and still, i rise!

@vvithermulti​ asked: "you need a lift?“ - Warren

It’s raining and she’s been standing there trying to figure out the issue with the truck for the last forty five minutes. When a stranger pipes up, she’s almost hesitant. She knows better than to take rides from strangers. Even if most people were kind. She’s soaked head to toe and she contemplates it for a moment. Sam hadn’t answered when she called. Joaquin was busy and too far away. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, approaching cautiously. “… I don’t want to get your seats all wet…”

Warren cannot in good conscience leave a woman stranded in the pouring rain. Sure, water isn’t ideal for the seats in his Audi but honestly it wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s been on them. Mud, blood, spilled coffee... Even Wagner’s residual sulfur stink from bamfing in and out. Thus far nothing a good -sometimes professional- cleaning hasn’t been able to fix. 

AMBER HUES WATCH THE BLADE AS IT’S RETRACTED.  it’s not long until gazes lock again. carefully, hands lower to his side.  posture tall and straight, regal almost as he stands his ground.  there was something  wicked  in the other’s eyes.  something that shouldn’t be taken lightly. not to mention the foreign attire the man wore.  it felt  –  otherworldly.  with the years and events that passed with the blip, there wasn’t many things to surprise him.

❛  knowledge.  resources.  secrets.  many things i’m sure you can  use  to your advantage …  ❜  play it safe, let them get comfortable with artificial power and the upper hand he granted. let them believe he was just a puppet and asset to use as he builds and plans from the sidelines.  out of sight and out of mind.  but he had a feeling he would have to be extra careful with this one.  if all else failed, distraction was at the ready if needed.

Loki taps the flat side of the dagger against his chin, both a thoughtful gesture and a reminder-- a threat that is ever-present. This man promises what most in his position do. Anything to stay the blade. Assurances vague enough to keep the conversation going but enticing enough to keep his interest. It is a dance that he knows well. 

@vvithermulti gets a thing!

“I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.” It’s a simple warning, one hand reaching out to lightly pet both Raptors on the snout. Each one nuzzling into his hand as a gentle smile crosses his lips. “They might look friendly, but new faces make them a little bit… bitey.”

✧ ⠀◞ ⠀ vvithermulti⠀ › ⠀ ❤’d for JEAN.

‘ Don’t worry about me Warren, headaches come and go I’ll be alright I just hope…I didn’t hurt anyone else’s mind.’

Wade Wilson’s blood boils in his veins, fear begins to mutate into rage, his brow knits together so tight that he worries the skin of his temples will split. Fingernails bite into his palms even through the gloves. His nostrils flare, chest heaves, fury threatens to erupt like a volcano. 

There’s a silence in the air. When standing before the Merc with the Mouth, silence is the last thing someone would expect. The mercenary’s eyes are transfixed on Stryfe. The step toward his person is met with a reactionary step back, he’s treating this encounter as combat, eyes on the enemy at all times.

The gravel and gasoline of his voice leaves dry lips. “I wouldn’t know.” It’s spat out, bitter. “I don’t see her these days. What do you want?”

Oh, someone is angry. And is it out of fear that he retreats? Or a healthy respect? No matter.  He’s hit the nerve he was aiming for. The Scion grins wickedly, baring his perfect white teeth. 

@vvithermulti liked this post & Wade’s not pleased to see STRYFE!

“You better have a real good reason for showin’ your distractingly handsome mug around here, Stryfe. I did what you asked, we’re square, there ain’t no way I’m gonna make a deal with you again. Beat it, before I beat you.”

Although he spoke with confidence, the hammering of his heart in his chest and the barely perceptible quake in his voice were tiny tells of just how afraid Deadpool was to be crossing paths with this man again.

"Why would I bargain with you again when you could not even fulfill your end of our previous agreement?” His stance, the smug look on his face-- he’s utterly and completely unafraid. Stryfe knows well the cards that he holds. He’s confident he has the winning hand.  “Did you honestly think that I would not notice Evan Sabahnur’s name return to my mutant tracker hours after you claimed to have killed him?”

