#Before The Rain is filled with so much searing hope-

[luvtak]

fade into you, lmh

genre/tw est. relationship! suggestive, pure sugar cane fluff (like high fructose corn syrup fluff), minho only knows how to talk with his hands </3, gn!reader!! minho calls you kitty and honey <3!! seriously cavity inducing fluff be warned !! mostly unedited…

w/c 848

omg i haven’t posted a fic in so long nor have i written anything in months :(( but i’m finally a lot more settled after a busy drama filled couple of months! I hope you love this fic as much as i loved writing it. I’m not kidding when i say i wrote this in an hour on my phones notes app, don’t be afraid to tell me how you feel hehe 🩵

It’s cold outside your sleeping bag, frigid morning fog seeping into the once cozy tent. You shiver at Minho’s nose pressing into your neck, his face as cold as a dog who’s been outside too long. 

You’re not sure why you let your boyfriend convince you to camp in the middle of autumn… less sure why he insisted it was just the two of you, but you could never refuse Minho when he asked you so nicely— hands easing sighs while his mouth asked the question; the only thing you could say was yes, over and over. 

Unfortunately, the ecstasy of being asked was not akin to the actual experience.

Insistent rain stormed down from the second you arrived to the last minute before your eyes closed, Minho in all his excitement forgot the cooler and was forced to drive all the way back—leaving you to shiver in the tent alone. No, it was not the romantic getaway your boyfriend promised, but being here now—warm despite the wilderness’s wishes—you think it could be.

“Are you still cold, honey?” Minho asks, his voice just a whisper amongst the whistling trees. 

With your eyes still closed, you can only imagine what he looks like… Soft with sleep, his eyelashes cascading shadows across the slopes of his skin, beautiful like hypnos after creating dreams. You can feel his breath against your neck and his hands clutching at your waist, so safe despite how strong he is. 

“No, min, I’m just right” you say, and you can feel his laugh, rumbling through him, feel his smile against your skin. 

You wish he knew how much you cherish him… how much you treasure these little moments with him. How you’ll think about this moment every time he’s away from you; rolling the memory around your tongue like it’s a piece of candy. 

Sometimes, you’re sure you can see a cord running from you to him, wrapping around the two of you like cling wrap—like every moment you’ve ever had was crafted by the fates, your story weaved by the gods themselves. 

“Just right huh?” he says, before he’s lifting his head to look at you, eyes open and beautiful. “Well goldilocks, look how pretty you are this morning.” His smile is mischievous and if you didn’t know better you may think he was joking, but his tone gives him away: too quiet to be anything but the truth. 

“Minho!” you cry, embarrassed by compliments this early, “lay back down, I need you to keep me warm.” He smiles down at you, knowing you well enough to see that you’re flustered, it’s always too easy; one compliment, and your skin is hot, his kiss lasts a second too long and you’re pulling away shaking. 

Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of making your blood rush, enjoying the chase even when he has you. 

When his skin gets closer to yours again, chest to chest/heart to heart, you find yourself breathing his air like you share one pair of lungs. He’s so close to you, searing your skin even as the sleeping bag pulls awkwardly around your legs, letting cool air settle around your figure. 

His lips are so close to yours, one breath away from a kiss, so close you can feel his words flow into your open mouth. 

“Are you warm now, kitty?”  he asks, his eyes boring into yours before flitting down to look at your skin; miles and miles of it under his hands, valleys of skin that are his as much as yours.

“I’m warm, Minho, are you?” Just a whisper.

“just right.” A smirk. 

One breath, two breaths, three, and then he’s kissing you. Lips urging gasps to flow out of you, hands grasping at his tension filled spine. You’ve shared many kisses, sweet and sultry, frantic and lust filled, but something about this hunger is foreign to you. 

His kiss is filled with wanting yes, but it’s almost like he’s trying to tell you something but forgot the words. His hands on your thighs urging you to listen, please please please understand, they say, clutching at the muscle like he’s afraid you’ll never know. 

But you do, and so do your lips and your hands and you try your hardest to speak his language; responding to every bite with a nip of your own, gasping when his hands ask, kissing away the sleep still in his eyes. You know what he’s saying, I love you, I’m sorry you’re cold, I’m sorry I made you come on this rain coated trip, I love you I'm sorry, I love you I love you.” 

Your boy, always so embarrassed to tell you how he feels, but never afraid to show you. 

When you pull apart, hands locked together still, eyes gleaming with an inside joke, a shared confession; you can see he wants to say something, see he’s trying to build the courage to split his heart open. Instead he flits his eyes up to the sky and smiles. 

Look honey, the suns coming out” 

And you understand. 

© LUVTAK 2024

[chubs-deuce]

FDS;MHKDJSHKSDJHFKLSDJHLKDJHLDKJHLKJHLKSDJHLKSDJHFSDKLHJf

^vibrating with joy because VNV's new album is so fucking good I'm gonna YELL

[bananababblegigglemuffin]

KINKTOBER- Car stuff with wolvie

Note: 1999 words long. Worth it I’m hoping

The rain had started to fall in a steady drizzle, tapping lightly against the windshield of the beat-up truck. Wolverine’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the pressure, eyes sharp and focused on the winding road ahead. Next to him, a woman sat in silence, her hair still damp from the downpour they’d both run through to get to the truck. She shifted slightly in the seat, her body tense from the close proximity to him, their shoulders nearly touching.

They’d been on the road for hours, and neither had said much. It wasn’t that they didn’t have things to talk about—it was more about the tension that hung in the air between them, thick and electric, a quiet storm that had been brewing since the moment they’d met.

She had never been able to ignore the way Logan’s presence filled a room—or, in this case, the cramped cab of the truck. He was all raw power, restrained, coiled beneath the surface like a beast waiting to be unleashed. His rugged good looks, the scruff lining his jaw, the way his muscles shifted beneath his worn leather jacket—it all stirred something deep inside her, something primal.

She caught herself glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the way his hands gripped the wheel, the veins standing out on his forearms, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched as if he were fighting some inner battle. Her pulse quickened. She knew Logan had noticed her staring. He always did.

“Something on your mind, darlin’?” His voice was low, gravelly, the kind of voice that sent a shiver down her spine even when he wasn’t trying.

She cleared her throat, trying to play it off. “Just thinking about where we’re headed. Feels like we’ve been driving forever.”

Logan’s lips quirked into a half-smile, though his eyes never left the road. “You sure that’s all that’s on your mind?”

She stiffened, the heat rising to her cheeks. He could always read her so easily, and she hated it—and loved it. She turned to face the window, watching the rain as it slid down the glass, her thoughts racing. The truth was, there was more on her mind. There always was when it came to him.

The truck hit a bump in the road, jostling them both slightly. Logan cursed under his breath, reaching out instinctively to steady her, his hand resting on her thigh. The contact sent a jolt through her, and she gasped softly, her body reacting before her mind had a chance to catch up.

Logan didn’t move his hand right away. Instead, his grip tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing over the soft fabric of her jeans, an unmistakable spark of something more passing between them. She could feel the heat of his touch searing through her skin, setting her nerves on fire.

He finally pulled his hand back, his voice lower, rougher. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” she interrupted, surprising even herself with how quickly the words came out.

Logan’s gaze shifted toward her, his eyes dark and searching. For a moment, the only sound was the rain against the truck and the quiet hum of the engine, the air between them crackling with unspoken desire.

“Pull over,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain.

Logan’s brows furrowed, his confusion evident. “What?”

“Just… pull over.”

He didn’t argue. Logan rarely argued with her, and when he did, it was more of a challenge than a disagreement. He eased the truck onto the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel as he brought it to a stop. The rain had picked up, now pounding against the roof, creating a cocoon of privacy, isolating them from the rest of the world.

She didn’t wait for him to ask questions. Instead, she turned in her seat to face him fully, her heart racing, her breath coming quicker. She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of his jacket before moving to rest on his chest. She could feel his heart beating beneath her palm, strong and steady.

“I can’t do this anymore, Logan,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He frowned, concern flickering across his features. “Do what?”

“Pretend.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. “Pretend that there’s nothing between us.”

Logan’s expression shifted, the rough exterior he always wore like armor cracking just slightly. “I’ve never been good at pretending, darlin’.”

She let out a soft laugh, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Then why are we still pretending?”

Logan’s eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Because you deserve better than this. Better than me.”

She shook her head, her hand sliding up to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing over the rough stubble. “I don’t want better. I want you.”

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Logan’s breath hitched, his body going rigid beneath her touch. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, like he might try to push her away again. But then something shifted, something primal and raw, and before she could react, his lips were on hers.

The kiss was intense, fueled by everything they’d been holding back for so long. His hands were in her hair, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss as if he couldn’t get enough of her. She melted into him, her body responding instantly to the heat and power of his touch.

The rain continued to pour outside, the truck windows fogging up as their passion consumed them. Logan’s hands slipped beneath her shirt, his fingers grazing her skin, sending shivers of pleasure through her. She gasped against his lips, her body arching into his touch, craving more.

“You sure about this?” Logan murmured against her neck, his voice thick with desire but tinged with hesitation.

She answered by kissing him again, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him go. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she whispered breathlessly.

Logan growled low in his throat, his hands gripping her tighter as he pulled her even closer, their bodies pressed together in the small space of the truck cab. His lips trailed down her neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against her skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. She tilted her head back, giving him better access, her body trembling with anticipation.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of them, tangled together in a whirlwind of passion and desire. She could feel the tension in Logan’s body, the way he held back, trying to be gentle, trying not to let the full force of his strength overwhelm her. But she didn’t want him to hold back. She wanted all of him, every raw, unfiltered part of him.

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the power beneath his skin. He shuddered under her touch, his breath coming faster, his control slipping. And then, in one swift movement, he had her pinned against the seat, his body pressing against hers, his lips claiming hers with a fierce intensity that left her breathless.

Their clothes became a blur, discarded in the heat of the moment, as the rain continued to fall outside, the sound of it blending with the ragged breaths and soft moans filling the truck. Logan’s hands roamed her body, exploring every inch of her, his touch both rough and tender, driving her wild with need.

She could feel the heat pooling low in her belly, her body responding to every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. And when Logan finally moved against her, their bodies coming together, it was like the world shifted on its axis. Every sensation was heightened, every touch electrified, and she lost herself in him completely.

They moved together, their bodies perfectly in sync, the intensity of their connection overwhelming. It was as if every moment they’d spent apart, every second of longing and unspoken desire, had built up to this. And now that they were finally together, nothing else mattered.

Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in each other, the rain falling harder outside, the world fading away. All that existed was Logan’s body against hers, the heat of his skin, the sound of his breath in her ear, the way his hands held her like she was the only thing that mattered.

And when they finally came undone, it was like a release of everything they’d been holding back for so long, a wave of pure, unfiltered emotion that left them both trembling in its wake.

Logan collapsed against her, his breath ragged, his body still trembling. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her like he never wanted to let go. She buried her face in his chest, her own breath coming in shallow gasps as she tried to process everything that had just happened.

For a long time, they stayed like that, tangled together in the small space of the truck, the rain still falling outside. Neither of them said a word.

End.

Authors note:

Hey guys I’m thinking of writing a series with wolvie and xmen and mcu and everything

HERE are peak into the series

[ansxit]

Like the Ocean

[Katsuki Bakugo x Reader]

a/n} part one of this series! I hope everyone enjoys <3 please lmk if you want to join a taglist for this series!

(Also!! Please reblog + like!! It would really mean a lot to me !! <33)

Prologue, Part 1

- [ Y/n L/n - Quirk: Water, She can manipulate any amount of water through the different states of matter and bend it to her will. She appears to have no limit to how much she can move ]

(Y/n) always wanted to become a hero. She had been training for it ever since she was young. Her quirk sounds simple but can be very dangerous, and when in use it takes constant focus to command it. Ever since an incident in her childhood, she has lost the easy control of her quirk she once had. Despite it all, she remains hopeful that she can grow to be a powerful Pro-Hero. Nothing will stand in her way.

Except, something does.

Someone by the name of Katsuki Bakugo.

-

"That's why you'll never beat me, I'm leagues ahead of you."

"Says the boy who's scared of some rain."

-

TW] brief yelling and claustrophobic scenario

~Part 1~

A comically large door stood in front of you, and you almost laughed out of the sheer absurdness of it. In bold red letters the door spelled out “1-A”, with the center of the A being a small window.

‘Man,’ You thought, ‘UA really spares no expense… even on their doors.’

This was it, the moment you had been waiting for your entire life. You had successfully gotten through the recommendation exams and were enrolled in the top Hero Course in the entire world. With your heart pounding in your chest you pushed open the door and found yourself gazing at a sea of students all staring at you. Panic quickly filled your chest as the painful thought seared into your head, ‘Shit. Am I late on the first day?!’

Sweat dripped down your face as you scanned the seats carefully, trying to see if more than one was empty. Relief flooded your veins as you saw a few empty chairs still dotted across the room. 

‘Thank god, that would have been so embarrassing.’ With a small sigh, You quickly gathered yourself, pulling at the straps of your backpack and headed towards the back of the room. Suddenly, a tall man stood in front of you, arms pointed straight up in an up-tight manner. His blue hair was gelled neatly into a comb-over, and his mouth was turned into a thin frown.

“Excuse me,” His voice was full of authority and if it weren't for the uniform, you'd think he was the professor. “You do not sit back here. It is important that we follow the traditional rules of the seating chart that our teacher had made for us.”

“Seating chart” You asked, staring up into his glasses. He nodded firmly and pointed behind you. Embarrassment flooded your body as you slowly turned to find a bunch of names scrawled out on the chalkboard, neatly forming a seating chart of the entire room.

“You sit closer to the front, by the green haired girl Tsuyu Asui.” He pointed towards a small girl who stared with wide eyes at the two of you, before giving a gentle smile.

“Ah, I see…” You glanced around the room and to your horror saw most of the class had observed the whole thing, and a few had begun to whisper silently to each other. You could feel your face heating up and you had no doubt you were turning an embarrassing shade of red.

“It is an easy mistake to make, but do not let it happen again!” He commanded, once more waving his arm up and down. “UA is a very prestigious school, and us students must remain the best of the best!”

“Gotcha… best of the best.” You lowered your head and shuffled over to your correct seat, and quietly set your bag down under your desk. The girl with green hair, Asui kept glancing over at you as you settled in.

“Don't worry about him.” You looked to your right, and saw Asui’s calm smile again. “He’s been correcting everyone so far, so don't think you're alone.” She giggled and you lifted your head slightly.

“That's a relief,” You sighed. “I was already feeling like I came in late so that just really stressed me out. But it's good to know I was just overreacting!” In the background, you could hear someone yelling at the blue haired man for being too noisy and disturbing the rest of the students.

A cheery voice suddenly piped up as the chair in front of Asui’s leaned back, hitting against her table.

“He's so uptight too!” She had pink hair and skin, and startling black irises with orange pupils. “He keeps yelling at me to not lean my chair back, when class hasn't even started yet! It's just soooo unfair!!”

Noticing the blue haired man on the other side of the room stiffen, the girl quickly set her chair back down.

“I'm Mina Ashido! And don't worry about my last name because you can call me Mina!! And I'm like, super totally thrilled to be here!!!” She gave another cheery smile while fist-pumping the air and you could feel your nervousness run dry upon seeing it.

“(Y/n) (L/n), but (Y/n) is fine.” You smiled back at her, then turned to Asui. “That boy said your name is Asui, right?”

“Tsuyu Asui,” She stated, pointing a finger at her chin. “But please, call me Tsu.” 

“You've got it Tsu! That is such an adorbz nickname!” Mina gleefully called and turned back to you. “Hey wait a minute, I swear I've heard your last name before, aren't you-”

Just before she could finish, the door slammed open as a nervous green-haired boy flew into the room, staring at something out in the hallway. With another yelp, a brown haired girl followed in after him. Curiously, everyone stood up out of their chairs to peer out at the scene. To your shock, a large yellow sleeping bag rolled into the room before flinging itself upright.

