two that lent itself to a strong friendship - with the potential for much more - but differing assignments saw the two separated for years after their initial induction into the Guard. They reconnected years later purely by accident, with Idraal encountering his old friend shortly after Thoris and Vrasoan formally bonded quite coincidentally. Vrasoan was only too pleased to welcome a third into their bed, particularly since she'd rather thought Thoris had been quietly pining over the man for years now. Imagine her delight when the feeling had turned out to be mutual! Idraal, for his part, was enthralled and perhaps a little intimidated by Vrasoan in equal measure, and remains so to this day.

SHRATHAA

Shrathaa had been born the youngest daughter of yet another high ranking Clan known for it's ferocity and martial prowess, but was often overlooked for her merely adequate performance in martial matters. It wasn't until Shrathaa established herself as a biologist and branched further outwards into engineering that she saw a unique pathway in which the two might intersect, and from that point onwards she truly began to shine. Now Shrathaa is a household name in and of itself on Andoria, without needing a Clan name attached to it for respectability. While not the first bio-engineer in Andorian history, Shrathaa is perhaps the most renowned for her research into - and invention of - incredibly complex and advanced cybernetics prosthetics which integrate seamlessly with the main body. Her work is considered revolutionary in the field for its ability to not only engage with but fuse to and both repair and compensate for severely damaged nerve endings, and new announcements from her lab are always greeted with a great deal of interest and enthusiasm.

On a personal level, Shrathaa adores the colour orange, loathes fungi on the whole as a food, and has a tendency to get so caught up in her work that she neglects basic necessities like eating and sleeping if left unattended. If she isn't tinkering with something, she's thinking about tinkering with something, and if she isn't thinking about tinkering with something... well, it's probably because one or all of her spouses have decided to give her something else to think about.

To be honest, Shrathaa still doesn't entirely understand how she wound up married to these three. To her recollection, she presented her findings at a conference one day, and upon being questioned as part of a open panel over the use of such things, firmly stated (read: argued quite passionately) that the Imperial Guard and Arbiters would only benefit from allowing her lab to provide prosthetics to servicemen injured in the line of duty. Little did Shrathaa know, Idraal and Vrasoan were in the audience, and were quite impressed. They both approached her regarding drafting proposals to implement her suggestions, and while Vrasoan was spoke for, Idraal was delighted to be the one who pursued Shrathaa in between his own duties.

Their initial courtship largely consisted of Idraal chasing Shrathaa down in her lab and reminding her to eat, or handing her steaming mugs of katheka periodically and engaging her in brief snippets of conversation. After he'd managed to lure her out of her lab and off to dinner the seventh time in a row, Shrathaa started to actually pay attention to the helpful - if somewhat annoying - man who kept interrupting her work. We all know how that ended, of course.

Hope you enjoyed everything! <3

[karalynlovescake]

THE CENTENNIAL HUSBANDS 2024 BIG BANG IS LIVE!

You can read my fic on Ao3 - Entropy and Optimism, rated T, 56k words, complete at 13 chapters.

Hob Gadling is offered immortality by Death in 1389 and he meets with her every 100 years. In his dreams, he befriends and grows close with a man who he knows is Death's brother, but who never gave Hob his name. After a disaster in the late 1700's ties him even closer to Death, Hob sees his Stranger less and less, and believes his choices are to blame. Meanwhile, exhausted by seeing Death everywhere he goes and heartsick over losing his relationship with her brother, in 1889 he tells her that while he still wishes to live, he does not want to see her again.

Hob goes over a hundred years with no word from either of them, until one day two women with two talking ravens show up and tell him that his friend desperately needs his help. He embarks on the quest, hoping to once again see his mysterious Stranger, who he learns must be the King of Dreams. But when he arrives in the Dreaming he finds two people he has never met ruling, his friend asleep as if under a spell, and the kingdom falling apart around them, with the legions of Hell trying to invade.

And check out the art from my amazing artist Koresephone !!!

@koresephone66

The plot for this story started out as the plot of the novel Paladin of Souls by Lois McMaster Bujold, which is one of my favorite novels ever written. I consider it to be an absolute masterpiece of writing and plot weaving. It won a Hugo, a Nebula AND a Locus award for a REASON, and Ms Bujold is a far better writer than I am.

I had to change a lot of stuff to make the plot fit the setting and characters. So much stuff that I debated is it really even the same story anymore? Apparently very few people in the active fandom are familiar with the Bujold novel, which meant no one would see exactly what I was trying to do.