But, alas, the little tyrant is dead now at last. Unfortunate that he did not have a personal hand in it, but dead is dead when Krakoa is loathe to resurrect clones. 

John Walker | @vvithermulti​

John walked towards the large building as he glance to Lemar who was a few steps ahead, they had just returned from a mission with the new Avengers, being a captain to a team wasn’t something new to John but having the mantle of Captain America as well but nobdoy was willing to step up so he did what he knew best and took the problems on his shoulders.

It was a surprise to many when the powers-that-be anointed a new Captain America-- one that was not among Rogers’ confidants, and Loki was not an exception. Rogers was a righteous fool, but a competent one. And despite his fancy titles and accolades, Loki has not yet determined if John Walker possesses that same competency. 

So here he is, to this new Captain for himself. He’s wearing human clothes but he’s not exactly hiding, his attire comprised of greens and blacks and a horned diadem of gold. 

Starter call

@vvithermulti || ꜱᴛʀʏꜰᴇ

      Paranoia around Stryfe was as natural as breathing, but felt like static in his nerves. Weapon drawn and expression severe, he stared at his clone. It would never stop feeling odd, like a fucked up mirror showing him the worst of what he could be. He never believed he could become anything close to Stryfe, but that didn’t make it any less discomfiting to see him.

      “What do you want, Stryfe?”

    Stryfe raises his hands, slowly and deliberately with his palms exposed, in a show of surrender. The look on his face says that it’s all a show. Feigned. A mockery. He’s already got a telekinetic shield at the ready, just in case. 

       AGGRESSION / TENSION  |||  @vvithermulti​.

put a knife to my muse’s throat .

AS SOON AS THE GLINT OF A BLADE MOVES THROUGH THE AIR, HANDS ARE RAISED.  head lightly tilting upwards as cool metal presses into his skin.  jaw clenches as his form stays perfectly still, the blade prominent against his neck.  a frown tugs at his lips, gaze steady as he stares at the other.  observing, calculating.  amber hues narrowing as he does so.

❛  perhaps, we can come to an  agreement …   ❜  zemo suggests stiffly, hands raising a little higher in surrender as the blade presses a little more firmly against his throat.  features surprisingly neutral and unbothered.  he knew the barrel of a gun and the blade of a knife all too well to feel threatened.  but he was smart enough to play by someone else’s cards for the moment when  at the edge of an opponents weapon. for it just might cost you your life. not that he was afraid of death, but he would hate for his work to be cut short.

   Green eyes narrow slightly as the mortal speaks, considering the suggestion. Killing him would be easy-- he applies the smallest bit of pressure to demonstrate this--  the blade is directly over the carotid artery. One swift cut is all it would take. But fortune favors him; Loki has no real quarrel with him, and so he might yet be of more use alive than he would be dead.

“Oof, what a mess.”

It’s been a while. A long while. The occasional spot of death and gore that he’s subjected to on X-Factor is nearly innocuous and clinical compared to what he used to get into before. This bar, strewn with the broken and torn bodies of its hapless occupants, well. It sure brings back not only memories, but a swelling sense of nostalgia. For a brief moment, Daken closes his eyes, and he takes a nice and big inhale through his nose –

– Dolores doesn’t even yelp when her ear touches her shoulder and her cervical vertebrae crunches –

– and exhales, opens his eyes to the dimly lit, red-hued room. He tentatively steps over an arm, his wrapped feet get immediately soaked and sodden with the inescapable layer of blood and more gnarly features of carnage strewn among the room. When Stryfe (Public Enemy Clone #1, now that Madelyne Pryor is at rest) turns to him, he’s standing straight and resolute. Holding eye contact.

Is he afraid? Oh, yes. As prideful as he is, he has survival instinct; his body is well-aware that he’s staring his Omega level death in the face. He tries to keep his shit together, though.