Everyone stared in quiet shock as the bag unfurled open to reveal… a homeless man? He had incredibly horrible eye bags, and his hair hung in front of his face in knots.

“Good morning, class.” He droned, kicking the bag behind him. “Welcome to UA academy.”

“Hey, wait, I recognize you!” The green-haired boy sputtered out. “You’re EraserHead! The stealth hero!”

The class collectively gasped as a few voiced their agreements, claiming to hear about him on the news after a couple of raids. You personally didn't know much about him, but after a quick assessment you had a feeling he must be pretty strong to be teaching at UA. Although, if he wasn't ranked then maybe there was more to him that you couldn’t know about.

“My name is Shouta Aizawa,” He sighed before moving front and center to the podium. “I am your homeroom teacher here at UA, not for very long though it seems.”

“What do you mean by that?” The boy in front of you asked, tilting his head. “Are you quitting? Or ooh! Are you going out on some top secret hero-missions?!”

“If this class general impressions are much to go off of, I expect that you all will fail after the first day.” Mr. Aizawa’s cold gaze pierced the classroom, and a hush fell over the students. “You all are already so disappointing, and I can tell none of you have what it takes to become heroes.”

You clenched your fists under the desk, trying to not wither under your teacher's intense gaze. You thought back to last night, the fear of inadequacy still lingered in your mind, and you were worried he was reading it straight off of your face.

“However, that doesn't mean there's room to improve. That's the thing with our super-human society now isn't it. Today we are completing a quirk apprehension test to see which of you really deserve to be in my classroom.”

“But sir!” Mina shouted, leaning forward on her desk. “What about orientation? There's supposed to be a big event today!”

“I command my classroom as I see fit.” He scowled. “You can't spend your time on frivolous things if you want to be real heroes. Now put on these uniforms and meet me outside in five minutes.”

As he stepped away from the podium, the chalkboard slid to the side to reveal small cubby's that housed blue uniforms. Mr. Aizawa stepped out of the room, and with only a second to breathe your classmates erupted into pandemonium.

“Fail us on the first day? Can he even do that?!”

“He looked so serious, it was so scary!!”

“Maybe I'm not cut out for this…”

“He said five minutes! We have to hurry!”

With that last statement, everyone ran to the front of the room. You followed suit, desperate to grab and uniform as fast as possible so you could hurry to the grounds. However, everyone had become frantic with Your teacher's declaration. The entire class was piled around the board, pushing and shoving to try and find their tracksuit.

"Hey wait, you took my uniform!"

"No, this one has my number!"

“You damn extras… GET OUT OF MY WAY!”

A large flash of light erupted behind you as a boy with light blond hair shot to the front of the room, and started violently shoving people to the side. 

“Kacchan! You shouldn't use your quirk inside, someone could've gotten seriously hurt!”

“Shut up you damn Deku!” He shouted back. You glanced over, tracksuit in hand just as a hand grabbed your shoulder, shoving you aside.

“Everyone calm down!” The blue haired boy yelled, desperately trying to restore the peace. “If we all go one at a time there won't be an issue in grabbing our uniforms!”

“(Y/n)!” A voice grabbed your attention as you looked out to the Tsu standing at the door, holding a crumpled suit with her…tongue? In a flash it reached out to grab you and yanked you out the door, releasing you just as fast as she captured you.

“Tsu!” You exclaimed, “Thank you! But wait, Mina is still inside!”

“I'm right here!” Her familiar cheerful voice shouted, just as she came running through the front door. “Man, that blond boy is scary!! He almost burned my face off with that fiery quirk of his! He's so violent!!” 

The three of you started running down the hallway towards the back of the school, laughing off the stress as the rest of your class began to catch up. You didn't have a watch to tell you how much time you had left, but you really hoped you would all make it.

‘I really hope he doesn't fail us if we’re late, that would be really unfair.’ A shiver ran down your spine as you pictured having to go home to your parents. After all your training, you refused to let that happen. No, you would go home a victor. Well, in this case, someone who did not fail their very first day of hero school.

Once Mina finished tying her shoes the three of you ran outside to the field, where four other students and your intimidating Teacher stood. Mr. Aizawa held up a stopwatch, and barely glanced up at the three of you. One of the students was that blond boy with the “fiery” quirk, who was sweating but other than that seemed perfectly fine. The others were a bird-like man, a boy with split colored hair, and a girl with her black hair in a ponytail. While the three of you caught your breath, the rest of your classmates showed up, with the green-haired boy running to a stop just as the stopwatch went off.

“I expect better from you all. That’s what I get for having my hopes high.” He sighed again and pocketed the timer. “As I said before, today is your quirk apprehension test. It's exactly what it sounds like.”

As you continued to calm your racing heart, your teacher droned on about how society doesn't test quirks the way they ought to be tested, and that it would now be his job to change that. He explained that this test would be several fitness exams that would give the students a number, much like the normal entrance exam had. Although, a key detail mentioned had caught your attention.

“Whoever has the lowest scoring points at the end of the day,” Mr. Aizawa stated. “Will be expelled.”

[guess-my-next-obsession]

When We Were Young

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

rating: M (breakups, seeing your ex, a lil angsty with a happy ending, a douchey/aggressive male interaction, alcohol consumption, language)

wc: 2.5k

frankie masterlist

Time froze. As cliche as it sounded, it was also accurate. You sat there gawking like a deer caught in headlights, your blood rushing from your head to pour into the crater-sized hole in your heart in the shape of him. It was like seeing the ghost of a loved one, desperate for it to make contact and fearful of it all at once. To see him, the man you’d loved and lost five years ago, here in the flesh, laughing with a group of people you didn’t recognize, reminded you that whatever life you had shared with him in the past was just that—the past. But even still, you couldn’t help but hope there was a moment for the two of you here in the present, and perhaps if the fates were kind enough, in the future.

“Everything okay?” Your eyes wandered back to the man in front of you—your date, you had to remind yourself.

“Yeah,” you managed, nodding your head as if it helped make your lie believable. “Just saw someone I used to know.”

“Oh, why don’t you go say hi?” he asked, taking a sip of his beer.

If only it were that simple.

“I’d rather stay here,” you replied, lying again. Is that what you were forced to become? Nothing but a liar? A half-lover? Someone frozen in the past?

Across the bar he spots you, smiling at some dark haired man that looks too old for you, or perhaps that’s just his jealousy talking.

You look good, healthier than he last saw you. You’d gained some weight, filling out your sunken cheeks that remained seared in his memory from the night he left you. The night that haunted him, a dark cloud of regret and shame that rained the taste of your tears over him to remind him of the hurt he caused you.

You only ever asked him to love you, but like the immature child he was—the child he still feared lived deep within—he made you feel like you were asking for too much.

As he sat there watching you giggle, your fingers stirring the black straw in your glass—a gin and tonic like always, no doubt—he wondered if you spotted him as well. He figured it didn’t matter even if you did. He couldn’t imagine a universe in which you could forgive him for what he did—or for what he couldn’t do.

“Frankie!” A whine coming from the girl he’d been seeing casually the last few weeks pulled his eyes from watching you, his head turning in the direction of the woman who didn’t know him well enough to know what darkness lied within him. “I want another drink.”

“Okay,” he replied, awaiting an explanation for how this concerned him.

“Can you go get me one?” she snapped, drunken and slurred. Frankie exhaled softly and nodded, the bottle of beer in his hand empty and needing replacing anyways.

He stood to walk to the bar, his eyes finding you no matter how hard he tried to keep them occupied. As he passed your table, he overheard the man you were with talking about his job—finance, it seemed. Was that really the kind of man you were into these days? Back in the day the two of you would’ve made fun of a guy like him. What could you possibly have in common with such a…stiff? He supposed it didn’t matter—shouldn’t matter.

How could you listen to anything this man was saying when you could feel Frankie’s eyes on you, when you could smell him walking by? He still wore that same cologne, still donned that same red flannel you gifted him for Christmas. So much had stayed the same about him on the outside, it seemed. Could the same be said for the inside? Did you want it to?

“Hey, I’m gonna go use the restroom,” your date announced and you nodded, watching him as he walked off through the crowded pub.

You weren’t sure what compelled you to stand, but before you could talk yourself out of it, you were already standing beside your ex at the bar, his head turned in the opposite direction as he waited for the bartender to make his way to him.

“You look the same,” you spoke over the chatter and music filling the room, causing his head to whip over in your direction. He looked wide eyed, the color draining from his face. For a minute, you worried you’d offended him by simply speaking, but the soft curl of his lips quickly soothed that fear.

“You look…good,” he managed, his eyes frantic as they studied your face, seemingly taking in all the changes you cursed your body for making. “I, uh, I saw you, but…I don’t know. Didn’t want to interrupt your date.”

“Not much of a date,” you shrugged. “Not anymore at least.”

Frankie smiled more genuinely and it was as if you were thrown back in time, seeing that dimple come out for the first time. You longed to reach out for him, to touch him to make sure he was actually there, but refrained.

“You here with anyone?” you asked, unsure of what overcame you. You had no right to pry that way, but couldn’t help yourself. Had he moved on? Was it better that way? The sinking feeling in your gut as his eyes flickered over to the singular woman sitting at his table told you no, it wasn’t.

“It’s…casual,” he shrugged, pursing his lips. “Haven’t really been able to jump into anything after…after us.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, batting away the childish tears born of jealousy. You felt the immature little girl you used to be clawing at the back of your throat begging to scream “he’s mine, he’s mine, don’t touch what’s mine!”. You lifted your drink to wash down the burn.

“Yeah, it’s been hard for me too,” you admitted, though the word “hard” felt like nothing more than a watered-down truth.

“God, sorry about that. The line was so long.” Your date appeared with a smile, his eyes flickering to the man beside you at the bar. “Hey.”

Frankie nodded at him but remained silent.

“Well,” your date exhaled as he turned back to you. “You wanna get out of here? Maybe go back to my place?”

Your eyes flickered to Frankie, watching his profile as he tried not to appear like he was eavesdropping on the conversation, but the clench of his jaw gave him away.

“I think I’m just gonna go home for the night,” you finally answered, turning to your date to give him an apologetic frown. He chuckled and looked towards Frankie, pointing his finger at him.

“You mean you’re going to go home with this fucker?”

Frankie’s body turned fully to your date, his brows laced as he looked down at the man at least five inches shorter than him.

“What was that?” Frankie asked, the dominance in his voice foreign and familiar at the same time.

“How’s it fair that I have to pair for all her fucking drinks and you’re the one who gets to take her home?” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “I got her drunk, so I get the reward.”

Frankie scoffed in disbelief and looked to you, the look of fear in your eyes igniting a protective streak in him that only seemed to light for you.

“Go home, man,” he ordered, turning back to your “date”.

“Fuck that—“ He made to grab at your arm but Frankie shoved him back before he could make contact.

“Go home.” Frankie ordered again, giving the man one last chance before he’d have to walk home with only one working eye. The man sized Frankie up for a beat before turning to you.

“You’re paying for your own fucking drinks then,” he said, as though it was a punishment. Truthfully, you were thankful not to “owe” this man—the word used loosely—anything. You watched him walk off down the bar to pay off his half of the tab, keeping your eyes glued to him to assure he didn’t come back and try something again. It seemed Frankie was doing the same.

“What a fucking prick,” he mumbled under his breath as the two of you watched him leave the bar. You turned back to Frankie and felt your lips part to speak, to apologize for your choice in man, but couldn’t manage a sound. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he offered sincerely, his gentle brown eyes landing on yours. “You didn’t deserve any of his bullshit.”

“Yeah, well…when they tell you there’s tons of fish in the sea they don’t mention that those fish fucking suck.” Frankie laughed and nodded, that dimple coming out again. The bartender finally made his way over, looking at Frankie anticipatorily, but Frankie seemed hesitant. “Well, I’m gonna go pay my bill—“

“No, let me,” he intervened with his hand on your arm. “I’m honestly ready to leave, too.”

“You gonna order anything?” the bartender asked, annoyed by the delay. Frankie leaned over the bar and ordered a vodka-cranberry and then pointed over at the table his group was sitting at, the bartender nodding before walking off to prepare the drink.

“Alright, let’s go take care of the tab.” He turned back to you with a friendly but soft smile, his hand resting on your upper back as he guided you through the crowded room to the bartender set up by the till. Frankie paid for both of your bills as if it was nothing, as if anyone would have done the same thing. You couldn’t help but glance over at the girl he was with, comparing yourself to her. She was thinner, not by much but enough for you to realize it. Her hair was freshly styled, her nails polished and manicured. She seemed to be a newer and improved version of yourself, the image of someone untainted by heartbreak. Soon a pit of guilt formed in your stomach as you considered the fact that your interacting with Frankie tonight would be the first blow to her heart. Did she love him? Would that be enough to stop you?

“So…do you live at the same place you used to?” Frankie asked at the counter while he waited for change.

“I do,” you turned back to him and admitted.

“I could walk you home,” he offered with a shrug. “No funny business. I just…I guess I want a chance to talk.”

“What about your date?” you asked, a nervous chuckle slipping from your lips to cover your guilt.

“She’s with her friends, and truthfully…I think our friendship has run its course.” Perhaps in another reality you’d be strong enough to turn him down, but in this reality your heart still belonged to him. It would always belong to him.

With a nod, you accepted his offer and headed outside to wait for him as he grabbed his coat and bid his group goodbye.

You watched from the window as your replacement scolded him, her voice loud enough to cut over the music and through the glass separating the two of you. Frankie never did well with loudness, with screaming and fighting. You wondered what drew him to her in the first place.

When he finally made it outside, he let out a sigh and shook his head.

“Well,” he said, giving you a laugh. “That went well.”

“Yeah, I could see,” you pointed at the window. “I feel bad.”

“Don’t,” he commanded, shaking his head. “I’d leave anyone to have a chance at talking to you again.”

You tried not to melt at his words, tried not to put stock into them, but was it possible that five years could have changed him? Could have made him realize that you truly loved him, and that it was all you ever wanted to do?

“So,” he began as the two of you made your way through the downtown neighborhood towards your apartment complex about a mile away. “I guess I want to say sorry first and foremost.”

You turned your head to watch him, his eyes fixed forward while his hands twitched in his pocket.

“I…I was scared,” he confessed, his voice softer, more vulnerable as he glanced at you. “You loved me in a way that I’ve never been loved before, and that was scary. I never thought—I don’t know. Never thought I deserved it, so I turned myself into someone who didn’t. But, I really need you to know that I loved you, too. I just didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t trust myself with it, I guess.”

“I did,” you replied, bumping your shoulder against his. “I trusted you with it. But I could see the fight going on inside, and I could see that I was losing. I didn’t know why I was losing. It seemed so simple to me—I love you and you love me so why can’t we just be together? Be more than these two friends who fuck?”

“Yeah—“ He swallowed, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I was…young and stupid. I wish that was a better excuse.”

At your doorstep, you turned to him with a twisted smile, unsure of what to do next. You’d talked through the wounds you left on each other as best as you could with a few drinks in your system, but what came next?

“So…” you started, swaying a bit as you looked up at him. Frankie’s smile turned boyish as he looked down at you, a chuckle escaping his lips as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“Would, uh…” He bit his lip as he paused to reconsider his proposition. “Would you maybe want to grab breakfast tomorrow? There’s this new diner on 32nd street—“

“Oh my god, Brownies?”

“Yeah!” He laughed, your eyes locking as the two of you wondered how many times you must’ve missed each other in this small town. “I go there every Sunday with Caro.”

Oh, how you missed his baby girl. She was only three when you’d last seen her, making her eight years old now. How time flies.

“I go every Saturday,” you admitted with a chuckle. “Would I be throwing off your schedule by making you go two days in a row?”

“No,” he assured. “Any excuse for chocolate chip waffles, I’ll take.”

You laughed and nodded, looking down at your feet.

“Well, in that case, yes. I’d love to.”

“One more thing, and feel free to say no—“

“Can you kiss me?” you interrupted, watching as his smile grew into a grin.

