#flames and acid rain to you

[thanatoseyes]

I just found a really sick ass exorcist shirt and it only comes in girls and the larger sizes are out of stock. Cursed with tits. A thousand plagues upon the industry.

[egosumrexgloriae]

Many years ago, there were Tumblr blogs dedicated to uploading different kinds of music. One of them, collegerockyears, uploaded this mix which I’ve never found again on the internet until I came across an old hard drive where I had it downloaded, lol. It might be from around 2011. It’s crazy how we stopped downloading things and switched entirely to streaming platforms.

Well, here it is. It originally had a beautiful cover, but I couldn’t find it. No trace of it anywhere.

Repulsion – Dinosaur Jr (Dinosaur)

Let's Go Away – The Wipers (Is This Real?)

Peking Spring – Mission Of Burma (Peking Spring)

That's What You Always Say – The Dream Syndicate (Days Of Wine And Roses)

Feast On My Heart – Pylon (Hits)

Original Love – The Feelies (Crazy Rhythms)

(I'm A) Don Juan – The Embarrassment (Heyday 1979–83)

Couldn't Care Less Anymore – The Suburbs (The Suburbs)

(I Thought) You Wanted To Know – The dB's (DIY: Shake It Up! - American Power Pop II)

Carnival Of Sorts (Box Cars) – R.E.M. (Dead Letter Office)

tugboat – Galaxie 500 (Today)

Swimming Ground – Meat Puppets (Up On The Sun)

I'm In Trouble – The Replacements (Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash)

These Important Years – Hüsker Dü (Warehouse: Songs and Stories)

Deeper Than Inside – Rites Of Spring (Rites Of Spring [Bonus Track Version])

Black Candy – Beat Happening (Black Candy)

Luka – The Lemonheads (Lick)

Holiday Song – Pixies (Come On Pilgrim)

Tuff Gnarl – Sonic Youth (Sister)

Racer X – Big Black (The Hammer Party)

Ever – Flipper (Generic)

She Said – Scratch Acid (The Greatest Gift)

Everything's Explodin' – The Flaming Lips (Finally The Punk Rockers Are Taking Acid)

Blue Spark – X (Under The Big Black Sun)

Fire Of Love – The Gun Club (Miami)

Have You Ever Seen the Rain – Minutemen (3-Way Tie [For Last])

Big Lizard – The Dead Milkmen (Big Lizard in My Backyard)

Behind The Wall Of Sleep – The Smithereens (Especially For You)

Ain't Nothin' To Do – Green River (Dry As A Bone / Rehab Doll)

Human Cannonball – Butthole Surfers (Locust Abortion Technician)

@stonerswithboners @k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9 @notgoodvibes @anti-suburbia @rom8os @mayhem6 @gaiblane @mediopodrida @morbaa @eskabio @contac @autarque @megamorbus @incubo-di-morte

[redvexillum]

A/N: Big Smoll Sad.

SUMMARY: You are a once-celebrated painter, your glory long faded and your passion for art extinguished. That is, until you meet an enigmatic man named Luci, who sparks something inside you that you thought was lost forever.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human reader, devil!lucifer, lucifer is still hung up on lilith, lucifer in the human world, emotional smut, p in v, implied suicide, reader is an artist, this is still smutmas cuz the banner says so uwu

These days, the world blurs into an indistinct haze, a cacophony of shapes and sounds dissolving into the murky canvas of your mind. Faces, once vivid and meaningful, bleed away like rain washing over a forgotten oil painting—its vibrant hues smeared into lifeless swirls of muddy browns and bruised blacks, spiralling endlessly until only the void remains. The warmth and colour of life have long fled, leaving you adrift in a landscape of shadows, a ghost wandering streets that no longer seem to belong to you. You search, desperate, for that elusive spark—the incandescent flame that once ignited your soul and commanded the awe of countless spectators. 

But the spark never comes. It’s as though some divine hand had once granted you a finite wellspring of brilliance, only to cruelly empty it when you needed it most. You are hollow now, an artist reduced to a shell of their former self, withering under the weight of your own irrelevance. Your fingers tremble as they trace lines meant to evoke wonder, but every stroke feels misplaced, every attempt an abomination. The canvas mocks you with its lifelessness, each brushstroke a reminder of what you once were and can never be again. You clutch at fragments of your past triumphs, their glow dimmed by time, yet even their memory cuts deeper than any blade. A prodigy no longer; you are forgotten, decaying in the shadow of the glory that has long since turned to ash. 

The familiar bell jingled as you stumbled into the card shop once again, your movements robotic, rehearsed. The shopkeeper glanced up briefly, his expression blank before he returned to sorting inventory, dismissing you as just another nuisance. He didn’t need to say it aloud—you were the unpaying regular, an unremarkable ghost haunting his space. Without fail, you gravitated to the same display rack: rows of garish cards depicting ducks in absurd costumes. 

There they were—pirate ducks, wizard ducks, detective ducks—all locked in cartoonish battles for supremacy. Duck Battle. The game that bore your fingerprints, your long nights, your fleeting dreams. It was a runaway success, a pop-culture juggernaut that earned you enough royalties to live comfortably. 

And yet, the thought of it felt like swallowing acid. 

Your gaze settled on one card, the cheerful caricature of a duck in a jester’s hat. Its painted eyes stared back, unblinking, its crooked smile warped into cruel mockery. A sudden tightness seized your throat, invisible hands wrapping around your neck with the weight of unspoken expectations. Your parents’ faces surfaced in your mind, their quiet disappointment etched into every wrinkle, their smiles brittle under the strain of politeness. 

Breathe. You reminded yourself. 

But the air felt paper-thin, each inhalation shallow, scraping against the walls of your lungs. Tears prickled at the edges of your vision, hot and traitorous, threatening to spill over. You blinked them back, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stand still. No one could see this weakness—not here, not anywhere. 

Your fingernails dug into your forearms, the sting sharp and grounding, a desperate tether to the present. Slowly, the world sharpened, the dull haze retreating just enough to let you see. But the ache remained, burrowing deep. 

Masahiro Yokotani’s words drifted through your mind like an unwelcome whisper: “When you’re ten, they call you a prodigy. When you’re fifteen, they call you a genius. But once you hit twenty, you’re just a normal person.” 

A normal person. 

Being ordinary wasn’t inherently wrong. It wasn’t a curse, not for most. But for you, it was a sentence, a punishment for daring to matter once, for daring to believe you were special. Your success was the only currency you had ever known—the only thing that earned you love, admiration, or even the illusion of belonging. 

Without it, who were you?

Your fists clenched, trembling with suppressed anger as the jester duck continued to grin, mocking you. For a fleeting moment, you wanted to rip the cards from the rack, scatter them across the floor, destroy them one by one until they were nothing but shreds of paper and ink. You wanted to scream, to rage against the machine that had turned your passion into a product. 

But what good would it do? 

Somewhere along the way, the success you’d once celebrated had become a cage. The art you’d poured your soul into was no longer yours. It was a commodity, stripped of meaning, stripped of you. People didn’t see the blood, the sleepless nights, the fleeting moments of joy. 

All they saw was a game. 

A product to consume. 

To discard. 

To forget. 

If you couldn’t amaze them, if you couldn’t create the next masterpiece, you were nothing. 

And if you couldn’t meet their expectations, fulfill their demands... 

You were less than nothing. 

The thought wrapped around your mind like frost, numbing, relentless. 

You weren’t talented. 

You were just lucky. 

You weren’t creative. 

You had connections. 

You weren’t special. 

You were nothing worth keeping. Nothing worth loving. 

Your breath came slower now, shallow and cold. A shiver coursed through you, though you weren’t sure if it was from the temperature or the weight pressing down on your chest.  

