#umbrx

He was no longer a cohesive machine of blood and bone. By now, even his mind sojourned in planes beyond his existence; clinging to dulcet memories of his egregious mistake. A smile he had never been able to decipher, words uttered against lips, the taste of whisky and cigars, tangled sheets and golden skin, laughter, golden hues and eternal promises, bloodstained wings veiling the night sky… Reality blended with fiction, truth got lost in lies. Anything to keep the mind from shattering as the cracks rapidly spread.

The heart of it struck him in an instant, while chained to a wall, bruised, battered, barely alive. There had never been a mask; he had always been genuine—genuine chaos which he had embraced and wielded as his greatest weapon. Signs and subtle hints were ignored precisely because the darkness inside was real. To deceive his enemies, he had first deceived his allies. Crocodile trusted him even when it went against everything he stood for. He had trusted them both, to make matters even worse.

“Knavish fiend,” the grunt echoed off the walls, pounding in his head with hammer-like strikes. Shallow breaths, neither painful nor pleasurable, trapped his mind in a looped cycle of the events that had transpired. From the first moment their paths had crossed, to the current one where nothing but doom awaited. A sudden jolt of pain left him panting, intensifying the more he dwelt on it. Sweat ran down his cheeks, his teeth clenched, wishing they were biting into flesh—a visceral thought fuelled by rancour, yet so deep and real it confirmed his existence—or what was left of it.

Was there anything left at all?

Broken bones and derisive numbness affirmed there was a perception of sensation, a testimony of one’s physical presence. It was painful to exist in those restless hours. Sleep never came when summoned, and when it did, it was his own mind that kept him awake. Eventually, someone would open the doors of his current prison. That someone was more likely a foe than a friend, yet even then, Crocodile wanted to properly greet them as the quintessence of wrath. He wanted to beshrew their existence, but mostly his. Of that son of a bitch who had brought nothing but destruction with him.

His mouth ran dry, his chest throbbed from the impact of the knife embedded in his heart, and his body quivered vehemently from the sheer surge of emotions. His pride refused to let them escape. His teeth bit into his lower lip to remind him of the physical pain, yet his eyes remained defiant, misting over reality. The image before him was ephemeral, but it was more than enough to break him.

How did it all end up like this?

It was the type of city that drew people toward it. Those seeking very small yet very large miracles, adventurers longing for a new thrill, those hoping for the beginning of a new story, and those wishing for nothing to begin at all. A place to find oneself and a place to lose oneself completely. A place to evolve and a place to be devoured. A place to seek an ordinary life and a place to search for the extraordinary. A place of blinding lights and fastidious darkness. A city of wonders, lies, hopes, troubles, joy, and despair—a symbol of abnormality.

The city’s charisma and double-sided allure were why Crocodile came. It was a chance to start anew, to forget the past and the demons he had left behind, and to create something empyreal. Over ten years had passed since he had made that choice, and over eight since he had started building his underground empire. Baroque Works was a criminal organization, one of many in this city, which owed its rapid growth to its devil fruit users, Crocodile being one of them

No one was certain why people were born with unique abilities, but it was no surprise when governments took an interest. These abilities became a person's most important secret. Once awakened, some kept their powers hidden even from their families. Those who couldn’t were presented with two options: a life as the government's product or a life as a criminal. Interestingly enough, these two factions weren’t at war with each other, even if they sometimes stood in each other's way. They lived in a parasitic symbiosis, constantly feeding off each other. At times they were partners, at others they were enemies. What had become clear early on, much to Crocodile's expectations, was that no one was to be trusted. In an ever-changing city with swarms of ever-changing faces, offering trust meant immediate death.

[9:32] All done, Mr. Zero.

The text message came from his secretary, Miss All Sunday. A short, concise report on the last shipment of weapons to the Ganmi group, just as he was used to. The Ganmi group was a relatively new presence in the city, having appeared two years ago, but they were loyal customers. Calling them a "group" was generous—they were more of a local gang battling other small fries in their neighbourhoods. Normally, he wouldn’t care much about them, but he knew how useful connections could be when most needed. Even if Crocodile never intended to ask for anything in return for his services (other than money), he planned to use the Ganmi group as required. A neutral group with no specific ties to bigger organizations in the city was always useful if a distraction was necessary.

He didn’t respond to the message, merely left it as read. Miss All Sunday was accustomed to his lack of communication through the phone. She knew his paranoia, his habits, and his preferences. She had been by his side for seven years, and despite everything they had been through, Crocodile still believed she would eventually betray him. She was a lot like him, after all, and that was possibly why they made such good partners.

[10:03] Mr. Five’s task?

A hit job requested two weeks ago, another service his organization offered. Depending on the severity and importance of the job, Crocodile would sometimes send his elite officers to the front lines. Each of them excelled in specific areas, and so far, they hadn't performed below his expectations.

[10:05] Being worked on. [10:06] Results will be in in a week.