“You beat me to it,” he laughed.

“Is that a yes?” you asked with a girlish and flirty smile. Frankie’s hand found your jaw, cradling it gently as he leaned in slowly, the anticipation burning in your belly. When his lips met yours, you swore you’d died and gone to heaven. It was as if nothing had ever changed between the two of you, that spark that only he could light inside of you quickly turning into a flame as you melted against him, clutching at his flannel. When he pulled away, you almost whined. Frankie smiled and rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all this lost time.”

“We can make it up,” you assured with a smile of your own. “Starting tomorrow.”

“See you then, baby.”

•

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[clare-875]

You're not alone (Levi x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Levi x Reader Summary: You lose someone close to you and Levi tries his best to comfort you. Warnings: Grief, Hurt/Comfort Notes: The image above does NOT belong to me. [AOT Masterlist] _____

The letter that had been delivered now slipped from your hands in a mixture of shock and pain. It was as though the very pages burnt your skin, but it was now your heart that lit aflame and your lungs had ceased to work because of it. What? One word slipped from your mind and you could almost laugh at the absurdity of it all, until the dread seeps in. No. You shake your head as you try to steady yourself on the wall of your room. No. A hand grips its way to your chest as you feel the searing and suffocating feeling fill you again. No. No. No. No... Please no. "Please..." Your words are soft as they are uttered in the air but you feel yourself slowly losing control. You search your room as though it would give you answers, but you have read the discarded letter a million times before you let it slip. There was no denying it. Your fingernails seep into the etches of your palms and you feel the faint sting as you dig too deep beneath your skin. There is a stillness to the room around you, but inside it feels as though you are on the brink of collapse, like suddenly you'll fall apart. There was pain; it wasn't a dream.

One tear slips from your eye hot and tracing the curve of your cheek, it is followed by another and another, and another, until tears pour like rain from your irises. Your breath comes in aching increments, but it loses its usual rhythm; like your body has forgotten how to take in Oxygen. Your heart is racing to a pace you can't keep up with and you feel yourself falling to the floor just to stop the darkness that eats its way into your vision. You pull yourself closer to try to shield away the pain, but how do you stop the pain when it's coming from within yourself? They're dead. It was so sudden the news that had fallen into your hands, and abruptly you felt like half the person you were a minute ago. One letter, one sentence and your entire world had turned in your head. You can't breathe. A sob rakes through your body as you pull your legs to your chest and you try to find that rhythm again. Breathe in. Breathe out. But then your mind would flash to memories of them, healthy, alive and beside you; your efforts were fruitless.

"[y/n]?"

You were lost in the storm of thoughts and denial that rang through your head, but through the strain, you heard his voice. Levi. You don't know what compels you to move but you do, standing unsteadily to your feet despite just wanting to remain. You rub your eyes furiously and curse the world for the torture it bids you. "[y/n]? You here?" You hear his voice again from beyond your door, the two of you had shared chambers after all, and he had likely searched the rooms in confusion about your absence. You hold your breath but when you hear the click of the handle it compels you to speak suddenly into the silence. "I-I'll be out in a minute Levi, just wait!" Stillness reaches the room after your abrupt and almost brokenly pleading words. You feel your tears fall from your eyes again. You feel the heaviness in your chest again. You hold your breath and hope that Levi will leave. The both of you had seen so much death already, he didn't need to see you cry over another one. But Levi hears the inflections of your words and the sudden shout that has concern twisting his mind.

"[y/n] what's-"

But Levi doesn't know that you have let the grief consume you again. You can barely help the tears that form and spill. It was like hearing Levi talk confirmed it all; this was real life, someone you adored, someone you treasured, was now dead. It was the final bullet that tore through you and your mind was ablaze with images of them. The memories clouded your minds, of better times spent together; of peaceful times. When you had left to go to the Scout Regiment, they had been apprehensive at first, but that had turned into pride after hearing all you had done to save humanity. In turn, you sacrificed the years beside them; you hadn't seen them in so long. What did their voice sound like again? What was it like to be in their arms? What did their smile look like? It tore you down further; you would never see them, hear them or feel them again. Your mind was playing tricks on you as you questioned every experience you held onto, and the rememberings of a time that seemed so far away. You breathe heavier, you cry harder into your hands, and your form is pulled to the floor again.

Through it all Levi hears it. No method to muffle your cries could hide the obvious turmoil that took place beyond your door. His heart twists in concern, racing as he tries to decipher what had brought you to despair. When Levi hears your sobs get harsher he grips his hand to the door handle but his voice is softer than you had ever heard. "[y/n]... I'm coming in." You don't reply and Levi doesn't even know if you heard his mild words, but he opens the door anyway, worry forcing him to move. When the door gives way, Levi's eyes widen at the sight before him; you were curled in on yourself, shoulders shaking beside your bed, lost obviously in pain or turmoil. Through every loss, every expedition and every challenge the both of you had faced as Scouts, he had never seen you look so lost in your tears as you are now. "L-Levi," your voice shakes, but any amount of bravery to grieve alone had withered by his mere presence; now you desperately craved the man you loved. "[y/n] what happened?" His voice is sharp and urgent, as his mind races through what could've happened to you. Had someone hurt you? Had someone touched you? Had someone said something? Were you-?

"[Loved one]'s dead."

Your voice is dull against the ceasing of his thoughts, and he finds himself speechless. "How do I-, I can't-, Levi-" Your strained words are muddled into incomprehensible fragments. You had questions that reflected the despair in your heart. How do you move on? Can you move on? How do you breathe through the pain; I miss them. Levi looks at you, eyebrows furrowed under the weight of his own heartache as he sees you suffer the cost of love. He berates the world for putting you through this torture he knew so well, and the pain he tried so desperately to keep you from feeling. Grief was heavy and it pulled you down, it made you think that you'll never see the light of day again, and Levi knows the turmoil that comes with continuing to live on anyway. The pain never really goes away; it perseveres and remains contained until it is bearable enough to live with. He knew the truth, but he also knew that was scarcely what you want to hear, so he moved to you.

You shake, shoulders trembling under the weight of your sobs and you curl into yourself further to try and hide away. To hide away from the world devoid of the one you lost, from prying eyes as they look to you in a fit of despair, from life... But Levi wouldn't let you hide away from him. His arms are warm as they are strong and they embrace you, full of safety and full of love. He sits by you as he pulls you in, until finally, you allow your arms to go slack from your body and reach for the man who has you in his embrace. You grip onto his shirt as though it was your lifeline, you listen to the thrum of his heart as though that was all that pulled you to the Earth. Levi caresses the depths of your hair and you feel the pressure of his fingers as he tries to get you to breathe. You try to match his inhales and exhales, you try to steady yourself back to your reality, and through it all Levi doesn't ever let go.

It could've been hours, it could've been days, hell Levi wouldn't have cared if the both of you stayed stagnant for a week. He wouldn't care if your tears seeped through his shirt or you fought his touch, though he was glad when you didn't. Your breath had steadied, your head buried in his chest as he held you close and grounded. Levi struggled to put into words all the comforts he wished he could say; It will be alright. You will be alright. But the truth was graver than that. The truth was that you had lost someone dear to you, someone who has lived in your heart for years and will remain to do so, someone who had brought smiles to your face and enlightened the times turned into memories. The truth was that the pain hurt and things would probably never be the same. Perhaps in time - a time inconceivable to you today - the memories that turned into bullets would become fond again, and you would reminisce the times spent with the person you adored with a smile.

But today, you had lost and you are grieving, and you needed the comfort Levi would always give. When stillness encompassed your features you looked up hesitantly to the raven-haired man who held you. You witnessed the love and sorrow reflected in his eyes as they bore into yours. It made tears well up once more but you forced them to stay in place. "Levi..." You muttered as you placed your head against his chest, exhaustion now brimming from the pain you still bore. "Don't die... don't leave me." There was silence in the air that surrounded you and you didn't know when you had fallen into sleep's temporary remedies, but you did. Unbeknownst to you, Levi felt his heart wring at your words. He looked down to see you asleep and still in his embrace. He held you closer. "I won't." He whispered the words into the darkening room; he didn't care what the world threw at him, he would always fight to be by your side. He vowed to make your life a little lighter, a little more bearable and make you feel a little more loved. Especially in the times you lost.

He would be there to remind you; you're not alone.

So he stayed with you into the deep hours of the night: there when you awoke and there when you felt your grief again.

[ask-lute]

Ouroboros

Part 1. Another Halo to Grieve

*TW: Mentions of Sui and SH*

Lute stands bleeding from the wound left in her back by Phil the egg. She finds it hard to stand, she was prepared for a fight but not to lose the element of surprise much less have it reversed on her. From the edge of Samson's Glade she sees a light, the light of the Seraphim. Her heart drops. *He even tipped off Sera? Fuck...fuck fuck fuck!* Using what little strength she has, she takes off flying low to avoid the sight of the Seraphim. Her heart is pounding, her back is in searing pain and unable to heal quickly from the angelic steel.

“Fuck! I...I've got to get to V...” She says frantically, knowing that Vienna has some medical knowledge.

As she touches down at Vienna's she notices the door ajar, much as she left it when she fought with her. A sinking feeling falls over her as she remembers Vienna's state the day she left in an angry melancholic rush.

“V? A-Are you here?” Lute's breathing is labored by the stab wound and her voice is just a squeak compared to her normal commanding tone.

She looks back at the golden blood spots she's tracked into V's house. *I'll have to clean that later, I can't let V. do that, she's been through so much. *She staggers to the kitchen hoping to see Vienna as she rounds the corner, but again it's empty, just like her own home had been over the last months until Sadie and Vienna came into her life. Her mind fills with shame at how she treated V the last time they saw one another. Calling her a sinner, telling her she should have stayed in hell? She wonders why she had such an emotional reaction to Vienna's words. *Do...I still love her? No...that's not...I mean not like that. *

“Vienna? I n-need your help! I'm hurt! Are you u-upstairs?” She says, her voice a pained whimper almost. “I'm c-coming up, l-listen I know you're probably m-fuck-mad at me, but I need your help!”

The creak of the stairs sound like thunder in the quiet house, her blood trail staining every stair along the way.

“V, please! I'-I'm sorry okay?! Just help me, and I'll get out of your life forever if that makes you happy!” She summons her all of her strength to yell up the stairs.

It becomes increasingly harder to keep her balance. She places her hand on her wound to put some pressure on it. As she reaches the top of the stairs she sees Vienna's door wide open, Her hand braces against the wall as she makes her way to the door. The blood left on her hand from touching her wound makes the empty hall shine with a dim morose yellow from the golden blood.

“V, please I-” Lute says as she rounds the corner to V's room where she's met with Vienna's limp body and a puddle of blood surrounding her. Her eyes widen and she rushes to V's side but as she touches her former friend's cheek the stone cold feeling of V's normally warm flesh induces instant panic.

“No. No. No...you didn't, no no no no, you were in Heaven, paradise, you wouldn't have, please no, not you...”

Lute looks at the body of her friend,

she treated her so poorly and didn't even get the chance to plead for her forgiveness. Her eyes drift to Vienna's bloodstained halo. *How many halos will I have to mourn?* The pain of her stab wound brings her back to reality. There's only one person to turn to now. Sadie. She doesn't want to get her involved in this but where else can she turn? There's only one person she trusts so completely.

“V...I'm sorry...so sorry.” Lute says as she grips Vienna's halo and tears form in her eyes. She tries to focus on the moment at hand. Lute grabs Vienna's sheet from her bed and rips enough off to wrap around her back to attempt to stop her bleeding. As she opens the window to fly off she glances back at V.

“I... I'm sorry I was such a shitty friend.” She says before taking off towards Sadie's apartment still watching out for the Seraphim as tears fall like rain from her eyes.

Art courtesy of @your-favorite-therapist

[jinzkss]

Unspoken canvas…

genre ::

romance

★ contemporary fiction

drama

theme ::

★ identity and self-discovery

art as expression

★ healing and resilience

tone ::

★ melancholic

hopeful

★ inspirational

———————————————————————

Author's POV

...

!! TW: blood, mentions of the accident is a bit detailed !!

There he sat in silence in one corner of the café, his eyes glued to the sketchbook in front of him. His hand moved steadily, sketching the lines with a precision that showed his immense focus.

To anyone passing by, he looked like any other artist lost in his work, but no one could see the true meaning hidden in those strokes. No one knew that these drawings were more than just images; that they were his only way of screaming out the emotions he could no longer voice.

He paused for a moment, staring at the sketch he was working on-an image of him performing in his old dance studio. The sketch captured his body mid-movement, his expression filled with the joy he once felt when he danced. The lines were sharp and filled with energy, almost like he could feel the rush of movement just by looking at it. But it was only an illusion, a memory he couldn't relive.

Hyunjin's chest tightened, and he let out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to his legs. His useless legs. They were still and unresponsive, no matter how much he begged them to move.

He'd grown used to seeing them like this, but the pain of that loss never faded. It stayed with him, clinging to his heart like a shadow that he couldn't shake. He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists as the bitterness washed over him. How could fate be so unfair? Why was he left to live when the very thing he lived for had been stripped away?

He hated his helplessness, the way the universe seemed to mock him by keeping him alive when everything he loved was ripped from his grasp.

As his mind spiraled deeper into despair, the world around him seemed to blur, and suddenly, he was no longer in the café. He was back on that fateful night-the night when his entire world shattered.

The rain was falling in heavy sheets, the roads slick and dangerous under the glare of the streetlights. Hyunjin was on his way to his dance studio, his heart racing with excitement.

He had just received news that he'd been accepted into the biggest dance competition of his career, and he couldn't wait to practice. Dance was his life, his everything, and tonight he felt like he was on top of the world.

As he ran through the empty streets, he didn't see the car coming from the opposite direction until it was too late. The blinding headlights, the deafening screech of tires, and the gut-wrenching impact that followed all happened in a blur His world spun out of control, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass echoing in his ears. Pain exploded in his body, and then-nothing.

He remembered lying there, rain soaking his skin, pain searing through every inch of his body. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak.

All he could do was stare up at the sky, the cold raindrops mixing with the warm blood that trickled down his face. At that moment, he knew something was terribly wrong.

As the paramedics arrived and rushed to his side, their voices sounded distant, like they were speaking from underwater. They said words like "paralyzed" and "spinal injury," but they didn't make sense to him.

All Hyunjin could think about was his legs-his legs that wouldn't move no matter how hard he tried. His voice was gone too, his throat raw and silent as he tried to scream.

He felt his world crumble, piece by piece, as they carried him away from the wreckage, the life he once knew slipping through his fingers. The last thing he remembered before everything went dark was the thought that he'd never dance again.

When he woke up, it was the sterile smell of the hospital. The first thing he noticed was the pain-a dull, throbbing ache in his body that made it hard to even open his eyes

came out. Panic rose in his chest, but even his breathing felt heavy, unnatural. That's when he realized the oxygen mask covering his face.

His mother's tear-streaked face came into focus beside him, her hand gripping his tightly. "Hyunjin," she whispered, her voice trembling, "I'm so sorry. You... you're going to be okay. You'll be okay, I promise."

But he wasn't okay. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she couldn't stop crying. He tried to move his legs, but they didn't respond.

His heart raced, the monitors beeping wildly as his fear mounted. His mother's grip tightened, as if trying to hold him together when he felt like he was falling apart.

A doctor entered the room, his face grim. The words came slowly, but they hit Hyunjin like a truck that just ran him over.

The accident had damaged his spine. He would never walk again. The injury to his throat had been severe too, leaving him unable to speak.

Hyunjin felt his world shatter. Everything he had ever worked for his dreams, his future were ripped away in a single night. The doctor's voice became a distant hum, drowned out by the overwhelming reality of what had happened.

He lay there, paralyzed not just in body but in spirit. His dreams, his voice, his very identity as a dancer-gone in an instant. He was alive, but he wasn't living anymore.

Hyunjin's eyes snapped back to the present, his breath shaky and uneven as the memory faded. He wiped at the corner of his eyes, feeling the sting of tears he didn't realize had formed.