Like clockwork, you turned to leave, your movements mechanical, resigned. But just as your hand brushed the door, a figure caught your eye—a man stepping past you with an air of quiet purpose. His hair was a cascade of gold, catching the pale shop light like threads of sunlight, and his eyes were startlingly blue, the kind of vivid sapphire that seemed to hold secrets of oceans untold. 

He moved straight to the duck cards. 

It was almost comical, the way he held a cloth basket with casual confidence, scooping up deck after deck as though stocking for an army of duck enthusiasts. He plucked every box of booster packs from the display, piling them into his basket without a second thought. You blinked, stunned, your lips parting as you struggled to process the absurdity of the scene before you. 

“Hey, leave some for the others,” the shopkeeper grumbled, his voice gruff with annoyance. 

The interruption jolted you into noticing the man behind the counter for the first time in months. His wiry frame and sallow complexion struck you in their starkness, his dark, greasy hair hanging limp around his face. It was strange—how had you been coming here for years without ever truly seeing him? 

“Oh, r-right,” the blonde man stammered, a sheepish smile curving his lips. His attire was... peculiar. He wore a pristine white three-piece suit, his vest adorned with red and white stripes that ended in a dramatic two-tailed flourish. He stood out like a figure from a different world, but it was his eyes that mesmerized you most—jewel-like and shimmering, their hues shifting like sunlight on rippling water. 

Your fingers twitched. That long-dead ember inside you flickered, faint but undeniable. 

The man’s lips pursed as if in thought, and with exaggerated care, he removed a single booster pack from his basket and placed it back on the counter. Not a box, but one lone pack. The absurdity of the gesture bubbled up in your chest, breaking free as a soft, unguarded laugh. 

The sound startled you—it felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to you anymore. But it also startled him. His head snapped in your direction, his cheeks flushing as his eyes dropped, uncharacteristically shy. 

Something shifted in you then, fragile yet profound, like the crack of ice revealing the flowing river beneath. 

Summoning a hesitant smile, you stepped forward, reaching for the lone booster pack. Your hand brushed the tin foil wrapper, and for the first time in months, you held it without bitterness. “I’d like to buy this,” you said, your voice rasping from disuse. 

The shopkeeper raised a brow but said nothing, punching the numbers into the register. 

“$6.21,” he said flatly. 

You handed him the money, feeling the booster pack’s weight in your hands—and for once, the bitter feeling of wanting to rip it to shred was absent within you.

As you stepped outside, the winter air nipped at your skin, sharp and biting. You lingered near the door, the booster pack clutched tightly in your hands, its glossy surface catching the faint sunlight. The art you had poured countless agonizing hours began to surface in your mind, the colours dulling as memories of your efforts melted away like candle wax under flame. 

Then, the sharp chime of the shop’s bell rang out, pulling you from your spiral. The man stepped out, his bag stuffed to the brim with his purchases. 

“Uhm,” you called, the word catching in your throat. 

He turned, his expression open and curious. When his gaze met yours, his lips curved into a gentle smile. “What’s up,kiddo?” 

You faltered, your brows furrowing. He didn’t look much older than you, so the greeting felt oddly misplaced. Still, you thrust the booster pack toward him, your fingers trembling slightly. “H-here,” you stammered, your gaze skittering from his eyes to the scuffed tips of his black boots, then down to the icy ground. “Y-you’d probably enjoy this m-more than me.” 

His expression softened, surprise flickering across his features. “A-are you sure?” he asked, hesitant. 

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet his. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the pack with a reverence that made your chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely painful. 

You felt it—the fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours as he took the pack. It was barely a second, but it left an impression, highlighting the chill that seeped into your bones on this cold winter day. “W-well, I-I hope you enjoy,” you murmured, your voice faltering as you prepared to turn away, to retreat as you always did. 

But his voice stopped you. 

“W-wait.” 

Your body stiffened, your breath catching. Slowly, you turned back, your gaze lifting cautiously. His smile was gentle, inviting, radiating a warmth you hadn’t felt in what seemed like lifetimes. “D-do you want to open them together?” he asked, his grin broadening, something so bright in his expression that it reminded you of the sun breaking through storm clouds. 

It had been so long since anyone had asked to spend time with you. 

And your time—your energy—always felt so fleeting. 

Still, with a shaky smile and a flutter of nerves in your chest, you nodded. Heat crept up your cheeks, embarrassing in its intensity. You worried—panicked, even. Would he find you dull? Would he regret inviting someone like you, someone who had nothing to offer except the remnants of a fading career? 

You hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t. 

You walked side by side with the stranger, whose name you now knew as Luci. His voice was light, brimming with enthusiasm as he shared bits of himself—his love for ducks, his daughter, his wife. You listened, half-focused, half-distracted by the echo of warnings ingrained in your mind: don’t follow strangers; it’s dangerous.

Yet, you wondered. If he were to hurt you, would it even matter? 

You brushed the thought aside as his warmth began to melt your trepidation, his words weaving a strange sense of comfort around you. His anecdotes were simple, endearing, and as he spoke about his family, an ache blossomed deep in your chest. 

Jealousy, sharp and bitter, coiled through you. What would it feel like to be loved like that? To be cherished so completely, so unconditionally? 

Your thoughts strayed to your own parents, and you felt it again—the invisible noose tightening around your throat. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to yield. You forced a bright smile onto your face, desperate to focus on him, on his words, his expressive gestures, the way his eyes gleamed like cut gemstones catching the light. 

Then he laughed, a sound so rich with joy that it seemed to chase away the cold clinging to you. He launched into a story about a duck-shaped toy that blew bath bubbles, one he had designed with his daughter. His animated retelling painted the chaotic scene vividly: bubbles everywhere, a floor turned slick, his wife caught between frustration and uncontrollable laughter as they all slipped and slid around like fools. 

The genuine delight in his voice made something inside you stir, fragile but real. You clung to it, that warmth. It spread, tentative, but enough to pull a soft giggle from your lips. 

Luci stopped mid-step, his eyes widening slightly before a wide, toothy grin overtook his face. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said simply, with honesty that caught you off guard. 

The compliment was unexpected, and you coughed, your cheeks igniting with heat. Your mind raced, urging you to say thank you, or anything at all to fill the awkward silence. But your lips refused to cooperate, frozen in uncertainty. 

Before you could stumble over a response, Luci stopped in front of a small building—a café, its soft glow spilling out onto the street like a promise of warmth. Luci’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Ah, we’re here! I’ve heard they make the best banana nut muffin, so I wanted to try it before I go back!” He held the door open, the light catching his golden hair and the shimmer of his grin. 

As he pushed open the door, the soft chime of a bell rang out—a gentle, almost musical sound, like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you, rich and warm, inviting you to linger. The walls were painted a soft pastel yellow, their brightness tempered by dim, cozy lighting that gave the café a feeling of safety, of comfort. 

The space was intimate, and aside from you and Luci, it was empty. From the back emerged a stout woman with a radiant smile, her long black curls bouncing slightly as she walked. Her green apron was worn but clean, a testament to her work here. “Welcome!” she greeted warmly, her voice carrying the cheer of someone genuinely glad to see you. “What can I get ya folks?” 

Luci turned to you, and with a grin, he asked, “Want a banana nut muffin?” 

Your throat constricted slightly as you struggled to respond. A simple yes or no would have been enough, but your isolation had left you fumbling for basic social graces. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you could hear the sharp voice of your mother, her criticisms cutting deep. How unbecoming, her voice whispered in a memory you couldn’t quite escape. 

You reached into your pocket for your wallet, your fingers clumsy with nerves. “L-let me p-pay,” you stammered, your voice cracking into something embarrassingly high-pitched. 

Luci chuckled, a soft, disarming sound that somehow made the tension in your chest ease. He patted your shoulder, his touch brief but grounding. “It’ll be my treat, sport,” he said with a playful grin. “For the pack,” he added, waggling his brows in exaggerated humour. 