But it also meant that there was no one out there who was going to write this story if I didn't write it! This is the first novel-length story I've ever completed, and my first big bang, and honestly if you're going to borrow, borrow from the best of the best, right? I was already using Neil's characters, and I think I did a pretty good job!

I'd love to hear if you enjoy it!

[anjelicawrites]

I’m back! Thank you for your earlier thoughts; I greatly enjoyed them!

What if someone (perhaps a really drunk Felix) offhandedly suggests that to make it up to this girl that he’s been mean to, Michael should give her head? He’s probably totally appalled by the prospect and dismisses the thought immediately, but then part of him can’t stop thinking about getting on his knees and showing her that he’s sorry. He can’t talk about emotions, but he could be taught to use his tongue a different way to properly apologize!

-🪴

Hi 🪴 nonnie!!! Can you imagine how annoyed he'd be that vapid cunt Felix Catton, who has tried to get into her pants forever, notices that there are troubles? And he's suggesting that, because his drunken mind doesn't believe Michael will ever succeed? And now it's all Michael can think about, even after the rift had been mended? He's been having dreams about that! He imagines what she tastes like, as he peruses the library! He can't stop his mind from wandering and wondering!

And has no idea how to make this fantasy a reality.

Michael knows all the porn he watches is not truthful, if that were the case, it would be so much easier to achieve his goal: usually girls come over to study and sex happens, instead! A cup of tea for the guy involved! What about one Michael Gavey, who is so amazingly good at solving any mathematical problem, but can't find the key to this one?

For once in his life, though, destiny seems to be on his side, on a rainy day after class, in his college room, where him and her had ran to beat the hailstorm raging outside.

They're studying, truly concentrating on the syllabus, crammed around the small table, when Michael's pen falls from his hand.

He doesn't even think about the logistics of his actions, he dives under the ancient wood the very second she uncrosses her legs to cross them again. He's kneeling there, getting a good look at her cute, pink panties, and he has never planned this! He's enslaved to entropy like anyone else is!

"Michael?" She asks, unsure, when his big hands land on her knees.

Michael knows this is the pivotal moment: either he jumps, or he will regret his inaction for the rest of his life.

"Let me show you how sorry I am, about everything." He answers, trying to hide the insecurity he feels.

He's seen enough porn to understand the logistics of it but has no idea of what he's doing. And she, as beautiful and radiant as a goddess on Earth, lifts her hips to remove her panties and throws them away.

"Do it." She moans, hand going into his blond hair. "Show me how sorry you still feel."

Suffice to say, the syllabus was forgotten for the afternoon, Michael had so much to be absolved for, and many ways to obtain her forgiveness.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt XII good omens sEAsOn 2 (the non-traumatic part) episode 1

Alright yes I know, I know, it's been two days since the livestream. I was reading fanfiction. Don't blame me, love made me crazy, and all that. I'm enjoying myself as much as I can before we get to the season 2 finale. But here we go, season 2, episode one, maggots:

[on reading this back after finishing, a lot of text is my being in love with Crowley. mainly, points 3, 4, 9, 14, 17, 18, yes I have issues, feel free to skip that for an absolutely concise and precise summary]

Before the livestream starts, everyone decides that there will be no spoilers whatsoever on the chat, even hidden with the black, because I have a tendency to keep clicking and revealing them. I'm sorry, temptation and all. I have emotional support fruit, an apple, two kiwis, two sapotes and two bananas.

When the livestream starts, it has to be restarted, because I am an incompetent nincompoop and have somehow managed to muck up my settings. And it is absolutely imperative that I watch the opening scene.

So then I do. And immediately have to consume my emotional support apple because I am so fucking in love with Crowley. Already? someone asks. Yes bloody already, I need that apple.

Thanks, guys. I'm broken. Crowley. Just. She looks so peaceful and untraumatised, so delighted with the plans, so full of wonder at what she's creating. Let there be light, she says, and rather than seeing Crowley turn off a streetlight with a flick of his fingers, we get to see her create nebulas. Aziraphale looks at her and he's just instantly so spellbound, and who would bloody blame him? His wings just do a slight dip of realisation that he's fucked when Crowley says the gorgeous line. Look at Crowley. Worried about the apocalypse. Smiling at Aziraphale, and we can see Azi's concern because something as pure as that has to be protected and Aziraphale knows what Heaven will do to Crowley if she dares to ask questions. Crowley is angelic and filled with light and Aziraphale sees that and tries to keep her safe with his words.

Hey spoiler alert, it doesn't work, Crowley's wings are greying even as she protects Azi and Crowley falls and I hate everything and I am filled with unbridled rage.