The café felt colder now, the light dimmer, as he stared at the sketch of himself dancing-a dream that was nothing more than a ghost now.

He hated that moment. He hated that night. He hated that no matter how much time passed, he could never escape the feeling of being trapped in his own body, a prisoner in a life he didn't want to live.

A flash of frustration shot through him, and before he knew it, his pencil had slashed across the drawing, tearing through the lines he'd so carefully created. He hated the feeling of being a stranger in his own skin, the dancer who could no longer dance.

As Hyunjin sat there, lost in the storm of his thoughts, he didn't notice the woman standing just a few tables away. She had been watching him for a while, her eyes fixed on the sketchbook laid open on the table.

The torn image of the dancer captured her attention, its fractured lines and incomplete movements echoing with a pain she could almost feel herself. The sadness on the page seemed to mirror the sadness she saw in him, like a silent cry for help that no one else could hear.

Taking a hesitant step closer, she felt an inexplicable pull toward the stranger. There was something in the way he stared at his own creation, the way his eyes betrayed the agony he tried so hard to mask.

It was like his art was speaking on his behalf, telling a story of broken dreams and shattered hope. She wanted to say something, to reach out to him, but the words never came out.

Snapping out of his thoughts with a shudder, he quickly gathered his belongings. He shoved his sketchbook into his bag, his hands trembling slightly, as he forced a smile onto his face-a mask he wore so often that it almost seemed real, and nodded politely to the café owner, who gave him a sympathetic smile in return.

Hyunjin hated that look-the pity that seemed to follow him everywhere he went, as if he were a fragile piece of glass everyone was afraid to shatter.

"Take care, Hyunjin," the owner said, her voice laced with gentle concern. Hyunjin nodded again, his lips pressed tightly together as he gave a silent wave.

He turned his attention to the wheels of his wheelchair, gripping them tightly as he pushed himself toward the exit. Each movement felt like an act of defiance against the universe that had stolen his joy, but it was the only way he knew how to keep going.

As he rolled past the tables, he kept his head down, trying to ignore the curious glances from the other patrons. He knew what they were thinking-that same old mix of curiosity and pity that people always seemed to have when they saw him.

Once, people used to look at him with admiration, with awe at the way he moved on stage. Now, they just looked at him with sadness.

She watched as he navigated his way out of the café, his expression carefully composed yet distant, like someone who had already resigned himself to a life of invisible suffering

She couldn't shake the feeling that there was so much more behind those guarded eyes, a story hidden beneath layers of pain that he refused to let anyone see.

Remembering the café owner's earlier goodbye to the man who had just left, Yunhee pieced together that his name must be Hyunjin.

She turned her gaze back to the corner where he'd been sitting, her mind replaying the scene of his quiet despair. His face, the way he looked at his sketchbook with a mixture of longing and pain-it all weighed on her. What could have happened to leave someone so broken?

As she pondered, something on the floor caught her eye, glinting faintly in the light. Frowning, she took a step closer and crouched down, her fingers gently closing around the object.

It was a pocket watch, the kind that seemed almost out of place in a modern world. The intricate design and worn edges suggested it was well-loved, a piece of someone's past, something that held meaning far beyond its function.

She turned it over in her hand, feeling the cool metal against her palm as she smiled softly, examining the watch. It must mean something to him. People didn't carry things like this unless they were important Hyunjin felt his world shatter. Everything he had ever worked for his dreams, his future were ripped away in a single night. The doctor's voice became a distant hum, drowned out by the overwhelming reality of what had happened.

He lay there, paralyzed not just in body but in spirit. His dreams, his voice, his very identity as a dancer-gone in an instant. He was alive, but he wasn't living anymore.

Hyunjin's eyes snapped back to the present, his breath shaky and uneven as the memory faded. He wiped at the corner of his eyes, feeling the sting of tears he didn't realize had formed.

The café felt colder now, the light dimmer, as he stared at the sketch of himself dancing-a dream that was nothing more than a ghost now.

He hated that moment. He hated that night. He hated that no matter how much time passed, he could never escape the feeling of being trapped in his own body, a prisoner in a life he didn't want to live.

A flash of frustration shot through him, and before he knew it, his pencil had slashed across the drawing, tearing through the lines he'd so carefully created. He hated the feeling of being a stranger in his own skin, the dancer who could no longer dance

As for Hyunjin, the realization that his pocket watch was missing had struck him like a physical blow. It was as if the universe was determined to strip away every piece of his past, every reminder of the life he once had.

The watch was more than just an old relic-it was a gift from his late father, given to him before he was even born, with the hope that he would one day understand the value of time.

He remembered the day he finally received it on his fifteenth birthday. His mother had handed it to him with a gentle smile, the kind that held a lifetime of unspoken love and worry.

"Don't stay practicing for too long and get home before it's too late, okay?" she'd said, ruffling his hair playfully as he tried to dodge her touch. "Mum wants you to be as healthy as possible, so don't skip meals and make sure to take breaks." She'd pressed a kiss to his forehead, her eyes softening as she waved him off.

Hyunjin could still feel the warmth of that moment, the way her words wrapped around him like a protective shield.

Since that day, the pocket watch had become his constant companion, a reminder of the time he'd spent chasing his dreams, of the love and sacrifices his parents had made to support him. It was like a lucky charm that he believed would guide him to his goals, to the future he had once been so sure of.

But now, it was gone-just like his ability to walk and talk. He felt as if he'd lost yet another part of himself, another connection to the life he once cherished.

He wanted to search for it. He wanted to retrace his steps, to scour every inch of the city if he had to. But he knew the harsh reality: even if he tried, even if he desperately wanted to, he couldn't find it. Not with the way he was now.

His legs didn't work, and neither did his voice. He was trapped in his own broken body, chained to this existence where he couldn't even chase after the things he'd lost.

If only he could move, if only he could run-he would have searched every street, every corner, until he found it. Until he found the last piece of his old self that still held meaning.

As the days passed, Hyunjin felt himself drifting further away from hope, from the belief that he could ever reclaim what he'd lost.

Hyunjin sat by the Han River, lost in thought as his eyes gazed at the water. Beside him, Sunwoo talked in a steady stream of conversation, trying his best to fill the silence that had become Hyunjin's constant companion.

Sunwoo had been one of his closest friends for years, and even though Hyunjin could no longer respond, Sunwoo never gave up on him. He spoke as if nothing had changed, as if Hyunjin's world hadn't shattered

But it wasn't the same. It never would be.

Sunwoo's voice was calm and soothing, a constant presence that never asked for more than Hyunjin could give.

He knew that nothing he said could ever truly heal Hyunjin's pain, but he wasn't ready to give up. He kept talking, sharing stories and jokes, doing anything to pull Hyunjin from the depths of his despair, even if it was just for a moment.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he would see the faintest trace of a smile on Hyunjin's lips or hear a breathy laugh that seemed almost out of place against the backdrop of his silent sorrow.

Those small moments were enough for Sunwoo to keep trying, to keep reaching out to his friend even when it felt like reaching into the darkness.

Suddenly feeling a light tap on his shoulder, he turned, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion as he looked up at the unfamiliar figure standing beside them. Sunwoo followed his gaze, his own smile fading slightly in surprise.

A girl stood before them, her expression soft and hesitant, as if she wasn't sure how to start. She looked at Hyunjin with a warmth that seemed to reach past his defenses, her gaze steady and unwavering.

[eos-aurora-rise]

“It’s not so bad.”

And it wasn’t. It had all the clinical neatness of Percy’s room back home, just with less furniture. What Percy lacked in bed frames and side tables, he made up for in stuff; there was no other word for it.  

Ginny stepped over a stack of books which were balanced bizarrely a foot in front of the door. The top book was titled ‘Laws and Regulations of Quidditch’ - Ginny had read that one before. She trailed her fingers over the words as she made her way further in, kicking her shoes off before stepping onto the thick shag rug that she happened to know he’d filched from his room at Hogwarts.  

“Yes, well. I’m working on it.” 

He sounded particularly flat these days. Ginny glanced up at him over her book. He sat cross-legged on the sofa, a laptop balanced on bony knees as he tapped away at it halfheartedly, even as his eyes darted critically around the living room.  

Things were different after the war. The ministry was still in crisis mode, all cylinders firing while they attempted desperately to clear out all of the death eater-flavoured corruption that had been festering for decades. It meant holding trials for convicted criminals, while unconvicted criminals sat in the stands judging them. It was an utter mess.  

Harry had spent the last year sitting in on nearly every single one. He wasn’t a man suited to politics in any way, but he fought diligently to protect the people who didn’t deserve to be there, and name everyone he knew who did.  

He’d gotten Draco Malfoy out of a sentence in Azkaban, and had dropped his mother’s sentence down to a few years of house arrest. Ginny personally thought that Azkaban was a waste anyway, on account of them having no soul to be sucked out, but upon voicing that she’d gotten a chastising look and much good-hearted explanation about difficult situations.  

Ginny knew difficult situations. She’d raised and led a rebellion among children who were tortured for failing to be soldiers. Draco Malfoy had kissed the shoes of Voldemort and left them to die.  

Whatever. There was a reason that the ministry let Harry sit in on their trials, and not Ginny.  

“Working?” 

“Trying to. Drinks are in the fridge.” 

“Muggle.” 

Percy sent her a scathing look. She grinned, stepping over even more plastic files and loose leaves of paper as she stepped into the small kitchen.  

While the ministry busied itself with self-destructing under the watchful eye of the Chosen One, Percy had quit. It was about the closest he’d come to having a spine in his entire life, as far as Ginny could remember. She wished he’d done it a bit earlier, but going by the haunted look in his eyes that had seared itself into her brain some time around them wrapping Fred’s body in blankets to carry it out of the great hall, so did he.  

“What shit is this?” Ginny groaned, popping the fridge door open.  

Percy didn’t do well with boredom. He needed to have his time effectively filled or he went mad. In the immediate aftermath of the war, he’d disappeared. He’d cut himself off, vanished into nothing. Mum had torn herself to pieces over it. Losing two sons at once was… well, more than any of them could handle.  

When he’d finally turned up on their doorstep with the general air of a cat who’d gotten caught in the rain, it had been with an offer from a muggle university and the hope that he could work in the muggle government. After the screaming and crying and fighting, Ginny had settled herself on the edge of the bed and asked him what had changed.  

He’d said ‘everything’, and they’d left it at that.  

“It’s effective. I’m poor.” 

He’d picked up all sorts of muggle quirks. Ginny was getting used to it.  

“‘Vodka’? What the fuck even is that?” 

“Take a shot of it. It tastes like shit and it burns the whole way down, but you’ll be drunk in 10 minutes.” 

Ginny studied the bottle curiously. Sounded good to her. She reached into the cabinet above the sink, plucking out a couple of shot glasses before picking her way back to the sofa.  

It took a little skill balancing them all in one hand, but she eventually managed to effectively free the other hand long enough to slam Percy’s laptop closed on his fingers. He hissed a few nasty insults, but took the hint and slid it onto the floor, grabbing his glass from Ginny with no small amount of irritation.  

“Alright.” Ginny began, topping their glasses off with the clear liquid. It smelled foul, harsh and chemical, but she didn’t complain. “What is it.” 

It wasn’t really a question anymore. They often talked about the same thing. Percy wrinkled his lip, though whether it was at the ‘vodka’ or the memory, Ginny wasn’t sure.  

He knocked it back with practised skill, coughed a little, and sighed. “He bought me dinner.” 

Ginny closed her eyes. Of course he did. She could just about picture Oliver Wood’s face in her mind's eye. He was usually windswept, sweaty, bright red in the face, and grinning like a madman. She didn’t see him off the court often, considering they were so far apart in years, so that had always been the image that stuck with her. Passably handsome, but not her type.  

She pressed the shot glass to her lips, braced herself, and tossed it back as quickly as she could. Percy was right. It did burn.  

“God, that’s fucking awful.” She choked, but Percy, who had been staring unseeingly at the wall the whole time nodded solemnly.  

“Isn’t it? I don’t know what to make of it. It feels important.” 

Ginny swallowed against the urge to keep coughing and blinked at her brother through teary eyes.  

He looked horrid. Pallid and gaunt, half-dead in his seat. He was working himself to the bone, trying to make up for all of the things that he did, the people he let down. Like the rest of them, he carried Fred’s weight on his shoulders, the feeling that he could have done something but didn’t just as heavy in his heart.  

He wanted to believe that he was helping in whatever way he could, and if it took the very life from inside of him to do it, then that’s what he would give. It was a big part of the reason that Ginny was even bothering to drag herself around muggle transportation to visit him so often. Nobody else would.  

He hadn’t been cut off, per se, but no one was going out of their way to see him. He visited home for Sunday dinner, just like the rest of them did. The only difference was that Ginny went out drinking with Ron often, and went to the muggle movies just a few weeks ago with George, and even travelled to Romania to spend the week with Charlie at the dragon centre. She babysat for Bill and Fleur every other week on Thursday.  

And Percy sat in his flat, on his own, drinking and working. Unless he went out for food with Oliver Wood.  

“Well, it doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’.” 

That’s what Wood had called it last time Ginny had been over. The flirting, and the pining, and the endless drunken complaining. All nothing. Within a few days, Percy had gone from nervously pink, even managing a bit of a smile when Ginny got him drunk enough to admit how handsome he found Wood, to this. Grey, tired, monotone.  

“Merlin.” Percy sighed. “I feel foolish every time. He hurt me, and I still leapt at the chance to go out with him again.” He held his shot up, and Ginny dutifully refilled it. “But I can’t quite tell him to bugger off either.” 

“You need to be clearer, Perce. About what you want from him.” 

He looked desolate. Ginny hated Oliver Wood.  

She hadn’t always gotten on with Percy. She was more like the twins, fiery and angry and mischievous. Her accidental magic manifested as pranks so often that they’d called her the triplet. Percy had begged on his knees for a week before mum agreed to put a charm on his bedroom door that stopped Ginny from sneaking in to set his socks on fire, or make his duvet wrap him up and drag him down the stairs.  

She’d thought he was a boring, stuck up, bastard of a brother. And then she’d thought him a foul coward.  

Now, he was barely a smudge on the sofa of his new apartment, 20 minutes away from a muggle university campus, drinking disgusting ‘vodka’ and mourning his fragile, fractured relationship with Oliver fucking Wood.  

Ginny had worshipped him once, the picture of the athlete she wanted to be. Now, in the burnt-out wreckage of the wizarding world, her priorities had shifted. She had learned to love her brother again, and she hurt to see him suffer like this.  

“What if I don’t know what I want?” 

“You have to figure it out eventually.” 

“What if I decide I want nothing to do with him?” Percy asked, finishing another shot as Ginny prepared her own. “If I just make him stop tugging me around.” 

“Is there much tugging going on?” Ginny asked, voice innocent as though she wasn’t hiding a smirk behind her shot. Percy went a little pink, lips pursed in distaste.  

“Absolutely not. Not since… well.” 

Ginny hummed in understanding. Percy had been utterly pissed when he divulged that particular piece of information.  

They hadn’t gotten close quickly. It had started awkward and stilted. Percy wasn’t interested in fixing things in the family. He wanted to slip away unnoticed and forget any of it had ever happened, to ignore the wounds until they finally killed him. Ginny had been absolutely determined to make him remember, no matter how painful it had happened to be.  

One of them had managed to convince the other that it would be easier if they were drunk, though Ginny couldn’t remember which of them it was, exactly. They’d barely been upright when Percy managed to slur out a small truth - Oliver Wood of all people had pressed him into castle walls and kissed him senseless in their sixth year. They’d been on and off, close and distant, ever since.  

On a particularly low night, Percy had invited him over to spend the night. Things had gone cold for months after. Ginny listened patiently, stomach turning dangerously as she’d stared into her beer, the frightened, scarred words of her least favourite brother ringing painfully in her ears.  

He’d kept it short, constantly cutting himself off. The more intimate it got, the more professionally he spoke. He described his relationship to Penelope Clearwater clinically, voice flat. I never loved her. I knew I never could.  