Before you could protest further, he ordered two muffins and herded you to a table with two chairs in the corner. The space felt smaller as you followed, the warmth of the café suddenly claustrophobic under the weight of your thoughts. 

Sitting across from him, you watched as he rummaged through his bag, his energy infectious. He pulled out a small stack of booster packs, his expression bright with unfiltered glee. 

“These are my favourites,” he said as he held up a pack, his excitement as radiant as a child opening a long-awaited gift on Christmas morning. “I have all the cards from the first wave of Duck Battle releases!” His voice was filled with pride, his fingers already tearing into the foil wrapping. “I just had to come up here when I heard they released the second wave after two years!” 

His words swirled in your mind, dissonant against the memories rising like a tide. Your hands, hidden under the table, clenched into fists. Your fingers dug into your palms, grounding you against the maelstrom of emotions. 

You had drawn those silly ducks in their costumes, poured hours into creating gadgets, props, and absurd scenarios. Two hundred and fifty illustrations, each more uninspired than the last. You remembered the exhaustion, the growing sense of emptiness that swallowed you whole. 

“What do you like about them?” you asked softly, your voice fragile. You cleared your throat, trying to sound steady as you felt an unwelcome wave of bitterness threatening to rise. 

Luci’s blue eyes lit up as he looked up from the cards, his smile unguarded. “Oh, where do I even start!” he exclaimed, holding up a card to show you. “Aside from the fact that they’re ducks, just look at them! The costumes, the gadgets—they’re so clever, so fun!” 

He turned the card in his hand, his admiration genuine, his joy untainted. And as he spoke, your chest tightened, caught between envy and a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of pride. 

Luci held up a card, its surface shimmering with the golden foil that marked it as rare. Your eyes fell on the image—a duck in swimming trunks and sunglasses, wielding a sword alive with swirling water. The memory of creating it surged forward, unwelcome and sharp. 

You remembered the day you drew that card. The day everything inside you cracked open. You had screamed into the hollow silence of your room, pages of drafts torn apart and scattered around you like confetti from some cruel, mocking parade. Your voice had grown raw as you told yourself, over and over, that you were done. 

That you’d quit. 

But quitting was a lie you couldn’t tell yourself for long. 

The words of self-loathing had been relentless: 

Everything you create is garbage. 

This opportunity only exists because of your parents. 

You’re a shadow, fading and inconsequential compared to their brilliance. 

And yet, like some twisted masochist, you’d dragged yourself back to your desk the next morning. 

There had been no joy in it—only pain. The siren call to create, once your solace, had become a piercing scream you couldn’t silence. The pencil in your hand had felt like a blade, its grip carving into you as you pushed yourself to the brink. Your fingers had cramped, the skin blistering until it split and bled. 

You hadn’t stopped. 

You couldn't.

Because drawing wasn’t just something you did—it was a part of you. An integral piece of your existence, impossible to sever, no matter how much you might have wanted to. 

Now, that duck—a creation born from your anguish—stared back at you in Luci’s hands, a mirror of a piece of yourself you hated. His voice broke through the haze, brimming with enthusiasm as he babbled about the card, his words high with praise. 

You should have felt pride. Gratitude. Joy, even. But you didn’t. 

Instead, his praise slid over you, leaving nothing behind but the familiar ache of inadequacy. Why can’t I accept this?you thought bitterly. It was as if his words belonged to someone else, someone who deserved them. 

Someone you were not. 

So you smiled. Nodded. Pretended.

When the plate of banana nut muffin arrived, the scent of warm cinnamon wafting up, you glanced down at it. A dollop of whipped cream sat artfully on the side, dusted with cinnamon. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, yet the hunger that should have gnawed at you was absent, swallowed by a numbness you couldn’t quite shake. 

Luci took a bite and moaned in delight, rolling his eyes dramatically. “This is absolutely delicious! Charlie would love this!” he said with a grin, taking another hearty bite. His joy was infectious, yet it stayed just out of reach for you. 

He paused mid-bite, his expression sheepish as he pushed a booster pack across the table toward you. “Oh, golly! I should’ve had you open some with me,” he said with a laugh, gesturing to the small pile of torn foil and neatly stacked cards already in front of him. 

You ran your thumb along the seam of the unopened pack, the texture sharp against your skin. “I don’t mind you opening them all,” you murmured softly, your gaze fixed on the faint silver glint of the packaging. 

“Nonsense!” Luci declared, his grin bright and unwavering. “You might pull the ultra-rare Count Duckula! Come on, it’s all in the fun.” 

He dragged his chair closer, the legs scraping lightly against the tiled floor. His knees bounced with childlike anticipation, a rhythm of barely contained excitement. 

You forced a small smile, though your hands betrayed you, trembling as they fumbled with the pack’s edge. The foil tore with a soft rip, the sound somehow louder in the quiet café. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d opened one of these. The promotional box they’d sent you months ago sat untouched in some forgotten corner of your home, buried under stacks of other projects. 

Carefully, you drew out the stack of six cards and flipped through them, revealing each one in turn. 

All common - trash - cards. 

How painfully typical. 

“S-sorry,” you murmured, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. “It looks like I don’t have good luck. Maybe you should open the rest?” 

“Nonsense,” Luci said again, his voice gentler this time. He reached out and took the cards from your hand with surprising care, as if each one were a delicate treasure. His expression softened as he studied them, pausing on a trio of ducks huddled together. 

“I like this one the best,” he said, turning the card so you could see it more clearly. 

The illustration stared back at you, the familiar design almost mocking in its simplicity. The card was called Duck Gang, but when you’d drawn it… you thought of...

“It’s like a family,” Luci murmured, his tone thoughtful as he turned the card back toward himself. “I already have forty-five of these, but I can’t help collecting them. They’re one of my favourites.” 

Your chest tightened. The smile on your lips sharpened into something brittle, edged with bitterness. “T-that’s a lot,” you said, your voice cold, a contrast to the warmth in his. “You should consider selling them. They’re common, after all. Trash cards, really. Probably won’t get much for them.” 

You picked up your fork and poked at the muffin on your plate, the sweetness of it utterly unappealing. The bitterness inside you, however, only grew, swelling like a tide threatening to pull you under. Your eyes flicked back to the card, the garish trio of ducks resembling parents and a child more than any sort of gang. 

“I-I could get you all the rares,” you added, the words spilling out with a sharp edge. “If you'd like.” 

Luci paused, his expression unchanging as he looked up at you. His ever-enigmatic demeanour shifted, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a warm, easy sound. A few golden strands slipped loose from his carefully styled hair, brushing against his cheek. 

“The fun of it is in opening the packs and seeing what you get!” he said, reaching for another booster pack. He tore it open with practised ease, glancing through the cards until his face lit up like the sun breaking through a heavy storm. 

“No way!” he gasped, holding up a foil-covered card with both hands. His blue eyes shimmered with delight, his toothy grin nearly splitting his face as he revealed the ultra-rare Count Duckula. 

His reaction was so dramatic, so comically over-the-top, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something unexpected. In the small space of that quiet café, amidst the warmth of yellow walls and the scent of coffee, you felt something stir inside you. 

Something warm. 

Something… meaningful.

It wasn’t like the cold, impersonal emails you received from your agency, filled with spreadsheets and data points. Those soulless reports quantified your work with meticulous precision—what cards sold best, which ones fetched high prices, which ones were deemed worthless. 

None of it ever reflected the time, the effort, or the pieces of yourself you poured into every illustration. 

At some point, you’d begun to wonder: if you couldn’t draw, if you couldn’t find joy in creation, had you already reached your expiration date? 

It was a morbid thought—one that clung to you like a shadow. But now, hilariously, pathetically, sitting across from Luci, a stranger you’d known for less than an hour, a flicker of something stirred. For the first time in a long time, you wanted to draw. Not for a paycheck, not for numbers on a spreadsheet, but simply because it might make someone else happy. 

Because it might make him happy. 