UNDERSTAND? RAGE.

I am speculating how much pain and torture Crowley went through when she fell into Hell that first time. I am told to not ask questions I don't want answers to.

Maggie sells records, Aziraphale is a cutiepie, and Maggie is very gay for Nina.

Crowley is lounging on a park bench, suit and skinny tie, just being all sexy and demonic and probably contemplating nihilism.

Crowley spreads awareness about duck health. No bread, guys. Frozen peas. He also angsts a lot to Shax (whom I keep mixing up with Michael) about the meaning of life. Someone points out that this is very Barbie of him. "do you ever think about death". Ah, Crowley.

More lesbians gaying. I would kill for Nina's hair.

JIMBRIEL IN THE HOUSE. I WON'T SAY ANYMORE ABOUT HIS ENTRANCE BECAUSE THIS IS NOW A TOPIC OF CONTROVERSY. BUT JIMBRIEL IN THE HOUSE.

Aziraphale, ah I love him, absolutely fucking panics and has the loading symbol over his angelic little head at all times. FINALLY, THIS SHOW IS A COMEDY.

Crowley is leaning on his Bentley and mmmmhm his arms and his lounging and his personality I am back to crunching on my temptation emotional support apple.

Sorry back to the summary. Jim finds Aziraphale funny and says he loves him. Someone points out that this was the fandom upon encountering my dumbass self. "You're funny Asmi we love you."

Aziraphale is a little bitchy babygirl, really just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. Just absolutely slaying through every Jimbriel scene. 100000/10.

Six shots of fucking espresso in a big cup. Crowley, I love you. Can I love Crowley any more than this? Yes I can. My love for Crowley is like the universe, infinite and yet ever-expanding, explosive with entropy.

Crowley holds the door open for Aziraphale and holds his plate and honestly what absolute husband (gn) behaviour.

CROWLEY MEETS JIMBRIEL WHO IS FUCKING DUSTING AND LEAPS BACKWARD AND JUST RELIVES TRAUMA WHILE JIM IS CHILLING AND AZIRAPHALE IS STILL GAY PANICKING. I LOVE THIS SHOW.

MARRIAGE QUARRELS ABOUT ADOPTING JIM, JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE FELL-CROWLEY HOUSEHOLD.

Coffeeshop AU lesbians time.

Heaven is horrible.

MURIEL IS BABY I LOVE THEM HELLO CUTIEPATOOTIE.

There is an ethereal paper file.

Beezlebub beezles their way into Crowley's car and is very concerned in Hell about finding Jimbriel.

Nina's partner is a toxic ass don't worry about it.

Sulky Crowley says he's back and apology dance time mmmhm.

Miracle hide Jimbriel time, but they've got to be subtle. They do the miracle. Jim is glad to have friends.

They are very proud of themselves for their subtle miracle.

THEY ARE SO FUCKING USELESS. FUCKING USELESS LITTLE GAYASS DISASTERS JESUS LORD IN HEAVEN. LITERALLY IN HEAVEN ALARM BELLS ARE EVERYWHERE.

GREAT JOB, GAYS. GREAT JOB.

End of episode one. Take this screenshot.

[midnightluck]

WELCOME TO HSR BRAIN ROT CLUB! HAPPY TO HAVE YOU HERE.

I do want to hear your thoughts about Aventurine, his connection to the Mask Fools and what it means to turn down an invite to the Tarven. >:3c

So the thing about the Masked Fools is, and I'm taking this verbatim, is that "the Fools believe that the truth of the world is a joke, and that the ultimate meaning of all things lies in mere laughter," which taken from the in-game database. The Masked Fools, as followers of Elation, think that nothing matters because it's all inevitable, or, to quote Monty Python, "Life is just a show so keep 'em laughing as you go," etc, etc. There's no point in it, there's no greater meaning, and not in the Nihility way of nothing mattering, but in the entropy way? Nihility is about irrelevance, not irreverence, and about futility. Elation is knowing that and laughing in the face of it because if nothing matters, then neither does despair.

Aventurine does not believe the world is a joke or he wouldn't be taking it so seriously. He may treat it that way, and he may think he believes that, but compare him to, say, Sparkle, and the difference is pretty clear. Sparkle, the most manipulative and scheming of all the fools we've seen, also has a tendency towards wagers that play with fire (Russian Roulette, much?) so she's a great example. However, we also see that she's more opportunistic than scheming, like with her offer to Sunday, and is in it for the entertainment, not the potential benefits.