Ginny thought of Harry. He was bigger than the world sometimes, too bright to look at. He had big ideals. He’d walked out of the war with this deep desire to change things, to protect the people who’d survived it all, to make the world better. He’d dropped out of Auror training to get a teaching degree. He’d run a couple of speeches through newspapers before deciding he hated the attention.  

He was a mess, essentially, but a beautiful one. Nothing could slow him down. Meanwhile, Ginny was stumbling to keep up with him. She’d taken a year off her Quidditch training to mourn Fred. She spent long days cradling her mother’s tear-stained face, and burned through her clothes when she forgot she was ironing them. The world had slowed to a crawl. She couldn’t keep up.  

She thought about how she admired Harry, in all his fierce determination to save the world. It had made her want to keep fighting for it. When the Carricks flicked a curse at her, she thought of him. If Harry could, she could.  

“Well, what about you? Any- tugging?” 

Percy made a face when he said it, like he was sucking on a lemon. Ginny laughed, knocking back another shot. It was still harsh, but the faint haze across her eyes softened it. Percy had been right - it worked quickly. She sighed.  

“None. I haven’t the faintest of how to ask her.” 

Percy huffed, leaning his shoulder into the back of the sofa. Ginny had thought about it a lot. Maybe she’d mistaken admiration for love. Maybe she’d mistaken friendship for something more. Maybe the quiet fascination at Luna’s stories, and the way the light filtered through her pale hair, and the little crease at the corner of her mouth when she smiled in satisfaction - one which didn’t appear when she smiled in excitement - maybe all of that wasn’t platonic observation.  

So no, Ginny and Percy hadn’t gotten close quickly. But there was something about being the only gay siblings among 7 that helped the process along quite a bit.  

“Buy her something. Something pretty.” 

“She’s not very material, Perce.” 

“For Merlin’s sake.” He hissed, flicking Ginny’s knee. “That isn’t the point. It’s not about the thing, it’s about the thought behind it.” 

“Surely it’s more thoughtful of me to not buy something she won’t want? And besides, I don’t see you buying Wood anything.” 

Percy sighed shortly, studying the empty shot glass in his hand with enough intensity to smash it to pieces. “I’m not spending money on that bastard.” 

“He spent money on you.” Ginny pointed out, immediately receiving a nasty glare in response. After a moment, it faded.  

“I suppose.” 

“That’s your in. You can tell him you owe him a meal or something. Find a way to spend the day with him.” 

Ginny didn’t have any trouble inviting Luna out for the day. She was happy to go wherever Ginny pleased, smiling all soft and pretty as she always did. She had a story to tell about every stone, every flower, every new face they passed. The problem lay with drawing the line between friendship and romance.  

Percy was almost the opposite. It seemed that the only interactions he managed to have with Wood were flirty and charged. Actually getting to know each other was the only hurdle they had.  

“Maybe. But I’m busy.” 

“Percy.” 

“I said maybe, didn’t I? Merlin.” He grabbed the vodka from Ginny’s hand, filling his glass quickly. “It’s so bloody difficult.” 

“Welcome to homosexuality.” Ginny offered, ignoring the nervous flash of Percy’s eyes when she said it. She was working carefully on making him a little less afraid of words like that. His own insecurities were just as much of a hurdle as Wood’s apparent inability to commit to anything. Well, they were all recovering.  

If Ginny was braver, and Luna less agreeable, and Percy more self-actualised, and Wood more confident, maybe they’d all be happy. But war did funny things to people.  

Silently, Percy topped off Ginny’s shot and clinked their glasses together.  

“Cheers to that.”  

[letthewhumpbegin]

Spark, chapter 1 - Shadow & Bone / Six of Crows

Fandom: Shadow & Bone, Six of Crows Characters: Wylan van Eck, Jesper Fahey, Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa Prompt: this was written for the prompt "Caught in an Explosion" off my @badthingshappenbingo card. (Card at the bottom of this post). Word count: 3877 Warnings: mentions of burns, blood, painful wound treatment.

A/N: this is chapter 1 of 2. Second chapter will be posted asap!

My Writing masterlist

He smelt it the moment he set foot into his lab. Fire. It was a scorching smell, combined with the scent of two chemicals that could not be safely mixed together, let alone be exposed to an open flame. 

Wylan immediately knew he had walked into a trap. A death trap more like it, because he was sure the entire place would blow up soon. And he doubted he would still have enough time to get out of there. 

In the end, Wylan didn’t even get the chance to properly turn around. He had maybe moved a toe when his ears caught the distinct sounds of ignition, and Wylan instantly knew he was going to get caught in the inevitable blast. 

The explosion went off with such a force that it blew Wylan clean off his feet, slamming him onto the floor a few meters back. He instinctively curled up into a ball, making himself as small as possible, but still felt the flames from the explosion lick at his arms and sides. Shattered glass and wood splinters from items destroyed by the blast rained down on him, and he felt at least two larger shards of debris embed themselves into his back. 

Wylan couldn’t help but scream out in agony and fear. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. So intense, so all-consuming, so… very possibly lethal.  His scream was followed by a coughing fit as he inhaled a lungful of ash and smoke, hurting his already battered body even more. 

After the deafening roar of the explosion, there now was near silence. Apart from a few small, crackling fires across the room, nothing made a sound.  Wylan slowly, excruciatingly unfurled himself a little. He was covered in cuts, and despite the jacket he wore, his right arm, shoulder and side were quite heavily burned, the flames having seared through the fabric. 

“O-ow…” Wylan whimpered, tears of pain welling up in his eyes. He realized that he couldn’t move, the pain was simply too much. He was utterly helpless. If whoever set this trap came looking at the results now, Wylan would have absolutely no way to flee or defend himself. No, his only hope was that one of the other Crows had heard the explosion and would come looking first. 

Even though his ears were still ringing from the blast and his consciousness fleeting, Wylan still caught the sound that instilled even more fear in him: the creaking and groaning of wood.  He managed to slightly turn his head and stare glassily up at the roof above him. The wooden support beams were severely damaged in the blast, and at least one of them looked like it would give out soon. For the first time, Wylan fully realised he might actually die here.  The wood creaked ominously again, and the beam right above Wylan was already starting to bend through. Wylan’s breath caught high in his chest, letting out a strangled whimper, as he knew what inevitably would happen. 

Again, the groaning and creaking sound of the beam losing its strength filled the room, but this time the thunderous sound of part of the roof collapsing followed.  Wylan just managed, with great effort, to curl himself up again and raise his arms protectively over his head, but he was painfully aware of the roof collapsing on top of him.  Yet more excruciating pain filled Wylan’s body, until he was absorbed by the infinite darkness of unconsciousness, and Wylan knew no more…

---

“Did you hear that?” Inej hurried into Jesper’s room at the Slat without even knocking or waiting for him to invite her in.  “Bit hard to miss, isn’t it?” Jesper stood in front of the window, looking at the big plume of black smoke rising up from somewhere a few streets away. Shortly before a loud explosion had rocked half of Ketterdam on its foundations.  Inej came to stand next to Jesper, watching the smoke rise up with a frown on her face.  “Isn’t Wylan’s lab in that direction?” She finally mumbled.

Jesper went rigid beside her. She was right… Why hadn’t he realized that? Wylan’s lab wasn’t just in that direction, Jesper concluded with a shock, that was Wylan’s lab.  “Oh, Saints!” Fear gripped at Jesper’s throat. If anything had happened to Wylan, Jesper needed to be there. Help him, protect him, hold him. 

Jesper ran out of his room and dashed down the stairs as fast as he could.  “Jesper, wait!” Inej ran after him. “You can’t just go over there. Who knows what happened! You, too, have heard of all the threats against us, you could be walking into a trap!” Jesper came to a halt halfway down the second flight of stairs, whipping around to face Inej.  “I can go there, and I will.” His voice was choked with emotion. “This is Wylan we’re talking about. If that explosion has anything to do with him, I’m going over there.”

Inej had never before seen this much fear in Jesper’s eyes. She knew of Jesper and Wylan’s relationship, but for the first time she fully realized how much the two meant to each other.  Inej took a deep breath. “At least let me go with you.” Jesper nodded quickly. “Only if you hurry up.”

---

All the while they ran through the streets of Ketterdam, Jesper held the faint hope that they had misjudged the location of the explosion, and they would find Wylan’s lab intact and Wylan himself in the crowd of spectators of the blast elsewhere.  But, alas. As soon as they turned into the street, all of Jesper’s hopes were crushed. The building where Wylan’s lab used to be was emanating smoke, and parts of the roof and walls had collapsed. 

“Wylan!”  Without any regard to his own safety, Jesper scrambled over the debris and into what was left of the building. Inej followed closely after him. 

They both came to a halt in the middle of the smoldering mess.  “Do we even know for sure he was here?” Inej tried to sound hopeful.  Jesper nodded determinedly. “He left my room not even an hour ago to go here.”

All hope either of them might have had, dropped to the bottom of their shoes. How could anyone survive a blast like this? And even if Wylan managed to somehow survive the explosion, there still were fires everywhere and collapsed parts of the walls and roof.  “We’ll find him.” Inej assured, although she wished she’d sounded more confident. 

Both Jesper and Inej searched frantically through the rubble, overturning every piece of debris that wasn’t too big or on fire.  Jesper was about to think of the possibility that Wylan hadn’t been here after all, when he saw it. A hand, just visible under the pieces of stone and one of the large wooden support beams from the roof. 

“No…” The word was a sob off his lips. “Inej, over here! Help me move this.” “Saints.” Inej gasped when she saw what Jesper had found. “Is he alive?” “I don’t know,” Jesper’s voice was small and he sounded oh so scared. 

It took a lot of effort, but finally Inej and Jesper managed to move the heavy support beam and finally reveal Wylan.  Being amidst the rubble seemed to have saved Wylan at least somewhat, since the beam had landed mostly on pieces of collapsed walls on either side of him, instead of fully crushing Wylan. 

Jesper earned himself a few bruises as he fell to his knees beside Wylan. He needed only a second to see the demolition man’s injuries and how severe they were. Behind him, Inej gasped audibly. She had seen it, too.  “Wylan?” Jesper’s voice broke. He gently reached for the pulse point of Wylan’s neck. A sobbed sigh of relief escaped Jesper as he felt the vein thumping against his fingers. It was only weak, but at least it was still there. Wylan didn’t respond in any way. 

“We need to get him out of here.” Inej’s voice sounded equally small at the sight of the severely injured Wylan. “It’s not safe to stay here.” Jesper knew Inej was right, but he didn’t know exactly how he was supposed to do that. His gaze roamed over the burns to Wylan’s arm, shoulder and side, the shards of glass and wood splinters embedded in his back, and the many cuts littering Wylan’s face and hands. “Okay…” Jesper had to swallow away a lump in his throat. He had to man up now, for Wylan.  Inej shortly rested a hand on Jesper’s shoulder. “Take him back to the Slat, I’ll find Kaz.” Without another sound Inej disappeared. 

Jesper’s hands hovered over Wylan’s unconscious form. How was he going to move Wylan without hurting him? Jesper soon reached the conclusion that there simply was no pain-free way to do this. All he could hope for was that Wylan would remain unconscious for it. 

Jesper carefully hooked his arms under Wylan’s knees and shoulders, and lifted him into a bridal carry. Oh, Saints, the kid was a lightweight! Even though Wylan was bleeding and desperately clinging onto life, it somehow comforted Jesper to hold Wylan’s body close to his. Blood stained his hands, but at least he felt the rapid rise and fall of Wylan’s chest against his own chest, confirming Wylan was still hanging in there for now. 

Suddenly, Wylan groaned and stirred minutely in Jesper’s arms.  “No, no, please.” This was exactly what Jesper feared would happen. Wylan slowly nuzzled his head against Jesper’s shoulder, his unruly mob of hair tickling Jesper’s neck. Normally, Jesper loved that feeling, but right now it was accompanied by Wylan’s ragged breaths and whimpers in pain, and it sent chills down Jesper’s spine instead. 

“Jesper…” Wylan breathed out, barely audible. He sounded so weak, so fragile, so broken.  “I’m here,” Jesper whispered back. “P–pain…” Wylan whimpered. Even barely conscious, this was the worst pain he had ever felt. He curled his hand around the fabric of Jesper’s coat for as much as he found strength for, seeking the comfort, the warmth, and hoping beyond hope it would bring some kind of relief from his misery.  “I know, I know.” Jesper tried to sooth. “I’m gonna make sure it goes away.” Wylan produced another fearful, agonised whimper, and Jesper felt him tremble in his arms once more.  “Give into it, Wylan, please.” Jesper almost couldn’t keep his tears in anymore at seeing Wylan like this. “Give into unconsciousness. Please… it will make the pain go away for now.”

Wylan pressed his head ever so slightly tighter against Jesper’s shoulder, before he went completely limp and sank away into unconsciousness again. 

---

Back at the Slat, Jesper immediately took Wylan up to his room. He was glad Wylan hadn’t been awake for any of the walk back, because it would have been anything but pleasant for him. Jesper had done his best to walk slowly, but the feeling of Wylan’s limp body in his arms scared him and made him break into an awkward run after all. 

Jesper kicked the door closed behind him as he stepped inside his room, Wylan still in his arms. The last thing he needed was looky-loos. Apart from Kaz and Inej, and the Healer they would undoubtedly bring with them, no one needed to know Wylan had made it out of the explosion alive. Or, at least, for now…

Jesper carefully lay Wylan down on the bed, with his back close to the edge of the bed and the injured side of his body facing up. Jesper swallowed away a wave of nausea as he was reminded of how cosily he and Wylan had shared this bed only hours ago, and how close to losing all of that he suddenly found himself. 

Wylan’s entire body trembled now with the shock of his injuries.  “It’s okay, calm down, I’m here.” Jesper ran an equally trembling hand through Wylan’s hair. “I’ll make sure you’re alright.” Jesper silently prayed to every saint he could think of for Kaz and Inej to hurry up, because he honestly wasn’t sure how much longer Wylan would be able to hold on. The younger man’s breaths were coming in short, rapid hitches, and in Jesper’s bright bedroom the burns to Wylan’s side, chest and shoulder looked even more severe. The heavy burns were melted together with the remnants of his clothing, and at least three large shards of glass had deeply embedded themselves into Wylan’s back. 

Jesper knew they needed to get Wylan’s jacket and shirt off for the Healer to get to work, and somehow Jesper felt obligated to be the one to do that.  He slowly reached under the pillow beneath Wylan’s head, and carefully pulled out the knife he knew Wylan kept under there. It wasn’t anything big, just a simple knife, but surely sharp enough to cut through clothing. 

Swallowing back another wave of nausea, Jesper slid the knife under the collar of what was left of Wylan’s jacket, and forced the blade to cut through the fabric. He allowed the pieces he cut to fall away, and where the fabric stuck to Wylan’s skin, Jesper very gently pulled it loose. 

When he had all of the jacket off and started on the shirt underneath it, Jesper could feel Wylan’s clammy skin against his fingers. Every tremble of the demolition man’s muscles reverberated into Jesper through his hands, almost as if he were trying to absorb all of Wylan’s pain and shock. 

Jesper was just prying the last piece of shirt free from Wylan’s back, when suddenly the door of the room flew open. Without even knocking, Kaz barged in, followed closely by Inej and a man in his late thirties Jesper recognized as one of Ketterdam’s most renowned Healers.  Kaz must have gone to great lengths to get this man to take on a job like this ánd secure his silence afterwards, but if anyone could save Wylan this Healer would be the one. Jesper felt a spark of hope again, and at the same time he felt grateful for Kaz’s effort. 

The Healer shook off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves.  Jesper scrambled to his feet to give the Healer space to start working on Wylan. He took a few steps back, folding his arms tightly across his chest as he watched. Fear still coursed through his body, which Jesper wasn’t even trying to hide anymore now. 