You almost laughed as you reached into your purse, finding the small drawing notepad you still carried. Half its pages were filled with scribbles—angry, chaotic lines etched so deeply they scarred the next page. Proof of countless attempts to destroy your own work, to obliterate the things you hated about yourself. 

Flipping to the back, you grabbed a pen and hesitated. 

“I, uh… if y-you don’t mind,” you stammered, your heart racing in your chest, “I-I could draw that trio of ducks for you?” 

The words were out before you could stop them, and regret hit you like a wave. Why had you offered to draw something so… mundane? Why not Count Duckula, the ultra-rare? Why would a stranger even want your scribbles? Heat rose in your cheeks, and you forced a trembling smile as you flipped the notepad shut, shrinking into yourself. 

You should take the muffin to go, you thought bitterly. Make your excuses and return to the solitude of your home where no one could see your failures. 

Before you could muster the courage to leave, Luci slapped his hands to his cheeks, his eyes widening with delight. “Oh, are you an artist?” he asked, his voice brimming with wonder. He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of pain, perhaps, or maybe it was just the light. 

“I… guess I’m somewhat of an artist,” you mumbled, the words faltering as they left your lips. 

He squealed like a delighted child, his feet tapping against the floor. Clasping his hands together, he grinned. “Can you draw a trio of ducks, but it’s Lucifer, Lilith, and their daughter?” 

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

“That’s… an interesting request,” you murmured, tilting your head. Was he serious? Perhaps he was a Satanist? Would drawing demons as ducks count as blasphemy? And did Lucifer and Lilith even have a daughter? 

“Uhm…” you hesitated, glancing up at his expectant face. His excitement was so genuine, so infectious, that you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. “Do you, uh, have a specific idea for how they should look, or…?” 

“Oh no,” Luci waved a hand dismissively. “I’m more interested in how you envision them!” 

Drawing from the dry well of your creativity felt like squeezing water from a stone. You started with the horns—predictable—and then added wings and a smattering of devilish details. The lines felt shaky, the proportions wrong, the designs uninspired. 

The pen trembled in your hand as doubt crept in. This isn’t good enough, the voice in your head hissed. The shapes are off. The lines are wonky. The urge to scribble over the drawing, to obliterate it into oblivion, burned in your chest. You needed to start over. 

Again and again. 

Again. Until it was perfect. 

Again. Until it was worthy. 

You simply had to get better, do better, be better. 

But Luci’s voice broke through the storm in your mind. “I love it!” he exclaimed, leaning so close you thought he might fall into the table. His eyes sparkled as he admired the doodle. “Oh, gosh, this is wonderful!” 

Your throat tightened as you fought back tears. Why? Why did he like it? Couldn’t he see the flaws, the imperfections? 

“Can I keep it?” he asked, his voice soft with a childlike eagerness. 

You couldn’t speak. The words refused to come, so you gave him a faint nod, you tore the sheet of paper from your notepad, the sound sharp and final, and handed it to him with trembling fingers. Luci accepted it like it was the most precious thing in the world, holding it gently as if it might crumble in his hands. He studied your drawing with a small, wistful smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. 

“I really do… love it when humans create,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The words seemed to carry more weight than they should, as though they held the remnants of a truth too fragile to speak aloud. 

“Truly,” he added, his lower lip quivering. He cleared his throat quickly, blinking rapidly before replacing the moment of vulnerability with a wide, goofy grin. 

Luci was an enigma. There was something off about him—an air, a presence—that felt out of place in your ordinary, grey world. It was as if he didn’t belong here, as if he were a splash of colour painted into a monochrome existence. 

Perhaps...

...that was why you were drawn to him. 

To the warmth he seemed to radiate so effortlessly. It was gentle, inviting, and for the first time in a long time, the relentless voices in your mind—the ones that berated you for every perceived failure—began to dim. Their harsh accusations softened to murmurs, then to silence. 

Time blurred. The two of you sat there in the café, opening booster packs side by side. Cups of coffee were ordered and refilled, their rich aroma mingling with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon. The banana nut muffin you’d shared lingered on your tongue, a surprising comfort. The bell above the door tinkled softly as customers came and went, yet the world beyond your table felt distant, unimportant. 

It was... odd. 

But it wasn’t unpleasant. 

Luci’s laughter, clear and joyful, broke through your defences. Each genuine compliment he gave, each silly comment, seemed to chip away at the invisible weight pressing down on you. By the time you reached the last booster pack, you felt lighter—like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as broken as you believed. 

“You should open it,” Luci said, handing you the final pack. His grin was as bright as ever. 

“I… don’t think I should,” you hesitated, glancing at the disappointing stack of cards you’d already opened. Your luck had been abysmal—nearly all duplicates, with the best being a single uncommon card. 

“Oh, don't be a silly goose!” Luci declared, snapping his fingers with dramatic flair before pointing at the foil-wrapped pack in your hand. “I have a feeling you’re going to pull the ultra-super-rare card!” He nodded to himself, then added a playful wink that made you giggle despite yourself. 

“Really?” you asked, your voice coloured with disbelief but softened by his contagious enthusiasm. 

“Really,” he said with the conviction of someone who had already seen the future. 

His persistence left you with little choice. “Alright,” you sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. You opened the pack, shuffling through the cards one by one until you froze. 

Your breath caught in your throat. 

There, in your hands, was the card. 

The Angelic Duck. 

Its pastel sky shimmered under the café’s light, the holographic wings moving as you tilted the card back and forth. You remembered the company mentioning this card—a one-in-a-million rarity, with only two released in the entire wave. It was surreal, almost impossible. 

“See!” Luci beamed, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “You’re not unlucky, sweetie.” His voice softened, and his gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long. “Trust me.” 

For a second, you felt his words meant something more than they seemed. That he wasn’t just talking about the card but about you. About the parts of yourself you couldn’t see, the worth you struggled to believe in. 

But the feeling slipped away, ephemeral as sand through your fingers. It was wishful thinking. 

Nothing more. 

You wet your lips, hesitating, the words caught in your throat. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat deafening in your ears. Finally, you managed to whisper, “W-Will... could I see you again?” 

His eyes flickered with surprise, and heat flooded your cheeks. You pressed on, stumbling over your words. “I-I could sh-show you around. If… if you’re not leaving right away.” 

Your voice wavered, trembling under the weight of your certainty that he would say no. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? To ask something so personal of a stranger? Your body tensed, bracing for rejection, for the polite but distant smile, for the inevitable goodbye that would leave you sitting alone with nothing but your thoughts. 

Luci paused, his brows knitting together, the cheerful light in his expression dimming ever so slightly. For the first time, his bright, untroubled smile faltered, casting a shadow on the radiance you had marvelled at moments ago. 

You panicked, stumbling over your words. “I-it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice trembling with embarrassment. “I-if you’re busy, it’s...” You laughed softly, awkwardly, trying to ease the tension you felt growing between you. “It’s alright, really.” 

But he shook his head almost immediately, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “N-no, no,” he said, his tone hesitant but earnest. “I… I’m sure I can extend my stay a little bit.” 

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat as his words sank in. Then, slowly, you smiled. Not the kind of smile you had grown so accustomed to—a mask to hide the tumult of insecurities and self-loathing inside—but a real, unguarded smile. 

It was a smile born from something tender and fragile, a memory of warmth long buried beneath years of disappointment. 

It reminded you of the joy you felt when your parents had first framed one of your paintings, proudly displaying it for all to see. 

It reminded you of painting freely as a child, the way you used to let your imagination spill onto the canvas without fear or doubt. 

It reminded you of the times when creating wasn’t a burden but a blessing, a purpose you held close to your heart. 

It was a smile you thought you had lost forever. 

When you returned home after bidding Luci farewell at the café—his phone number now scrawled in your notepad—you immediately shivered. The icy chill of the wooden floors seeped into your bare feet, the house as unwelcoming as ever. 