Oh, you’re perfect for it. You’re one of the best trackers we have. Bullshit. He’s here because he’s already so corrupted as to be incorruptable, unable to be shocked. The guilt that the more gentle members of the Council might feel at any suffering he goes through is availed knowing that he’s in the top ten of the next mutants hypothesized to end up in the Pit. At the moment, his mind is in a continuous update loop with Cerebro – he’s going to remember every painful moment of whatever this’ll end up as.

As it stands, Daken is very fatalistic.

“Yes, yes. Here I am, on behalf of Krakoa. The messenger you’re going to shoot.” His hands raise up to the air – look, ma, no weapons. “The Silent Council politely requests to know what the fuck it is you want from them.”

Styfe can feel the errand-boy’s fear. He’s right to be afraid. Stryfe is an omega-level telekinetic, as Nathan Summers should be, and has had a lifetime of practice using these abilities to hurt and destroy. By the age of six he was incinerating irksome tutors by manipulating their molecular structure. It would take little more than a thought to make this unfortunate bastard believe he was bathing in acid, or to turn his innards into pulp.  

But underneath the fear and the outward machismo, there’s something else-- something feral. Not unlike the mind of a predator that’s caught the scent of a fresh kill. This isn’t the temperament of a telepath. 

He was expecting a team. The inclusion of Dayspring, adolescent brat or not, because who knew him better?  Someone with psionic abilities, at minimum. It would have at least shown some preparedness... and moreso, respect for his capabilities. Instead they sent one man. He’s not a messenger, Stryfe realizes, they’ve sent him a sacrificial lamb. 

It’s insulting.

And oh, he’s angry. The bar rumbles, shaking as the psionic rage spills out before he can quell it down. The beginnings of a telekinetic temper-tantrum. He wants to ‘shoot the messenger.’ He wants to rip out his spine and throw it through one of the damnable Krakoan gates. Weeks of careful planning and experimentation, of DNA  collection and creating and killing these perfect clones--- and they send one man. It is infuriating. And it proves his hypothesis correct. 

Billy glared down at Warren. It had been some time since they had last met, but for Billy, his time with Death had been the eternal present. At least that was the way it seemed in his dreams… in nightmares. He did his best to hold back the rage he still had for the man who had made a teenage boy into a mass murderer and left him to try and pick up the pieces when he could no longer lead. But even that paled in comparison to the ultimate betrayal: the murder of Billy’s mother. He spoke, a cold rage evident in his voice.

“Hello Death… or I suppose it’s Angel now, isn’t it? Or perhaps Warren. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Warren does not remember that it was by his wing that Autumn Rolfson met her gruesome end, only that she is dead. A small mercy when he still carries the knowledge that it was by his doing that a child - blood of Apocalypse or no - had been turned and twisted into an instrument of war. 

“Death is...” Not who I am anymore. But that’s not true, is it? Archangel is and always will be a part of him, no matter how many times he is reborn. It’s still there, it still wants to eat the world, regardless of how tightly he holds its leash. 

“Wow. Uh, okay. Well.” Zephyr’s stance softened in confusion. Surely someone like Loki would’ve heard something about the Inhumans, at least, but it was clear he assumed wrong. “Buckle up, I guess.” He stated before clearing his throat.

“Inhumans are those who gain powers by going through something called Terrigenesis. Usually it’s due to a terrigen crystal being shattered and the mist from it kickin’ things off, but a lot of those crystals got diffused into the water supply which got diffused into fish oil pills, and that’s how I got my abilities. It only affected those with the right genetics, I think, and–wow, you didn’t ask for a life story, but still.” Zephyr exhaled a bit and placed his hands on his hips.

One arm crossed over his chest with the other hand cradling his chin, Loki listens. In the past he had never been too exceedingly interested in the happenings of Midgard, his curiosity fleeting and quick to find interest elsewhere. But with the events of recent years and the settling of New Asgard, it seems prudent that he take an interest-- and not one of a conqueror. 

Clearly, he still has a lot to catch up on.