Jesper only vaguely registered the sound of a cane on the wooden floor as Kaz moved to stand next to him.  “What happened?” Kaz’s voice was laced with anger. Jesper knew that anger wasn’t directed at him, but it still sent a shiver down his spine anyway. Whoever was responsible for blowing up the lab and injuring Wylan would surely come to feel the full wrath of Kaz Brekker.  “I don’t know.” Jesper slowly shook his head. “I know of the threats against us, but this? Who would do something like this to him?” Kaz slightly cocked his head to one side. “I have my suspicions.”

For the first time, Jesper tore his gaze off Wylan and the Healer, and looked beside him at Kaz. All of Kaz’s features were set into hard lines, and the cold, vengeful look in the thief’s eyes was downright terrifying.  This was Kaz at his most dangerous, most ruthless, and Jesper was sure Kaz would single-handedly kill a few people over this tonight. And Jesper didn’t even mind that. This was Wylan they were talking about, and when it came to him, everything was justified. 

“I’ll find them.” Kaz stated curtly, yet confidently.  Jesper slowly turned back to watch the Healer work. “I know you will,” he mumbled softly, but he was sure Kaz caught it, “and I wish them a slow and painful death.” An evil smirk spread across Kaz’s face. “My specialty.”

Before either Jesper or Kaz could say anything else, they were interrupted by Wylan suddenly crying out in pain. Apparently he had regained consciousness and felt the pain again in all its intensity.  “A little help, please.” The Healer called over his shoulder.  “What’s going on?” Jesper leapt forward. “Contrary to what most people think, healing isn’t always a painless process,” the Healer explained, “I need someone to keep him still, so he doesn’t move too much while I work.”

Jesper didn’t even consider for someone else in the room to take this task, and immediately hurried around the bed. He sat down in the spot where he usually slept beside Wylan.  Wylan lay facing him, but had his face half pressed into the pillow. All his features were contorted in pain and one hand was balled into a fist around the bedspread. His entire body rocked back and forth as he desperately sought a way to escape the pain. 

“Hey, hey.” Jesper softly placed his hand over Wylan’s fist balled into the bedspread. “Calm down. I know it’s a lot to ask, but try to lie still.” Wylan shifted his head, opening his eyes to glance up fearfully at Jesper.  “It hurts,” he whimpered in between gasped, wheezing breaths.  “I know.” Jesper swallowed back the lump in his throat. “But it will only hurt for a little while longer. This man is a Healer and he’s here to help you.” Wylan released his grip on the bedspread and instead clenched his fingers around Jesper’s hand. “I c-can’t take it.” “Yes, you can.” Jesper soothed, giving Wylan’s hand a gentle squeeze in return. “You’re strong. It will only be a little longer.” Wylan’s eyes shone with fear and pain. “Don’t leave me alone.” “I won’t,” Jesper assured, “I would never do that.”

Jesper locked eyes with the Healer and shortly nodded his head for him to continue.  Immediately, all Wylan’s muscles tensed yet further and he whimpered in pain.  “It’s alright, squeeze my hand.” Jesper soothingly ran his fingers through Wylan’s hair, and allowed him to squeeze his hand half to mush. For the second time that day, Jesper found himself wishing for Wylan to pass out. But where Wylan had quickly lost consciousness earlier today, he didn’t now. Instead he was awake enough to experience every excruciating second of the Healer’s treatment. His pained whimpers and moans continuously filled the room, and his tremors almost shook the entire bed. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, the Healer pulled his hands away and stepped back. “All done.” Wylan was still breathing rather erratically, but at least he lay still now. He looked utterly spent and worn out, yet he seemed calmer. Where his wounds had been, the skin was now intact again, but looked red, like a severe sunburn. 

Jesper felt Wylan’s fingers around his hand slacken. He knew Wylan was still awake, even though he must be on the edge of unconsciousness. 

“What now?” Kaz, who had silently been watching from the other side of the room, asked the question everyone wanted to know the answer to.  “He’s no longer in life’s danger.” The Healer seemed slightly unsettled when speaking to Kaz, making one wonder exactly what Kaz had done to secure this man’s services. “But his body took a heavy hit. Where the wounds have been, it will feel to him like it’s severely bruised. The redness of the skin should subside overnight. And he needs complete rest for at least the next few days.” Kaz curtly dipped his head once. The Healer probably didn’t know it, but this was a generous sign of gratitude from the thief. 

Without another word, Kaz limped to the door and held it open as Inej accompanied the Healer out of the room. He closed the door behind the two of them before turning to Jesper.  “I’ll give you one chance to pull the trigger yourself.” Kaz’s intense glare left no room for interpretation: whoever had blown Wylan half to smithereens would be paying for it today, and not a minute later. 

Jesper slowly shook his head. No matter how tempting it was to have the opportunity to get his own revenge, he just couldn’t leave Wylan alone.  “I can’t leave him here by himself,” Jesper answered softly, “you go do what you do best… and give me all the juicy details later.” Kaz grinned devilishly. “All the details.” His voice was a low growl, yet full of a morbid excitement. Jesper watched after Kaz as he left the room, and almost felt a pity for whoever ended up on the wrong side of Kaz Brekker today. 

---

Wylan only vaguely registered people talking, before it seemed most of them left the room. But he was continuously aware of Jesper being close, and that soothed him.  The pain he had felt earlier was a lot less now, reduced to only a nagging uncomfortableness throughout his body. He could finally relax somewhat, although he felt absolutely exhausted. 

Wylan slowly opened his eyes just a crack when he felt a finger run lovingly across his cheek.  “How’re we doing?” Jesper’s voice was soft, full of concern and genuine care.  “So tired…” Wylan breathed out weakly.  “Any pain?” Jesper’s hand moved to run through Wylan’s hair.  “Not too much.” Wylan tried to lean into Jesper’s hand and soak up the love and comfort the gesture held.  Jesper smiled softly. “You and I are going to stay right here until you feel all better.” Wylan nodded minutely. “Sounds perfect.”

Jesper slouched down until he half lay, leaning his back against his pillows. He made sure to keep some space between himself and Wylan, because he was afraid that even the slightest touching of their bodies would cause Wylan pain.  But where Jesper did his best to not come into contact, Wylan was the one to seek it. His hand snaked over the bedspread, before coming to rest on Jesper’s stomach.  Jesper looked beside him, and found Wylan glancing up at him with those big eyes of his. The exhaustion was written into all his features, and so was the unspoken question for comfort and protection. 

“Are you sure?” Jesper asked softly.  Wylan nodded feebly. “Yes.” Jesper slowly moved himself closer to Wylan, allowing Wylan to carefully snuggle against him. Wylan whimpered softly as he rearranged his battered body, but blew out a satisfied breath when he could finally lay his head on Jesper’s chest.  Jesper once again ran his fingers through Wylan’s tousled hair. “Better?” Wylan hummed almost inaudibly, but Jesper heard it anyway. 

Wylan closed his eyes, his head resting on Jesper’s chest as if it were his pillow. The nagging pain throughout his body slowly moved to the background, and Wylan felt the pull of deep sleep, but somehow he couldn’t give into it yet. 

“Sleep.” Jesper’s comforting voice sounded lovingly, close to his ear. “I’ll keep you safe.” It was followed by a soft kiss pressed into Wylan’s hair.  Wylan hummed softly, satisfied. This time he gave in and let himself drift off to a peaceful, healing sleep. Because in Jesper’s arms, with his head resting on Jesper’s chest, he was safe. And no matter how scared he had been today, Jesper would always be his safe place.

[lepartidelamort]

Well, Iran Definitely Hit Israel. So What Now?

This is the greatest thing that has ever happened.

You’re the man now, dog.

Mere hours after I posted a long piece pontificating about the situation in the Middle East, which included a segment bullying the Iranians over their reluctance to act against Israel, word came down that the Iranians were preparing a large strike on The Satan. The attack came shortly after the announcement.

I’m told that the Ayatollah made the decision after reading my piece, telling a government meeting, “Anglin is right, you guys are acting like fags – launch the missiles. Allah wills it.”

The show did not disappoint. In fact, it is the best thing that has ever happened, at least since the Holocaust.

Watching the Jews screaming as missiles lit up the skies over Tel Aviv and rained down on Jew locations, I could not remember feeling this level of childlike glee since… well, since I was a child.

I made a playlist and just kept watching the bombing supercut over and over, while calling in a champagne drop, Helldivers style.

I invited out the neighbors to drink and dance. The corks were popping across the room, mimicking the bombs over Jewland, with the playlist including ABBA, Starship, and Belinda Carlisle.

It was like the third act peak scene in a John Hughes movie.

I was as happy as these guys:

Regardless of what happens after this, the joy that I felt watching those bombs rain down will last forever. It is a moment of triumph seared into the fabric of eternity. No one can ever take that away from us.

Of course, what I would like to see is a lot more of what we all saw last night. I don’t want the party to ever end.

What Happened?

Bringing a printed copy of my article to the president and other government officials, the Ayatollah personally ordered the strikes, with the government stating that the attack was in response to the murder of Nasrallah, Haniyeh, and others. Clearly, dedicating the strikes to fallen heroes was symbolic, and the reality is that Iran was finally following through on the promise they made to defend Lebanon.

Though I’m joking about my bullying article being the impetus for the attack (although no one can prove that isn’t true), it is true that Ayatollah Khamenei himself, who is 85 years old, had to go in and order the strike personally because the political government of Iran is filled with fags and Mossad spies.

Titled “Operation True Promise 2,” which I’m sure sounds cooler in Persian, Iran used hundreds of ballistic missiles, including hypersonic Fattah missiles. Iran announced that this was merely the “first wave,” and did not elaborate. Let’s hope that’s true. I could watch videos of missiles raining down on Israel for the next 40 years and die a happy man.

Perhaps suspiciously, the Israeli defense systems did not appear to do very much. You have maximalist claims from both sides, so it’s difficult to determine the truth, but Iran claims that at least 80% of the missiles were not intercepted. Part of this might be the inability of Israel’s defense systems to stop ballistic missiles. The much-touted “Iron Dome” is actually only to protect from short and medium range missiles launched from Palestine and Lebanon (which it doesn’t do very well), with the US-made “David’s Sling” and Archer systems designed to stop much faster, long-range missiles. Those systems have not been tested, other than partially (but not really) during the April strike by Iran, which used much slower-moving missiles and drones and was telegraphed early and many of the missiles were shot down by US air forces.

This attack was not announced in advance, and Western state media announced it only hours before, presumably based on satellite indicators. It’s also been suggested that Iran may have called Russia to tell them of the coming strike, and that this call was perhaps intercepted. Regardless, the United States and Israel must have been aware that there was a significant chance of an Iranian strike, and you’d think they’d have been prepared for it.

Though I have little idea about the technology at play, it seems likely that the Jews allowed more missiles through than would have otherwise gotten through, as Israel’s entire PR strategy is whining about what victims they are, and the scenes of missiles raining down on them help with that narrative, especially for Fatmerican boomers who are seemingly unaware of the scale of the slaughter Jews have perpetrated in Palestine and Lebanon.

Furthermore, Bibi is using the classic strategy of “bad people are trying to kill you” as his primary mode of governance, domestically. It’s logical that the Israeli government would want as many missiles to hit as possible. It doesn’t actually matter what is destroyed, given that the American taxpayer is footing the bill regardless.

There are wide-ranging claims about what the missile strikes did or did not do. Some Middle Eastern sources are claiming missiles hit – or even destroyed – a Mossad base, destroyed oil fields, destroyed airfields, destroyed billions of dollars’ worth of American fighter jets, and so on. The Jews are of course minimizing the damage. There’s no way to know. Based on the videos we all watched of missiles raining down – not being shot out of the air, but hitting inside of Jewish cities – something was surely destroyed.

The official story right now is that only one person died, a Palestinian. This seems unlikely. The Jews do have extensive bunkers that the Americans paid for throughout Tel Aviv and other cities, but in the videos, you can see people on the streets and cars driving around, so not everyone was in the bunkers.

American Reaction

I made the executive decision as the attacks were happening last night to not write any kind of serious commentary on it, given that I have a right to celebrate on such an evening, instead posting a couple of pornographic throwaway joke articles that included videos of the strikes and mocked American Republicans screaming about the innocence of the Jews.

Frankly, it is actual insanity to have sat and watched these Jews slaughter innocent people for an entire year and then start screaming about the victimization of the innocent chosenites as soon as they get a single drop of their own medicine. But this is indeed what every American politician is doing, with the Republicans of course being more bellicose in their rhetoric.

All of these people should be in prison forever. It is simply beyond the pale that a foreign country has this kind of stranglehold on our government. There is no other situation ever in history where a more powerful country was dominated by a lesser country. There is no reason for it, other than blackmail, bribery, personal threats, and other fundamentally Jewish methods of influence.

The replies to all of these tweets by government officials were encouraging, however.

The American people, at least younger people, are not buying what these government people are selling. That doesn’t actually mean anything, because America is a democracy, meaning the masses of people have no ability to influence the behavior of the government. However, the illusion is falling, and the people are seeing that America doesn’t even have a “government” in the traditional sense, but is instead a nation under a Jewish military occupation, with the cops as a standing army serving a foreign power, ready to cage or kill anyone who stands up against the Jews.

Lindsey Graham, a chief Trump surrogate, is of course calling for America to declare war on Iran and start a massive bombing campaign. That probably will not happen this afternoon (although it could), but it will eventually.

Trump himself, covered in Jewish semen, issued a statement calling for more Jews to ejaculate on his face (I’m sorry/not really that bukkake metaphors are the only thing I can come up with when addressing these kinds of statements).

Although no one actually understands the American electoral system, which is a black box, it now seems overwhelmingly likely that the Mossad will rig the election for Trump and Americans will head back into the Middle East with even greater fervor than they did after 9/11. Israel wants more than bombings, which wouldn’t actually end the threat any more than the bombing of Gaza stopped Hamas rockets. Jews want some kind of actual physical invasion of Iran, and you need healthy young white men to do something like that. Trump is going to be a whole lot better at marshaling these men than that Indian whore what’s her name.

In the shorter term, Israel will no doubt continue the bombing campaigns across the Middle East, and they may do their own significant bombing of Iran. Though the attacks last night were glorious, they mean little in the greater scheme of things. Iran has a limited number of ballistic missiles, whereas Israel has infinite resources, paid for by fat, gay American retards.

Iran’s only real chance at victory is in being able to sustain a US bombing campaign and physical invasion of their country in the long term, in the way the Taliban did, and drain the empire of its resources and morale while Russia and China act in their own spheres.

This is winner takes all. The US/Jews win or Russia, China, and Iran win. There is also a situation where both lose, maybe, but if the US empire falls, we’d have to call that a win for the other side, regardless of how they come out on the other side.

Both Russia and China should be on the phone with the Ayatollah right now asking him what he needs, because the focal point of this global war by the Jews has been decided. Iran is the first major front, following the proxy war in the Ukraine, in this bid for total global domination by the Jews and their American fuck-hogs. The more bogged down the US is in the Middle East, the more room Russia and China have to act, the fewer resources the US has, the quicker this satanic beast is drained and left a rotting husk on the graveyard of history.

Iran Should Bomb India as Well, Perhaps Even Make It the Focal Point

Reading Twitter last night during the attacks, the overwhelming majority of the tweets were from Indians, who are completely obsessed with the Jews. I don’t know why Indians are obsessed with the Jews, beyond the obvious (they also view themselves as at war with Islam), and I do not care to understand it. It means nothing to me what Indians think, and I’m not convinced that “think” is even a word we should associate with this despicable race of mutant fiends.

I suppose no one should be surprised that a race that specializes in scamming the elderly out of their personal savings also idolizes the Jews. The Jews scam the whole world, and the Indians want to learn those skills.

This is a meme that an Indian made and posted without irony last night:

That sums up thousands of tweets I saw.