The space was barren, devoid of life or personality. Discarded papers littered the floor, mingling with pencil shavings and eraser bits. It wasn’t a home. It was a prison—a hollow shell where the bare necessities existed, but nothing more. 

Your eyes caught the calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. A bold red X marked a date two days away, stark against the empty squares around it. 

You stared at it, your stomach twisting. That day had been carefully planned. It was supposed to be the day. 

But then you thought of Luci. Of his warmth, his light, and the promise you made to show him around. The thought of breaking that promise filled you with an unfamiliar pang of guilt. 

Surely, a week longer would be fine… right? 

Your fingers closed around a red marker that had laid lifelessly on the floor. Emotionlessly, mechanically, your hand hovered over December 26, a week from now, then moved with deliberate finality, slashing a thick red X over the date. 

The pen clattered back to the floor as you dropped it, its sound echoing in the silence. 

You turned to the cluttered table in the corner, the surface buried under half-finished sketches of ducks and crumpled ideas. With a heavy sigh, you sank into the chair, your head bowing as you stared at the blank page in front of you. 

The company had asked for designs for their third wave of cards—450 different ones. An impossible task, but one you had taken on regardless. 

Your hand hovered over the paper, but the creative well inside you was dry. Empty. Still, you pushed forward, forcing your pencil to move, if only to keep the ghosts at bay. 

Because if you stopped—if you allowed yourself to pause—the memories would come rushing back. Memories of your parents and their loss. 

Every stroke of the pencil felt like punishment, every failed attempt a reminder of the guilt you carried. 

You weren’t creating. You were clawing at the past, trying to hold on to something that had long since slipped through your fingers. 

It was torture. 

It was hell. 

But it was atonement. 

Wasn't it?

The pencil felt heavier in your hand than it should have, its faded, rusted-red stains—a macabre memory of past desperation—serving as a quiet reminder of the nights you'd forced yourself, body and soul, into the art that held no meaning. You dragged its lead across the paper, each stroke tightening the invisible noose around your neck, suffocating and relentless, as though you were walking the gallows with your head bowed low, awaiting the final drop. 

But then, something shifted. A tiny ember deep inside you flickered to life. It wasn’t much—just a faint warmth, a whisper of desire that whispered of blank canvases and fingers slick with the lush texture of oil paint. 

That ember refused to extinguish, no matter how much you tried to snuff it out. Instead, it smouldered and grew, stubborn and unrelenting. With each passing moment, it began to consume you, stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving in its place a yearning you couldn’t fully understand, a desire to create again—not for the world, but for yourself.

The next day, you met Luci at the café, your tentative hope hidden beneath layers of polite conversation and practised smiles. You found yourself embellishing the truth as you spoke of your life, weaving together a tapestry of glamour and artistic success. He listened, nodding and laughing in all the right places, but his openness soon made you feel small for your half-truths. 

Luci, in contrast, spoke of his family with a palpable fondness. He described his daughter Charlie - or Char Char - with a wry chuckle and a hint of exasperation, as only a loving father could. 

But then your eyes caught the glint of his wedding ring, and the question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “How come your daughter and wife aren’t here with you?” 

Luci froze, the piece of fruit crêpe halfway to his mouth. His cheeks flushed, and his gaze dropped, suddenly unable to meet yours. 

“S-sorry,” you stammered, shrinking into yourself. “Forget I asked.” 

“No, no, it’s okay.” He cleared his throat, forcing a shaky smile. “Char Char and I are… going through a rough patch. Teenagers, you know?” He nudged your shoulder lightly with his elbow, attempting a laugh that fell flat. 

You gave him a weak smile in return, unsure how to respond. 

“And Lili…” His voice faltered, his forced smile fading as his gaze fixed on some distant point on the ground. “Lili and I… we’re in a complicated situation, I guess.” 

His shoulders slumped, and the crêpe in his hand tilted, sending a dollop of whipped cream tumbling to the pavement. 

The sight of his sadness twisted something inside you. Acting on instinct, you reached out, placing your hand over his. “T-there’s a Duck Battle tournament today,” you blurted, your voice trembling. “Sh-shall we go see that?” 

You didn’t know how to comfort someone. No one had ever taught you how. Love and admiration in your life had always been conditional, tied to your ability to produce something extraordinary. You had learned early on that when the art stopped, so too did the affection. 

But as Luci blinked back unshed tears and gave you a small, grateful smile, nodding in agreement, you hoped—desperately—that this gesture, clumsy as it was, might bring him some solace. 

The days passed, bringing you ever closer to December 26, the ominous red X on your calendar looming larger with each tick of the clock. In that time, you learned more about Luci. 

Like you, he was an artist, his creativity moulded by the same soil of yearning and expression. But while you painted, he built—strange contraptions and devices, all themed around ducks. When he discovered you were the artist behind Duck Battle, his praise came in a flood, each word more sincere than any compliment you had ever received. 

For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, his admiration felt different. 

It felt… real. 

You spent hours talking, sharing sweets, laughing over shared struggles. His presence warmed you in ways you hadn’t felt in years, filling an emptiness you hadn’t even realized was there. Perhaps it was loneliness that made every smile and fleeting touch so precious to you, but whatever the reason, you treasured those moments fiercely. 

Three days before December 26, you did something you never imagined you would do. 

You went to an art supply store. 

You purchased a blank canvas, crisp and new. You unearthed your old easel from the depths of your supply closet, wiping away years of dust with trembling hands. And then, you bought a fresh set of oil paints, their vivid colours gleaming like precious jewels in their pristine tubes. 

As you carried the supplies home, the ember within you flared, its warmth spreading through your chest. You weren’t sure what had changed, or why. 

But for the first time in years, you felt… alive.

Every night, as if driven by some unseen force, you painted. Your hands moved with a desperate urgency, scraping vibrant colours across the canvas, colours that seemed so alive, so full of life—colours that you had once believed were lost to you. But now, as if the very act of creation had summoned them back, they flowed freely once again. You painted him—Luci—the way his golden silk hair had caught the light the first time you saw him, the way his sapphire eyes gleamed with kindness and warmth, the way his smile had made everything else fade into insignificance. 

A smile tugged at your lips, mimicking his. The sound of the metal brush on canvas filled the room, a steady rhythm that echoed in the silence. You painted him not just as he appeared, but as the warmth he had ignited within you. Every stroke, every layer of colour, felt like a piece of your soul reawakening, a fragment of the person you thought you had lost forever. You wanted to give this to him—before he had to leave, before the days ran out. 

As the colours blended and blossomed on the canvas, joy bubbled up within you, filling you with a warmth so sweet and intoxicating that it seemed to take over your very being. You wondered if he would be shocked, if he would be surprised by the depth of feeling you poured into the painting. 

Would he cry? 

Would he understand? 

But you didn’t care. All you wanted, above all else, was for him to be happy with what you had created, for him to cherish it as something that came from the deepest part of you. You poured your heart, shattered and broken as it was, into each stroke, creating something beautiful out of the pieces that had once felt irreparably lost. 

Perhaps it was inevitable, this warmth that had bloomed between you—this connection that had grown from the simplest of beginnings. Christmas day seemed to be the turning point, when you walked with Luci through the park, the air crisp and cold around you. The Christmas lights twinkled in all their colours, casting a soft glow across the snow-covered landscape, and the world felt like a dream. The snowflakes drifted down gently, catching the light like tiny stars, and everything seemed perfect—peaceful. You laughed at his silly stories, your voice mingling with the soft rustle of the falling snow. 

But when the laughter subsided, when you found yourselves walking side by side, fingers brushing in the cold, something shifted. Something deep within you, something you hadn’t expected, bloomed like a flower in the quiet night. It was a palpable change, a feeling that went beyond friendship, beyond the strange bond that had formed over Duck Battle cards. 

His hand brushed yours, and without thinking, you curled your fingers around his, tightening your grip, clinging to the warmth he offered. His hand squeezed back.