That was adequate. He preferred clean jobs with no strings attached. Hasty kills brought too many questions; protracted kills erased their significance and meaning. A balance was necessary, and his elite operated according to the balance he dictated. Those under them were sent out for insignificant hits meant only to bring in more money.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. He had been in the city long enough to develop a sixth sense for impending trouble. The other organizations had kept a low profile for the past few months, performing their services and patrolling their turfs out of habit, merely keeping up appearances. Even the brats who often got caught up in the city's whirlwind were unusually quiet. Sometimes there were street brawls between gangs; other times, the kids were simply enjoying their youth and school days while they lasted. But they were always loud and noticeable. Even the police weren’t as active, likely in response to the other side’s subdued behavior.

He didn’t like it.

It felt as if everyone was waiting for something. It almost seemed as if the city itself had altered its abnormal lifestyle. Or perhaps it was just about to begin. Crocodile’s hand reached for the tin with cigars and the guillotine cutter. He took a cold taste after cutting the tip, and once satisfied, he lit it evenly, rotating the cigar and taking the first puff of smoke. The mild flavor graced his taste buds, lightheadedness crept up as it always did with tobacco, and for a moment, he was able to relax his nerves and forget about his worries.

“I’ve just arrived at Calm Belt. I’m not in a rush, so take your time.” The man took a seat at the nearby table with his back turned to Crocodile, still engrossed in his conversation. Usually, he didn’t care about the lives of others, and normally, he wouldn’t have paid attention to this man either, if it weren’t for his laughter, which was simply too boisterous for Crocodile’s taste. “So, you lost her again? Fwahahahahahahahaha! I thought you were going together—”

Golden eyes lifted to judge the man behind his back. A fairly tall individual, young, white-haired, tanned skin, dressed in comfortable yet expensive clothing, with a loud, continuous laugh and an aura of arrogance that reminded Crocodile of a certain blond.

@umbrx asked: 📱 :3 Send 📱 to see how my muse has yours in their phone! (Still Accepting)

Doflamingo

Contact: Freaky Pink Satan Do Not Answer Ringtone: When You're Evil - Voltaire Image:

@umbrx asked: Hope I'm not too late to the party, Ashi, but I wanted to point out how much I love your unapologetic exploration of Law's character. You tap into all facets of his character; into his nature and thoughts, his intellect and strategic thinking, his vengeance and sadism, just as much as you explore his love, kindness, friendships and sense of self-worth. You're also very imaginative and creative with your AUs where you incorporate Law's character so well into the verses you make for him ( let us all be reminded that my favourite AU to write exists because you wanted a halloween au with Law and demons and angels and it exploded ). You simply understand Law well, from his thoughts to his actions and mannerisms, and it reflects in your writing of him too. Be it threads with me or threads with others, reading your interpretation of Law has always been fun and immersive. You write him as a really complex character that keeps evolving as you write him more. It's really wonderful to witness. How is my portrayal?

🌺 @umbrx asked 🌺

What are the parts of her no one but the closest friends and allowed to see?

✨✨✨✨

Truthfully, it is difficult for her to be vulnerable even with those closest to her. But she tries to let them see through her cracks.

Her inner circle – crew mates who had been with her long before Roger’s execution and later returned when their captain called. They have seen her laugh, live, love and cry. They have heard the songs that she used to sing at the top of her lungs while she danced under the stars forgetting about her stressors even for a moment. They have seen on days when Rouge isn’t entirely there but they are a family.

They know she trusts them to keep her safe when her mind isn’t there.

Their chief medic has witnessed their captain work herself to the ground and develop a migraine and upchuck from the work she.

Shakky, her second in command and right hand, has woken Rouge up from night terrors that plague her dreams. Shakky has watched her best friend sob and grieve. She has witnessed her wrath when Rouge cursed the heavens and ripped the earth in two.

Rouge struggles to be vulnerable even around those she is closest to.

However

Love, philosophy as we know it died on that day, not just God (totally got an idea for a philosophical discussion which I will turn into a drabble, ty Nabi). I will say, I appreciate the stab in the front.

I may have said that a few hours ago, but I'm rephrasing myself. The point above stands as long as the death of the enthusiasm doesn't last over three months. Then it's necessary to push yourself to write, even if only to come to the ultimate conclusion. Whether it's something that fulfills you or not.

I know for a fact that the lack of misery in my life is the reason for my lack of verbal creativity. Not saying that happiness is a crime, but in my case, it's the death of the author. Now, giving up (or losing tbh) writing means killing 25% of what makes me, well, me.

The point is, if I don't push myself to write (even though I will find 95% of what I write mediocre), I will either kill creativity that may still be there, or I am just prolonging the inevitable. It's two choices — keep up with this hobby or give up on it completely. The facts are, there are so many creative mutuals with ideas that could be discussed and developed between us (like all those plots you offered long ago), but if I'm just not into writing, there's no point to string anyone along.

Every writer has their own way around this situation, so I guess this is mine. Is this venting? Genuinely can't tell. I don't think it is. This is the situationship.