It is absolutely absurd that one has to wade through an infinite swamp of Indian Jew-sucking while scanning breaking news on Twitter. They get included in the feed because they post in English, but Twitter needs to add an option to simply block all Indian accounts. There is not one single white person who is going to miss anything by not seeing the opinions of Indians. Although these are apparently real accounts, it is effectively spam. I do want to see what Jews are saying, I want to see what Jew-lover American politicians are saying, so I’m in no way against all pro-Jew content being on the feed, but I would say that 98% of pro-Jewish content on Twitter is from India, and it is all benign and repulsive.

India is unlikely to be a threat to the world at large, as they have no skills, abilities, or intelligence, and the Chinese will likely deal with them at some point. Their colonization forces in white countries will be forced to flee as soon as the Jews who imported them are dislodged from power. They’re not going to go to war on the streets. They are, however, a clear threat to the internet, and they’ve basically already ruined it.

If Elon Musk will not act to protect people from these Indian shit-spammers, Iran should consider a mass-bombing campaign against their country.

In this infographic, you can clearly see that Iran has that capacity:

There must be consequences for all those tweets these Indians posted.

Do I View Moslems in the Way Liberals View Ukrainians?

I stand accused of viewing Moslems as fighting a proxy war against the Jews on my own behalf in the same way that Fatmerican tranny scum views the Ukraine as fighting in the interests of gay sex.

Having considered this allegation, I believe it is more or less accurate. The difference is, I am not callously encouraging hundred of thousands of people to die for no benefit of their own in order to hurt my enemies.

There has been no explanation as to how this war in the Ukraine benefits Ukrainians. It is simply vaguely asserted that in a general sense, fighting an invasion of your country is naturally a good thing, but no specifics are given. When you consider the fact that the country has been decimated, half the population has fled, and virtually the entirety of the country has been auctioned off to American Jews, it is undeniable that the Ukraine would have been much better off to have avoided this war.

Conversely, the Arab and Moslem population of the Middle East:

Could not have avoided this war

Can win this war

Will benefit immensely from winning this war

So, although the general idea is similar, as I am not principally concerned with what is best for the people of the Middle East, and do primarily support them because they are fighting the Jews, I am not actively, knowingly harming the population of the Middle East, and in fact, the more support they have in their struggle from people in the West, the more advantageous their position.

Get Ready for Whatever Happens Next

There is no reason not to take a victory lap after seeing those missiles fall on Israel. Everyone should feel great about this.

However, I want to stress again that it doesn’t really mean very much in the scheme of things. Sadly, it means much, much less than the Israeli decapitation of the leadership of Hezbollah. I’m certain that the various cartoonish propagandists of multipolarism and whatever other buzzwords they advocate for will be claiming that these attacks mean that Iran could simply destroy Israel whenever they wanted, but that is obviously not true.

Just as the day before the attack by Iran, Israel remains in a very good position, and it’s arguable that their position is actually better now that they can whine about these missiles. Jews are always in top form while crying out in pain as they strike you.

The missiles were sublime. Better than sex or cocaine or enchiladas. But what has changed? Morale and really nothing else. The situation remains the same.

This is going to be a long slog that is going to last years, and it is going to significantly affect your life. The idea of a military draft in the United States seems extreme, but it’s certainly not out of the question.

In the end, we win. God wins.

But in the medium term, keep your expectations realistic, and don’t get too down if the fighters against the Jews suffer more setbacks in the near future.

Settle in.

This party is just getting started.

Andrew Anglin

[universalcollisionleaks00]

Universal Collision: Meet the Adventurer Support Assists!

Name: Framton

Class: 5★ (Secret)

Summoner/Duo: No

🎂Birthday🎂: No

Weapon Type: Fists (EX Weapon: Blaze Vambraces)

Current character status: Released

Info (From AFK Arena wiki)

Fire; the first light mortals had to counter the darkness. Upon mastering fire, mortals no longer feared the darkness. Illuminating darkness. Dispelling cold. Expelling monsters. As long as they had fire outside their homes, the mortals of Esperia believed the evil demons would be kept at bay.

Unfortunately for them, not all demons fear fire.

Since the day of his birth, Framton craved fire. He embodies the longing for flame possessed by all Esperia's living beings, a manifestion of their lust for fire. Lutos pooled the inborn desire of all living things for flame, their geed projected into a single being. Thus, a Hypogean fueled by a morbid fascination with fire was born into the Esperia.

In Framton's eyes, the flames were an ever-changing engima. Flickering, waning and blazing, he was fascinated by them, his urge to reach out and touch the burning brightness sometimes too much to contain. He was mesmerized. The burning of the fire was such sweet suffering, it stirred within him a frightful and deadly elation. Instinctively, he inhaled the flame before him, fizzling, he followedthe searing sensations as it coursed his being.

Driven by insatiable lust, he searched high and low for more fire, any fire. Natural fire, mortal fire, magical fire... all were inhaled, drawn into his being to become a part of him. As he grew stronger, his tastes became more refined. He came to sample the quality of the flame by burning himself. Only flames capable of burning his body were fit to be devoured.

Framton's standards became ever higher, so much so that little satisified his tastes. He came to roam the world, seeking the purest, uniquest of flames, desperate to sate his hunger. After prolonged research and experiments on flame, Framton realized that only a certain few very rare and special fires were capable of producing such pure flame, and that such pure flames could not be obtained through any kind of synthesis. Thus, he turned his attention to fire-born species... Phoenixes.

It is said the Phoenix folk possess the purest of flames, a legendary fire inherent exclusively to their species - the Solaris Flare. It was only natural that Framton became obsessed with finding and devouring this legendary flame. Through years of devoted searching, his perseverance paid off. Framton found the home of Phoenix folk, and one by one, massacred them all, with Talene's mother amongst them. However, having consumed these supposed-legendary flames, he now realized these were not the flames he hoped they would be.

Framton's hopes were crushed, he immediately descended into an ebittered restlessness. He wanted that Solaris Flare, but not a single crumb could be found. Enraged and dismayed, he incinerated all that surrounded him, bathing the land in a sea of flames.

One night, Framton rained down destrution on a village at the edge of the Dark Forest. The buildings collapsed amidst the all-consuming flames, the sky glowing an eerie purple hue. Everything was reduced to ash. Satisfied, Framton prepared to leave, when suddenly something at the edge of the flames caught his attention. A Phoenix Flower. A hint of residual magical power emanated from it, protecting it from the destruction of the blazing fire.

Plucking the bloom, Framton put it in his mouth, carefully discerning and assessing the residual magic essence on the bloom's petals. A rush of excitement filled him, the simultaneously familar and unfamilar taste of the bloom making him shake. This was it, the Solaris Flare. ertain of its extinction, he had all but given up on ever discovering it. But now, this changed everything! His flame of desire was rekindled, he wanted that Solaris Flare. He turned towards the Dark Forest, birth place of Phoenix Flowers, home of the final Solaris Flare.

"All I ever wanted is to see the purest fire with my own eyes. How beautiful would that be?"

(AFK Arena moment)

VC

Is there ought more beautiful than dancing flames? - Fire and Shadow type attack of user +500% (2 Turns) + Deploy Insatiable Gulfing Flame Zone

Skills / Abilities

Blazing Meteor - Combined Fire/Shadow type blunt attack on all enemies x2 (XL) + Shadow and Fire type resistance -10% (Max: -100%; 3 Turns) + Inflict Burn (3 Turns)

Burning Vengeance - Combined Shadow/Fire type blunt attack on all enemies x6 (XL) + inflict confusion (3 Turns)

(Passive) Flaming Feast - Power of user +50% (Max: +2000%) for every Fire/Shadow attack made permanently

Awaken Zone Effect:

Flame Engulfed - Shadow/Fire type attacks of all allies +1000% + Speed of user +500%

[satorisa]

Ozone and Petrichor

Rating: T

Summary: In which Throné and Hikari get caught in the rain after a late night at the tavern. Part of an art trade with @elementalsoup

Alternate Reading: AO3

*sighs wistfully*

鳴神の 少し響みて さし曇り 雨も降らぬか 君を留めむ [A faint clap of thunder Clouded skies Perhaps rain comes If so, will you stay here with me?]

- Man'yōshū, Book 11, verse 2,513

…

The stench of petrichor seared the back of Throné’s throat before she could even hear the storm outside.

She covered her nose as she left the tavern, hoping the lingering scent of her perfume would mask the foul odor of New Delsta in the rain.

Unfortunately, the base notes had long faded away.

“What’s wrong, Throné?” Hikari asked.

When the door shut behind them, the downpour boomed in Throné’s ears, and nausea began to well up inside her. She mostly blamed the smell, mentally cursing her sensitive nose, to avoid the bubbles of memories that resurfaced with each stifled inhale she took.

“The smell…” she mumbled.

“Is it too strong for you?”

She nodded.

Hikari fished a pouch from his pocket and tossed it to her. Its fragrance cut through the fetor of the rain as it traveled through the air. And when it landed, softly, in her cupped palms, all she could smell was the mixture of herbs inside it.

And all she could feel were the remnants of his warmth cradled in her hands.

“I didn’t pin you as a potpourri kind of guy,” she said, bringing the pouch to her nose.

“I’m not,” he replied, “but Castti made it for me. To calm my nerves.”

“Hm…”

Sleet began to pelt the ground. Throné nearly smothered herself with the pouch while Hikari turned away from her to watch the deluge.  In the meager lighting outside the tavern, she could see the awe in his usually stern profile, captivated by mere water falling from the sky.

“D’you like rain that much?”

“I suppose I do,” he answered. “It rarely rains in Ku and, when it does, it’s a light drizzle at most. So storms like this are always a sight to behold.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

Hikari chuckled. “You don’t seem to like rain all that much.”

“Rain’s fine. It’s just water at the end of the day.”

Throné met Hikari’s eyes. He could tell, despite her nonchalance, that there was something else there: another feeling stewing inside, curbed only by the fragrant herbs grounding her to that very moment.

She looked away from him, focusing on the hail bouncing at their feet. And when they finally came to a stop, they disappeared under the unrelenting torrent, leaving no trace of their existence.

Ah, how she wished that memories were just as transient.

She knew that, no matter how terribly she stumbled over her words were she to open up, Hikari would understand. Despite the difference in their upbringings, they could read the space between each other’s words with the same ease as walking. And, while, such a thought would assure most people, her closeness with Hikari specifically terrified her.

It was different from the intimacy she shared with Castti and infinitely more so than the kindred bond she shared with Temenos; she felt at home in her relationships with them. However, while she felt just as comfortable with Hikari, his earnestness effortlessly dredged up thoughts and feelings she would rather keep tucked away.

“Don’t force yourself to share if you’re not comfortable,” Hikari reassured with a smile. “But if you do want to tell me, take all the time you need. I don’t think the storm is letting up anytime soon.

The sleet stopped, and the sound of rain filled the silence between them. Hikari looked out beyond the awning. Throné looked inwards.

“It…kind of smells like blood, doesn’t it?”

Hikari sniffed the air before nodding. She had only mentioned her aversion to the smell briefly, yet Hikari sensed the weight of her feelings beyond that sentiment and knew that such a topic shouldn’t linger any longer in their conversation.

“It’s a good thing I had that pouch on me, then,” he said.

“Even when Castti’s not here, she’s still a godsend.”

Hikari laughed. Throné cracked a smile. And, in that moment, she forgot about the melancholy the rain had brought her. Before their mirth dissipated, thankfully, Hikari had recalled something.

“Were you there when Ochette said that the rain smells different from place to place?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. What about it?”

“Osvald said that the smell of the rain depends on the environment you’re in. So the rain smells like that here because of all the development. Whatever he said after that was beyond me, though.”

Throné thought about the terrible squall on their way to Wellgrove and, only when Hikari mentioned it, did she realize how different the rain smelled there when its fresh scent returned to her. The cave they were stranded in that night had an earthy and musty bouquet, but it was so much more natural than the stench the herbs were warding off.

Compared to the verdant forest surrounding the cave, New Delsta had little greenery. The damned city was mostly cobblestone streets snaking through brick-and-mortar buildings so close together that it was suffocating; she would never return to this accursed place of her own accord. However, her journey had led her and her companions back here to investigate what laid beyond the locked door in the sewers. Her freedom was within her grasp, yet she continued to feel trapped by this artificial jungle forcibly imprinted onto her very being.

“Would you like a hug?”

She nearly dropped the pouch in her hands. Unable to string an appropriate response from the fractured thoughts in her mind, she automatically answered his question with a bewildered look.

Before traveling with the group, Throné was wary of physical contact. Every touch she shared with someone else, whether to seduce them for information or take their very life, was fueled by the intent to cause harm.

However, after all the time she spent traveling with her companions, she adapted to their physical idiosyncrasies: she linked elbows with Ochette, high-fived Agnea, drunkenly embraced Castti, received awkward side-hugs from Osvald, fist-bumped Partitio, and nudged Temenos. Each small gesture carried the trust they built up over the course of their adventure, showing how much these disparate lives had come to care about each other.

The only person in their group that still kept to himself was Hikari, but his amicable demeanor outside of meticulously maintaining his personal bubble made Throné think little of it. She chalked it up to him being royalty and filed it away as one of Hikari’s many quirks.

“Never thought you’d ever offer.”

“It’s just—it looks like you need one.”

Throné returned his scrutiny from earlier. Hikari met her gaze. His eyes were steadfast.

“Physical contact doesn’t come easy to me. Every time I touch someone, I’m scared that I’m going to hurt them. That I’m going to blink and, when I open my eyes again, someone I care about will be bleeding to death in front of me.” Hikari smiled. “And I have a feeling that, this time, words weren’t going to be enough to comfort you.”

“Like you said earlier, there’s no need to push yourself.”

“I know, but I won’t be able to move forward if I don’t try, right?”

Throné tucked the bag of herbs into the pouch hanging from her waist before pulling Hikari into an embrace. And he reciprocated, wrapping his arms around her surprisingly delicate frame.

This did not feel like the drunken hugs she shared with Castti: their similar heights and build made each hug feel just right. And every time Throné snuggled with the apothecary, she always smelled strongly of herbs that masked the faint, acrid smell of antiseptic that laced the threads of her clothes.

Hikari, on the other hand, was slightly taller with a lean frame that masked his muscular build, but his body melded with Throné’s perfectly. He smelled like the sun and sweat from their trek earlier, but he also smelled distinctly like Hikari, a scent reminiscent of the fresher notes of petrichor, that complimented the lingering aroma of the sachet of herbs.

He was right. This was more comforting than anything he could’ve told her.

Throné relished this moment, bracing herself for the moment Hikari would soon pull away.

He didn’t.

Hikari deepened the embrace, nuzzling his face into her hair. His unexpected boldness surprised her, and she stiffened in response.

“I guess, despite it all, I still am a man,” Hikari joked as his voice rumbled through Throné. “I know I should let go, but I can’t seem to want to.”

“It’s because you’re deprived.”

Hikari laughed. “I guess so, but—“ His hands traveled up to cradle her head, terrified and apologetic for something Throné couldn’t discern. “—it hurts seeing you like that. Somehow more so than anyone else. And, if I could, I wish I could take away all the pain you’re shouldering.”

“You’re only saying that because we’re friends.”

“Even if we weren’t, everyone deserves to be happy. Even you. Especially you.”

Tears began to pool at the edge of Throné’s eyes. The shockwave of his words alleviated the tension in her body as her arms tightened around Hikari, and she dug her face into his chest. When her tears finally escaped, Hikari’s robe soaked them up.

“…same to you.”

There was something extremely romantic about a prince and an assassin, after a moment of emotional intimacy, sharing a comforting embrace under the guise of the night. They stood in their dry haven, sheltered from the rain, as they continued to melt into each other.

But the romance of their moment ended when Throné began to yearn for something beyond a hug. It sometimes happened during jobs with marks she found aesthetically attractive, but such feelings were ephemeral. This was stronger, more dangerous than those transient spikes of adrenaline, and she didn’t know if she would’ve been able to restrain herself were they not in public.

They both pulled away, faces flushed despite the cool weather. Hikari cleared his throat while Throné grabbed the pouch of herbs, drowning herself in its scent to calm herself. This lapse of control had to be caused by the influence of alcohol, compounded by the fact that they were the last two from their party at the bar (again), laughing away and chatting into absurd hours of the night (yet again).