You didn’t realize how desperately you had needed this connection until it was there, alive and pulsing between the two of you. 

Even when you reached your door, when the moment to say goodbye loomed, neither of you let go. Your fingers remained intertwined, stubbornly, as if neither of you was ready to let the moment end. 

“It’s cold outside,” you murmured shyly, your voice soft, almost timid, as you tugged him closer to you, stepping back until your back was pressed against the door. 

“Yea, i-it is,” Luci whispered, his breath visible in the frigid air. His presence seemed to fill the space between you, his warmth a contrast to the chill that surrounded you both. 

Despite the coldness of his wedding ring pressing against your skin, despite the knowledge that this was wrong, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. You didn’t want to. There was something undeniable between you, something that drew you both together, like the pull of gravity itself. 

And then, as the door creaked open, Luci’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you down to him. His kiss was firm, urgent, and it burned with a fierce need, a desire that neither of you could ignore. It was quick, instinctual, the rush of bodies and breath as you both succumbed to the moment, letting go of everything—of doubts, of fears, of the consequences that would come after. 

In that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours, there was no more space for regret, for hesitation. You both indulged, fully and without restraint. 

And in that moment, you...

...and him... 

His lips, warm and insistent, traced the curve of your jaw, the soft, heated pressure sending shivers down your spine. The world felt suspended in time as he moved lower, his mouth gliding over the delicate skin of your neck, his breath a soft, intoxicating warmth. The surrounding space was filled with discarded clothes, the remnants of passion now tainted with the weight of guilt—of something that could never be, yet you both gravitated toward it nonetheless. Your back pressed against the cold wooden floor, contrasting the heat building between your legs. Your hands lay helplessly on your chest, not knowing where to place them, unsure how to ground yourself in a moment that felt so wrong and yet, so deeply, desperately right. 

His lips continued their descent, a slow, deliberate path toward the apex of your thighs, each touch igniting a fire deep within you. There were no words—none spoken, none needed—because any utterance would break the fragile illusion between you, the delicate balance of a sin too dangerous to acknowledge. 

He has a daughter.The thought was distant, almost unreal, a fleeting notion as his tongue traced a slow, agonizing path between your folds. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, the sound of it muffled by the overwhelming sensation of him, of the way his mouth and tongue moved against your skin. 

Your chest rose and fell with each breath, heavy, desperate, as the cold moonlight spilled through the half-circle window above the door, casting an ethereal glow on the scene below. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling lazily, like snowflakes drifting in the still air. They mocked you, a silent reminder of the falsity of this moment, a moment so desperately wrong—and yet... 

He has a wife, you thought in sudden dismay, as the reality of the situation crashed in once more. His head lifted, eyes half-lidded, the remnants of your taste lingering on his lips. His wedding ring gleamed, cold and out of place, as he slipped two fingers inside you, the fourth finger encased in the cool metal pressing against your heated skin. The dichotomy of it all—of this stolen moment and the life he had outside this room, outside of you—twisted something inside you. His fingers moved slowly, deeply, each thrust deliberate, drawing lewd, wet noises that mingled with your breath, filling the room with the unmistakable sounds of desire. 

You gasped again, your hand instinctively covering your lips, the pressure of it barely able to contain the sounds of pleasure that slipped through. The way his fingers found the perfect rhythm, the way his touch coaxed you closer and closer to the edge, your eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. Every touch, every press, felt like it was drawing you to a peak too quickly, too easily. 

"A-ah..." The sound was barely a whisper, your breath catching as his lips descended again, his mouth on your clit now, ravaging, relentless. His tongue flicked and teased, making your body tremble, your breath quickened with a desperation you couldn't control. His moan was low, guttural, and it only spurred you on, the pressure building to an unbearable crescendo. 

One last, powerful suck before he withdrew. Your vision blurred as you were dangerously on the precipice of falling. He stood over you, his cock hard and gleaming with pre-cum, the moonlight catching it just so, marking it as the final sin in this forbidden encounter. 

You hadn’t even made it past the foyer—the door still unlocked, the peephole an unblinking eye, silently condemning you. It was too much to bear, too much to reconcile with the reality of it all, yet you couldn’t pull away, couldn’t stop yourself from tracing his bare chest with your eyes. His skin, smooth and flawless, seemed almost sculpted from marble, a perfection that should never have been so close to you. The thought flitted through your mind, If I were to paint this..., how would I capture the colour of him? 

But then, in the depths of your gaze, his blue eyes flashed—just for a moment—blurring into two crimson rubies, gleaming with something darker, something possessive. It was gone before you could make sense of it, just an illusion, a trick of the light, or maybe of your own spiralling mind. 

Luci hovered over you, his body trembling with restraint as the tip of his cock, weeping with need, pressed against the raw, desperate part of you. His lips brushed against yours, gentle, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the storm building between you. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, as your legs curled around his waist, aching for the connection that only this moment of raw vulnerability could offer. 

You needed him—needed this closeness that was both comforting and terrifying, the warmth of his skin against yours, the desperate push for something deeper, something more than just physical. 

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, thick with hesitation. His gaze was distant, clouded with something you couldn't quite read. But then, with a quiet breath, you pressed your heels into his lower back, urging him forward, urging him to bridge the gap between you. To finally give in. His eyes fluttered shut, and in that instant, he took the plunge. 

The feeling of him filling you—filling you completely—was overwhelming, a rush of sensation so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. A sharp gasp escaped you, and tears sprang to your eyes, the sting of both pleasure and the emptiness that came with it. You searched for him, for his eyes, for the depth of connection that had drawn you to him in the first place. His blue eyes, vast and endless like the sky and sea, should have been there to anchor you, but they were gone, hidden behind the veil of his closed lids. 

His face dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath uneven, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that bordered on frantic. His hips rocked into you with a steady, punishing pace. The feeling of his skin against yours, the heat building between you, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, each one more intense than the last. But it wasn't enough—not enough to fill the emptiness that gnawed inside you, not enough to keep the bond you thought you'd found from slipping away. 

The front of his hips slapped against your sensitive clit, pulling strangled cries from your throat, but as each thrust drove deeper, the warmth you had so desperately craved began to cool. The connection you thought you'd felt—the intimacy, the closeness—seemed to flicker and fade, slipping between your fingers like sand. You grit your teeth, your chest tight with the panic of losing something so fragile, and you willed it to stay, to drown you, to anchor you in this moment, in this feeling. 

With everything you had, you opened yourself up, all of it—the vulnerability, the insecurities, the need for more, for him, for this. Open, open, open... 

"L-Luci," you whispered, your voice thick and hoarse, a near sob caught in your throat. "Luci..." The words, laced with want, with desperate need, tangled in your chest, lodged there like barbed wire. All you could do was cry out his name, over and over, until it became a broken prayer. 

His hips moved faster, harder, each thrust sending you sliding across the floor beneath him, your hair a tangled mess as his fingers wrapped around your strands, pulling you closer, deeper into the frenzied heat. But even then, his eyes never opened. He never responded to your cries, never acknowledged the way your body trembled beneath him, the way you shattered, piece by piece, beneath the weight of your desire and disappointment. 

He never looked at you when you broke. 

And when he finally shattered above you, his body collapsing against yours, it was as though the connection you had so desperately wanted, the bond you had yearned for, never existed beyond your mind. It was never real. Just a fleeting moment, a whisper in the dark. A hope unfulfilled, a dream never meant to be. 

Like the countless paintings you had created, destroyed, and burned. 

Your breath and his were sharp, uneven, a discordant rhythm echoing in the silence between you. Your hands, once gripping him with desperate need, slipped away, falling limply to your sides as though they no longer knew their place. Luci pulled away from you slowly, his body trembling, his seed spilling from you, staining the space between you both. He knelt in the mess of discarded clothes, panting, his eyes distant and hollow, as if he had lost something vital in the moment. His lips quivered, but no words came. 