The difference I'm really seeing here is stakes. We don't know what Sparkle stands to lose but I'm gonna go with nothing, or very little. Contrarywise, Aventurine lives by "go big or home," except he can't go home so he has to go big. I'm honestly not even convinced he enjoys gambling (and I have proof but that's for a different essay). He wagers because is audacious, it's unignorable, and it's the fastest and easiest way to get what he wants, and it's also something that once he wins, he can wave off as not something to do with him. It's all down to luck, after all, and his is better than yours, but maybe yours will be better next time; care to try again? And, as we've seen in the most recent text message convo he sends you, he can use a loss offensively. It's about the presentation!!!

All this to say, I think the Fools respect Aventurine because he's out here being visibly chaotic and audacious and they appreciate anyone laughing in the face of fate and deciding they can do it better. I think Aventurine does not respect the Fools because they're literally playing a game and he's not. He has a goal, he has stakes, and he has lost once before; he knows what it is to lose and that it hurts. They're not taking his art seriously because they literally cannot, and the fact that he has something to lose means he could never be a proper Fool.

All that said, I don't think there's any consequences to turning down the Tavern, if he was ever even invited--and that's an if because he went straight from genocide to slavery to the IPC and has been a model employee since. Though, like, imagine you're a giant company and this one high-ranking manager keeps getting public invites to join your local fatalistic anarchy group; just--just imagine that performance review, that would be hilarious to explain.

[theamityelf]

I’m not sure if your still writing stuff abt you danganronpa zombies au but if you are can we get more on junko??? I’m just wondering how her personality and plans translate to her zombie self

Im also wondering about Mukuro??? I’m not sure if you’ve mentioned her yet but her being a zombie interacting w her strange obsessive behavior w junko would be interesting

Sorry if this is incoherent but I’ve been thinking abt it for the last couple days lol

First of all, I am open to asks for every AU always! Lol.

For Junko, I'd say that her ability to plot things out is largely intact. Her ability to reason through the consequences of different actions in advance is not as sophisticated as it was before, but it's still really impressive for being undead. She's a lot more lucid than the others, but that said, I don't currently think she has an overarching ambition in this AU.

For one thing, just being undead is such an acute taste of entropy that she no longer feels so bored and dissatisfied all the time. So much about her body and mind are new, she subsists on murdering people, and just so much is wrong that, like Nagito, I think this might lowkey be kind of the best timeline for her.

Hope's Peak created this virus. Hope's Peak created this despair. Her point about despair is pretty much already vindicated, and she knows this won't stay contained. Her need to self-aggrandize is subsumed (at least for now) by her fascination with her new self; her need to spread despair is satiated by just the absolutely miserable situation of the Reserve Course and the pretty much guaranteed upcoming escalation when the undead breach containment; any urge she feels to be destructive and contrarian can easily be expressed by leaving the classroom and trying to eat someone before Makoto finds her; and all the while, she's experiencing the friendship and comradery with her classmates that she enjoys.

Makoto is taking care of her, and she genuinely likes that a lot. She loves getting her hair brushed, and the strained look on his face when he wipes blood from her mouth, and the quick reflexes he's developed to avoid her attempts to bite him. Between that and the occasional video calls from Yasuke, she's feeling pretty great.

I'm not saying Junko will never act mastermind-y in this AU; just that, for some length of time, she is satiated by the status quo. I think, if she does manifest a deeper goal than just enjoying herself, the first new goal she might pursue is that of making Makoto realize how Hope's Peak is using him and what Nagito has been up to. She would want Makoto to know what the Reserve Course's real role here is, and that it's not really accidental.

Now, Mukuro! I mentioned her briefly in this post and some others, but you're right that she hasn't really had focus. Mukuro's dexterity and fine motor skills are among the highest, of the undead, in that she can still hold and wield weapons.

She's still fiercely protective whenever Junko is under threat, but other than that she operates as a normal social presence in the class, just because my own headcanons (anime notwithstanding, lol) have her and Junko act like their relationship is normal, at school. Unlike Junko, Mukuro's grasp of consequences and general human behavior is greatly decreased. Her combat intelligence, as in fighting and battle strategy, remains, but her human intelligence is severely impacted.

Like in the hyperlinked post, she complies when Makoto takes her weapons away, but she doesn't understand that he doesn't want her to have weapons. When he tries to tell her, she just stares uncomprehendingly. She likes his face and his smell and how gently he handles them.

I'm picturing Mukuro curling up with Junko to sleep and Junko continually pushing or kicking her away, with groggy little movements, and Mukuro just casually crawls back, until they both fall asleep about a yard away from each other with Junko's foot against Mukuro's stomach.