Throné could willingly admit to herself that she was falling for the prince. But this moment confirming that Hikari, to some degree, reciprocated her feelings made her instinctively reject them all the more.

A romance between a prince and an assassin? How could something so ridiculous ever come to be?

After they had both calmed down, and Throné shelved such an absurd thought, did they notice that the rain had let up.

Hikari stepped out from under the awning, enjoying the spray of water, before offering his hand to Throné.

“May I?”

This was a gesture of pure chivalry, spurred only by how late it was and how their conversation devolved. Nothing more, nothing less.

But, while still under the night’s domain, Throné would allow herself to indulge, sampling a taste of the freedom awaiting her by succumbing to her feelings.

“You may.”

She took his hand and, after intertwining their fingers, she stepped towards him. And so, huddled next to each other, they walked back to the inn, savoring their whims of fancy before they had to return to reality.

…

鳴神の 少し響みて 降らずとも 吾は留まらむ 妹し留めば [A faint clap of thunder Even if rain comes not I will stay here Together with you]

- Man'yōshū, Book 11, verse 2,514

[chronicparagon]

Why were you named the way you were? Is there a special meaning behind your name (or middle name if applicable)? Are there any certain scents, sounds, or textures that you like? What about ones that you dislike?

Tell us about something that's happened recently (asker can request a specific "vibe" to the story--happy, sad, annoying, funny, etc. if they wish).

A pop followed by a soft hiss of carbonation fills a moment of silence when Envy pauses with his questions. The metallic tab rises when a finger pulls it up and opens the chilled can in the woman's hand. Harmony is surprised, really. Envy doesn't speak much, but he is asking questions about her. Though his voice is soft and he pauses after every few brief moments. She doesn't answer right away, choosing to let him finish asking before she speaks.

Silver eyes watch him while she holds the freshly opened can of cola to her lips. Harmony sips her drink in silence, taking in those questions. The can return to the little side table placed by the window seat where she sits by the Little Killer's side. She lowers her head, deep in thought about those questions. The pitter-patter of rain tapping on cold glass follows the air of silence, but that will be fleeting when Harmony answers them.

"I have a few names, my given name, and the names my grandfather and great-uncle gave me when I was a child and as an adult. Mama and Dad gave me the name Harmony because it was a name meaning peace...Peace in our past and hoping for a brighter future. It also matches my last name." She scoots across the window seat closer to Envy. "I also have another name. When I was born, Grandpa gave me my first Lakota name. It's Ciqana Mato, which means Little Bear. I had that name until a few years ago when I graduated from high school. Traditionally, we may have our names changed from our actions, merits, or through ceremonies. My great-uncle, his name is Joseph...He gave me the name Mato Winyan to mark adulthood. That means Bear Woman in the Lakota language. I don't know if it fits me, but I like to think so...Bears are pretty cool." Harmony adds,

"My middle name...Mama gave me that one. Celestine is like this pretty crystal. Some people think it's fragile, but it's a strong rock. I guess she picked that because it sounds pretty, but maybe it also describes how I'm strong, too. Like bears..."

Harmony adjusts her position. She settles in between Envy's legs and slowly leans back until her back rests against his chest. The taut muscles beneath the clothing reminds her once more of what his loose clothes hide.

"I like the smell of the rain...The sound of it too. I love to listen to rain while I'm in bed under the covers. I like petting cats because their fur is so soft and hearing their sweet purrs. I enjoy petting animals in general, really. I like birds singing, the aroma of apples and cinnamon...And..." A nervous giggle follows her answer.

"I'm sorry if it sounds weird, but I like the smell of your jacket and hair. I like how soft your hair is too. It's feels almost like silk...And I like the feeling of your kisses and your hands." Harmony adds and lifts Envy's hand. She holds it in a warm, gentle grip. Her touch is a sharp contrast to the cold touch of his ghostly skin. Fingers stroke the back of his hand while she continues. "Let's see...What else...I like the smell of roasted marshmallows, like for s'mores. Those were one of my favorite snacks growing up. I miss eating campfire s'mores, but...I don't like how fire feels."

She remembers the hellish flames. They dug into her flesh like razor-sharp claws. The burns dove deeper and deeper to the bone. Searing, blistering, tearing her skin and feasting on it.

"It hurts...It hurts terribly...Sometimes, the pain returns. I don't think it ever leaves..."

Harmony remembers that fateful day...The day where she would survive, but with scars marring her tan skin. She isn't sure what Envy thinks of those burns. He has seen them before, but he never turned Harmony away. In fact, he seems to want her regardless of her imperfections. She certainly loves Envy, even with the slipknot marks around his slender wrists, ankles, and neck.

Harmony lifts Envy's hand close to her face. She lowers her head until her lips press a gentle kiss on his wrist covered by his sleeve. Then, she press the back of his hand to her cheek. The grip is tight enough to keep him there, but also gentle enough to let him go if the Little Killer chooses.

The woman doesn't want to focus on those ugly memories. It would be best to move on from it! That is exactly what Harmony does by answering his last question.

"Did I tell you what I saw yesterday? I went outside for a bit for fresh air. The sun was about to set, but it was still kind of hot and humid out. So, I didn't stay out for long. I looked out and noticed something blink. Then, there was another and another. I got so excited! They were fireflies! They are coming out now! They were flying about and glow now and then. That's one of the cool things about southern states like Mississippi. You get to see fireflies." Gray eyes light up as she tells Envy that story. A sigh follows that story and she tilts her head back until her gaze meets Envy's face. "But I don't think they will come out tonight. It's still raining...Not that I'm complaining. Rain is neat to watch, too."

@s-talking

[boudicastar]

Tony

The colors of my soul, once bold and vibrant

Began to fade and lose their brightness.

Shades of past, once well-defined, lost their light when I learned life is timed.

Memories cut too deeply, blurring good moments and bad,

Running them together,

Like watered-down paint on canvas, too thin to matter.

A caged horse was I until the gate fell down and I broke loose,

Slamming hooves into the track,

Running, running,

from the old haunts chasing my back.

I sought nothing but lighthearted means, acing the social climb but failing to be clean.

Nothing to fear but fear itself, I was numbed out and put reason on a shelf.

Giving nothing that was truly me, but taking and taking all I could see. What about me?

The faster I ran, the emptier I became, hollowed out, incapable of shame.

Getting higher and higher for long bouts of time, chasing that feeling akin to sublime.

Nothing made sense, so why stew? Stop thinking, no feeling, just do.

Run, run, faster than wind, chasing the rain and seeking a friend.

Someone to understand my soul on fire, just one person to pull me from the mire.

In my lost and crazy ritual of swirling through life,

A spinning jack on the blade of a knife.

Too fast to slow down and too quick to hear the sound,

The sound of warning in my ear, ears that were shut, shut out the fear.

Keep going! Don’t stop! I ran and raged until I saw

There was one thing that could kill me, my one great fall.

My wild heart pumping to the rhythm of stormy wind,

Stopped beating in that instant and shrank from within.

I fought to grasp my anchor, but my hand swept through a cloud.

“She’s gone,” they whispered. “My mom? NO!” I screamed out loud.

The angel of my existence, my only friend, my mother. Gone. Her time had reached the end.

A cruel shattering of bones and heart…gave birth to my rage and broke me apart.

Her lifeless body was my doom. Another gate broke loose, a flooding gate that hung my noose.

My numbed-out shell filled with wet rain, sloshing through the soaked out surges of pain. They were Unbearable and drove me to seek the blank and hollow through the swallow, through the drink.

Taste was at first the distraction for a false satisfaction, no power to cure the deeper darkness than Before.

My senses were dulling and sending me crawling, headlong down into a panicked falling.

I thought I’d overcome before, but now I could take no more, slamming them down, two by three, Attacking the hurt never helped so instead, I flee.

From the table and drinks, I pass through the door, run away as if there’s nothing left to say. Words Balanced on my tongue now slipped away, long gone. I’m drunk and matter to no one.

The one who saw me, the heart who knew, all I was and what I should do - she was gone, my anchor Detached, holding me to nothing, no tether to keep me from drowning.

One final drink had washed me away, one unstable step caused me to sway.

Then beyond expectation or realm of foresight, my life was blinded by a searing light.

Massive impact of stunning pain, I couldn’t run nor feel the rain.  

Darkness snatched me like a thief in the night, pulled me from life and out of sight.

It swallowed my body, the blood from my veins. No more running. God grabbed my reins.

Realization slammed into my chest, face down and crushed into less.

Less than who I dreamt I’d be, less than what she saw in me.

But then I looked up at the outstretched hand, a beacon in the dark to help me stand.

If I took it, would I still have regrets? Or would I move forward to heal and reset?

The one path seemed easier but it was much the same, with constant repetition and no growth to gain.

The other path looked difficult with unseen twists and climbs, but hope takes you higher when faith is Blind.

[exiled-eyes]

Never Task : 0 0 2        Nightmares

{ TW: Body horror, eye gore, mouth horror }

it isn't uncommon for Cecco to suffer from nightmares. Regardless of what they do before laying down, nothing prevents the nightmare from creeping into their skull. Warm tea? Nothing, but it is nice for their throat when they can get their hands on it.

The smell of burning oak and ignited ale fills their lungs, as though they were back on the cursed ship that they had lost so many loved ones to, are the first things to greet them. When their eyes open, the skies, which should be decorated with the silver glisten of the stars against the otherwise blackness of the night, was instead flickering with a radiant orange hue. Their stomach drops, faster than a corpse with cannonballs tied to their ankles. No. Not here. Not again. A tightness forms in their throat as the hand of fear crawls up their spine before firmly grasping the back of their neck. Just like that, it is in control, once again. In their nightmares, no matter how hard they try or how much they desperately attempts to sober up their comrades, even just a little bit, the drunken hold is never loosened.

Shaking, slapping and doing everything short of physically harming their comrades, the same response greets them. Cecco is either ignored, or scorched by the flaming mugs of grog that are raised towards them. Their throat tightens, stinging as the fumes of burning leather and paper begin to rise from below decks. Like a fireplace, cracking in a pub, inviting those from the outside to step in, the sound of splintering and cracking wood grows ever louder as more and more of the deck is engulfed in flames. Unable to get their comrades to acknowledge the danger surrounding them, Cecco pushes past the crew in hopes of finding something to use, anything that would help save their lives. They call out to those who are nearby, to any who can hear their voice, their call to arms, praying, damn near begging for someone to join them in their attempts to extinguish the fire that threatened to consume the ship. Bucket after bucket, they rush around the burning deck in an attempt to douse the hungry flames.

A hiss dissipates in to the air as they dump the water on to a trail that is leading to a barrel of grog.  It is a fruitless task as the water simply evaporates as soon as it leaves the pail. A plume of smoke that disappears in to the air, not even a drop will ever reach the ground. No matter how much they try, there is nothing they can do to even dim a small fire. Trying to spit on it only shows that they cannot produce any saliva from their dried mouth. No one seems to even notice them, or their efforts, for the crew is too caught up in the moment, cheering and drinking from mugs that burn no sooner than the grog leaves the charred cask. To watch their friends drinking from burning mugs, seeing the skin of their lips boil and melt, dripping into the fiery drinks, it is enough to make their stomach twist. Brothers and sisters in arms, attempting to then smile at them, with chunks of their noses caved in, entirely hanging off, or missing.  Their words turning in to garbled murmurs of what cannot be deciphered, what should not be heard by mortal ears.

As they search for any sane person, praying to Neptune that someone is capable of helping, they discover that Anna is plagued by the same affliction. Cecco's heart stops for a moment. She sways alongside their Captain, Bowen the Bloody, as the sails overhead begin to rain down blackened ash. What was once a symbol of their joy, now aglow with hellfire. They celebrate their bounty, oblivious to the searing heat that begins to surround them. It is always them, that go first. To watch the flames take hold of both Anna and the Captains pants before they are engulfed by the blaze that rapidly crawls up their bodies. Their silhouettes revealing through the bright fire, how quickly it will consume them all. For it takes very few moments before the two are nothing more than skeletal remains, the skin that is home to their numerous scars, each one a thrilling tale, melts away. Falling in thick clumps that mix with hair, and the smell . . god the smell. Bowen's face begins to slide, as though he were made of nothing more than pig fat. Anna is disfigured by the intense heat. It leaves unnatural dips in her arms and figure, as though something had taken large bites out of her.  In their last moments, they are waving their arms in glee before collapsing onto the deck. The two turn to look directly at Cecco. It is the first time anyone really notices them, the only moment where it not longer feels like a nightmare, but as though life before this had been a dream they were just awaking from.

Cecco's tortured screams are drowned out by the rest of the crew beginning to sing or laugh jauntily. The quartermaster falls to their knees, surrounded by their peers as tears attempt to fall from their features. Nothing comes, however. The  heat that is circling them immediately dries out their eyes, forcing them to hold their eyes tightly shut. The sounds that fill their head however, are much different than what they have seen. They can hear desperate calls for help, pleas, crying from their brothers in arms. A horrific reality where the illusion before them holds no power. Bartering with what possessions they had, crew members begged for the gods to spare their lives. People called out for Cecco, and yet, when they open their eyes, returning to their feet . . . the noise is replaced by the facade of singing and cheers. A reminder of how little, how insignificant, they really were, no matter how hard they tried. In this hellscape, they are the only one who can see the destruction of the ship.

A snow storm of ash and soot falls down from above. Burning pieces of the crows nest begin to fall towards the deck. Some pieces will fall on top of oblivious crew. If they are lucky, it will knock them out, otherwise, it will lodge itself in to their melting scalps. Shielding their face, Cecco listens to the laughs of the crew and clanking of metal mugs. For those who are drinking, their mugs are char, faintly glowing red as they embed into the palms that should only know the feeling of swords and pistols. They are rendered helpless to watch the skin of their crewmates slosh off, chunks landing on the caving deck with a sickening wet sound followed by harsh crackling. Stairs collapse, causing those who were leaned against the rails, to fall below deck, some pieces of them remaining on the upper deck or on the railing. A loud creaking grabs Ceccos attention, causing them to look up, only to discover that one of the mast has snapped, weakened by the raging inferno.  As it falls, towards them, a slightly familiar figure steps in front of them. Someone who once brought them such delight, made them feel as though they were able to have a home regardless of where they were, now brought nothing but fear and a desperate desire to flee. The sight is grotesque. Danik attempts to smile at his friend. Heat radiates off of his burning body, causing Cecco’s nostrils to flare as they struggled to breathe. Their friends hair has become tattered, singed and choppy. Pieces of his scalp having melted in to his neck, the long hair now decorates various parts of his body, like a monster. The brown eyes Cecco had always found warmth in were deflated, for they had burst and left mangled shreds of the vitreous body, dangling from the sockets. His jaw was hanging loosely, as though it were barely holding on.

No matter how hard Cecco tries, they cannot form a word. Each attempt to speak just fills their lungs with more smoke, and the desire to cough in an attempt to expunge it arises. Flames lick at Cecco's legs, the pain ricocheting up through their gut as Danik steps closer. The heat radiating off of their friend burns, causing their body to beg them to step back, to retreat in hopes of finding a cool breeze. But their body won't move. For they are paralyzed. Danik places a burning, mangled hand on the quartermasters shoulder. Warmth grazes Cecco's cheek as their friends hand melds with their own skin. As the burning mast prepares to collapse on top of them, a woman's voice calls their name. It is barely above a whisper, but it echoes as though the owner was surrounding Cecco on all sides. When they turn to look, piercing eyes are gazing from just over the railing of the ship. It is the blonde woman from the shores water. Locking with her gaze, their chest tightens, breathing becomes harder. Between wheezes for air, Cecco watches the woman disappear from sight, sinking back down in to the glowing waters below. The feeling of heat grows intensely, their eyes shut tightly, preparing for the crushing impact, and then-  and then, nothing. Shortly after, they will awake in a cold sweat, breathing hard and gripping at their pained shoulder.