There was nothing but the heavy silence, thick and suffocating. 

You stared at him, eyes wide, searching for something—anything—in his expression, but all you found was an emptiness, a vastness that seemed to stretch endlessly. He stared upward, his gaze unfocused, as though trying to see beyond you, beyond this moment, beyond everything that had just transpired. 

“Lu—” Your voice cracked on his name, raw and trembling. You could barely speak, the words suffocated by the weight of everything you felt. Your body, exposed and bare, felt fragile, as if the barest breath would shatter you. Your heart felt like it was lying open before him, brittle and vulnerable, delicate as glass. 

“Oh God.” Luci’s voice was broken, strained with something you couldn’t name. His hands dropped to his face, the yellow band on his wedding finger blinking erratically—mocking the turmoil in his mind. “Oh God,” he whispered again, his voice trembling, thick with pain. It was a pain that mirrored your own, something raw, something impossible to put into words. 

You couldn’t look away. You glanced around the room, eyes falling to the discarded clothing that lay strewn about, evidence of what had happened, the evidence of what you had done. His seed pooled beneath you, mixing with your own body, your own shame. The sight burned in your chest, a raw, aching grief that gnawed at you from the inside. Slowly, you pulled yourself upright, curling your knees to your chest, your arms wrapping around your body as though you could protect yourself from the brokenness of it all. 

You had slept with a married man. 

A father. 

A man who had a life—who had a family. 

That bond you thought you felt? 

It wasn’t real, was it? 

It was a lie. Empty. Hollow. Just like his praises. Just like the smiles that never reached his eyes. 

Your vision blurred with tears, and the weight of everything—the regret, the loss, the crushing shame—became too much. You blinked, trying to push the pain back, but it was impossible. With shaky hands, you began to collect his clothes, each article a weight added to the burden of your guilt. The silence in the room was oppressive, heavy with the unspoken truth. Regret hung in the air like a cloud, suffocating you both. 

“L-Luci,” your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse from unshed tears. You looked at the pile of his discarded clothes, waiting in the silence between you. “I—I’m s-sorry.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but they were all you had. “I... I still want to...” Your lips parted, but the words caught, tangled in the emotion that flooded you. You searched his face, your eyes desperate for any sign that he was still there, that you hadn’t lost him completely. You didn’t want him to leave you. 

Loneliness crushed you in a way you had never known. It was suffocating, cold, all-encompassing. And the warmth of another, even one that was so fleeting, only made the emptiness in your chest worse. 

"I... I should go," Luci muttered, his voice strained, almost detached. He rushed to pull on his clothes, fumbling with the buttons, his usually pristine attire now a wrinkled mess. His hair, once neatly styled, now fell haphazardly across his face, a chaotic reflection of the scene that had just unfolded. He looked so different from the man who had once seemed so certain, so confident. 

"Wi... Will I see you again?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, fragile, unsure. 

He stopped for a moment, his body tense, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Then, with a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he answered, "I... maybe, kiddo." The nickname he used when you were nothing more than strangers, back when you hadn’t known the depths of each other. 

Or maybe, you thought, we were always just strangers.

You had never reached his heart. 

"Okay," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, still raw, still exposed, your bare body aching in the emptiness he left behind. 

Without another word, without a second glance, he left you there. The door clicked shut softly, the sound echoing in the hollow space between you, sealing the finality of it all. 

A suffocating silence filled the room. You sat there, numb, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and hurt, unsure of what to do next. The isolation crept in, slowly at first, then all at once. It filled you with disgust, with shame, and worst of all, with self-hatred. 

It grew. 

It grew, like a poisonous vine wrapping around your chest, tightening with each breath, until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

The weight of it became unbearable. Your heart pounded, each beat louder, more frantic than the last. Your hands gripped your hair, yanking at the strands, pulling, anything to escape the suffocating feelings. You pressed your lips together tightly, stifling the screams, the sobs that fought to escape. 

"A-ah..." your voice cracked, trembling as the floodgates finally opened, hot tears spilling down your face, mingling with the remnants of what had happened. 

You ruined it. 

You ruined everything. 

Once again. 

You ruined it. 

Everything you touched, everything you let yourself believe in, it was worthless. Everything you were... it was all for nothing. 

Do better. 

Get better. 

Be better. 

And if you couldn’t? 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, the passage of time lost in the haze of your broken thoughts. Long enough for the evidence of your mistake, of your sin, to cool against your skin, to harden like the guilt inside you. Slowly, numbly, you stood, your body heavy with shame, and began to dress yourself. Each piece of clothing felt like another layer of self-loathing being added, an attempt to cover up the truth that had been laid bare. 

But no matter how many layers you put on, you couldn’t hide the emptiness inside. 

You wandered aimlessly through your house, your feet carrying you without purpose until your gaze landed on the painting of him. His blue eyes stared back at you, gleaming with an intensity that seemed to hold you captive. The clothes he wore when you first met—the ones from that day at the café—were captured so perfectly, so vividly. His smile was gentle, warm, as though it could melt away every bit of the coldness inside you. But as you stared, the painting felt like nothing more than a pale imitation of him, a sad mockery of the person you thought you knew. 

Hot tears welled in your eyes, then spilled over, trickling down your face like a silent confession. You could almost hear it, distant and fading—his voice praising you, his words of encouragement when you drew the silly ducks for him. The memory was a soft echo, a reminder of something you thought was real. 

A part of you, a pathetic, desperate part, still clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—you could make things right. You grabbed the portrait, cradling it like a fragile lifeline, and dashed toward your car. You didn’t know what you were hoping for, what you thought you could fix, but you were sure, naive in your belief, that there was still a chance. 

Once inside the car, your hands gripped the steering wheel, and the engine hummed to life, the vibration beneath you a stark contrast to the numbness that had settled in your chest. But as you shifted in the seat, you paused. 

You hadn’t even asked where he was staying. Every time you met, it was somewhere public, somewhere neutral—a park, a café, a random point of interest. Your gaze drifted to the passenger seat, where the painting sat.

It was incomplete. 

It was imperfect. 

It was worthless. 

Would he even want it? 

Would he even want you? 

No. You had to believe he did. He told you he liked your work. He said it with that genuine smile, that warmth in his voice. Before he knew your name, before he knew you were the artist behind the silly card game—he liked you. He was kind to you. You clung to that truth like a lifeline, like it could save you from the crushing weight of the doubt beginning to swallow you whole. 

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you dialed his number, hoping for something—anything—that would make sense of this mess. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow, as the phone rang. 

But then, the words came. The voice on the other end was cold, indifferent, and robotic. "I’m sorry, the number you are trying to dial is not available..." 

Confusion bloomed in your chest. Maybe you’d dialed it wrong. So you tried again. And again. Each time, the same dispassionate voice greeted you, the same unfeeling message cutting through your fragile hope. 

It couldn’t be real. 

It couldn’t. 

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen, hearing the repetitive, cold message before it faded into the silence of your car. The hum of the engine, the quiet drip of your tears, it all felt distant—unnerving. 

You didn’t turn off the ignition. The weight of everything felt too heavy to move, to even breathe. 

And then you saw it—the clock on your phone, a cruel reminder that it was December 26th. Midnight had passed. 

Your hand hovered near the keys for a moment, but it fell limp, back into your lap, like your body was too exhausted to hold on. The air in the car grew thick, suffocating, as you opened the window, and the smell of gasoline filled your nostrils. 

You didn’t look away. Your eyes never left the phone, not even as it dimmed, not even as it reflected the face of a girl—broken, bruised by her own thoughts, who had given up too much. 

“Did you really think he would like your painting?” The voice echoed in your mind, louder now, sharper than before. It wasn’t a thought—it was a command, a judgment. 

You closed your eyes, tears slipping from beneath your lids as the air grew heavier, thicker with every breath you took. 

“Did you really think any of this was real?” the voice asked again, a question, an accusation. 

“No…” you whispered, your voice breaking, your hands covering your ears in a futile attempt to shut out the truth. But it didn’t work. The voice was clearer than ever, its presence suffocating you from all sides. 

Tears flowed freely now, your body wracked with silent sobs as you clung to the empty hope that you could somehow make things right. But you knew, deep down, that you were only fooling yourself. 

“You’re nothing without your parents,” the voice whispered cruelly, slicing through the silence like a blade. 

“They shouldn’t have ever given birth to you,” it continued, each word dripping with venom. 

“A worthless investment,” it droned on, the words echoing, growing louder, more suffocating. 

The voice, harsh and mocking, grated against your ears, each syllable sharp and jagged. Your body trembled, your breath shallow and erratic as tears spilled down your face, your chest heaving in desperate gasps. The pain was raw, like a wound that would never heal, and still, the voice mocked you, relentless. 

When you finally opened your eyes, the sight that greeted you was more than you could bear. The shadows of your parents stood before your car, looming figures bathed in the dim light, their forms indistinct, yet painfully familiar. 

Your father’s voice rang out, his laughter echoing in the hollow air. “Look at my girl, look how talented she is!” The words were coated with a false warmth, but the undertone was sharp, a mocking cruelty that only deepened the ache inside you. 

Your mother joined in, her voice a saccharine hum that made your insides twist. “I knew her artistic talent ran in the family. We’re so proud of you, winning first prize again!” Her praise, once a balm, now felt like a blade, each word a reminder of everything you couldn’t be. 

“M-mom… d-dad,” you croaked, your voice weak, barely a whisper. Another cough wracked your lungs, the pain seizing them as the car’s engine continued to rumble beneath you, as if it, too, was trapped in the crushing weight of this moment. 

Your father’s tone shifted, turning cold and distant. “What happened? Why aren’t you working harder?” His disappointment was palpable, the sharp edge of his words digging into you. “It’s like you don’t care.” He turned away from you, his back a final, unforgiving gesture. 

“N-no, d-dad,” you pleaded, your voice breaking, raw and desperate. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be first always, always. Just… just don’t leave me.” Tears streamed down your face, an unstoppable flood of regret and shame. “I’m sorry, I’m so-sorry…” The words spilled from your lips, but they felt hollow, like they could never be enough. 

“Where did I go wrong?” Your mother’s voice cracked, her sorrow sharp, cutting through you like a jagged edge. “I gave you the best tutors, the best supplies, and you lost—lost to that… that no-name kid?” Her voice shook with guilt, her sobs breaking the air. “It was my fault, my fault.” 

Your own voice climbed, a shrill, desperate scream that tore at your throat. “It’s not—" you gasped, choking on the words, "It’s not your fault! I’ll do better, I’ll get better, I’ll be better,” you begged, your body convulsing with the force of your sobs. “Just don’t—don’t leave me!” Your voice cracked as the tears continued to pour, your breath ragged, your heart screaming for salvation, for release. 

Your memories, each one a fractured shard of your past, flashed before your eyes like ruined paintings—each one marred by angry, black streaks, defiled, violated. Your art, your passion, each one shattered beyond repair. One by one, they fell apart, until… 

Until Luci’s face appeared, burned into your mind with a cruel, unrelenting clarity. His eyes were wide, filled with pure agony, regret, disappointment, and sadness—emotions that mirrored your parents’ gazes, emotions that haunted you endlessly. 

You saw it.  

You felt it.  

Over and over again, the repetition of regret, of loss, of failure. It all crashed down on you like a tidal wave, drowning you in its weight. 

“Ah… ah…” you gasped, your words strangled in your throat, each breath a labour, each sob a crude edge of a dagger. The overwhelming wave of emotions consumed you, suffocated you, until… 

The void you had poured over your art, the darkness that had swallowed every ounce of your soul, finally consumed you. It was an endless abyss, engulfing everything whole—your thoughts, your dreams, your very existence. 

Ah... 

There was beauty in darkness, wasn’t there? A beauty so pure, so suffocating, that it consumes every breath, every thought, every ounce of life you had once clung to. 

You had been told it over and over again, like a cruel promise whispered into your soul. And now, here you are, standing at the edge of it all. You have finally reached the pinnacle of your existence. 

The word settles over you like a heavy shroud, cold and unforgiving, a final verdict on everything you have ever been. All that you were, all you had hoped to become, is swallowed by the abyss. There is no turning back now. There is no room left for redemption, no space for regret, no lingering chance for salvation. 

It is over. 

The truth cuts deeper than you ever imagined. The ache in your chest is not just sorrow—it is the emptiness of everything finally falling away, leaving you hollow, unimportant. A fleeting, insignificant speck in a universe that does not care, that will not remember. 

You feel the last of your strength slipping away, the slow, inevitable pull of nothingness dragging you under.  

No more struggles. No more cries for help. No more hopes.  

Just... nothing. 

And in that stillness, you are gone, as if you had never existed at all. 

[stchisaki]

DAY VI. — WORSHIP

cw: Fluff, Body Worship, Worship, Romantic Dirty Talk, Fondling, Dark Shadow Being a Sly and Teasing Little Brother (tm), Aged-Up / Pro-Hero Time Skip, Fem! Reader. 18+ Only!

author's note: Dark Shadow is so funny to me and I don't think he's given too many chances to have his full potential. Anyhow! Tokoyami is so romantic, we love him.

word count: Approximately 1.4k words.

A soft gasp fills Fumikage’s head. 

Red eyes immediately dart up, sharp and piercing. Your head rolls a little against the pillow before another little breathy sound spills from your lips. Fingertips twitch a little before their pads begin a soothing trek south, further and further, and Fumikage watches intently as your back starts to arch, desperate to lean into his touch. The length of his fingers bend forward, and the balls of his hand follow until he’s pressing his palm flat against your belly. He slides it side to side only slightly, lingering before it falls to one side and slowly settles against your hip. 

“Is this too much?” 

You’re shaking your head before Fumikage can even finish his question. He blinks, tilting his head to the side. Your hand stretches forward, cupping his face. Now it’s his turn to lean into your touch, and your thumb began rubbing crescent moons into his lores. 

“Hell no. Don’t stop—I want it.” 

There’s a strange shudder that flares out from Fumikage’s heart before it ripples down his body, but all he does is dip his head a little and oblige you. He tries not to tense, but his nerves make him hold his breath whenever he begins caressing your belly again. Even though you’ve done this for what feels like a billion times, you always somehow manage to blow Fumikage away, dusting into a rifting fade that swallows him and blinds him with your pretty light. 

“If I could, I would never stop. Your beauty always enchants me.” 

Fumikage continues to fall into your touch, finding the gentle swish of your thumb so comforting and tender, and he tries to copy your magic but he finds that he can’t quite compare. You softly chuckle, and a fire crackles and ignites, blossoming all across Fumikage’s cheeks as a molten warmth. His eyes are wide now, which makes another little bubble slip out, and suddenly there’s a strange pull at the center of his chest before another voice speaks. 

“You’ve gotta be careful making sounds like that, Fumikage gets a little nervous when you do~” 

Dark Shadow’s scratchy chords making Fumikage wince a little. His eyes narrow before they cut to the side, a low rumble already prepped in the back of his throat to dismiss Dark Shadow, but you just giggle and coo. 

“I know, I know. I just think it’s so cute whenever he talks like sugar to me.” 

Fumikage nearly falls into himself again, stricken with an angst that isn’t quite whole. He bashfully looks away whenever Dark Shadow chirps, swooping forward with a gust of wind before he rests rounded elbows against your pillow and nuzzles into the side of your head. 

“I mean you’re so pretty, no wonder!! Come on, say it, Fumikage!!” 

“Dark Shadow—I…” 

The words fizzle out like a dying flame, quenched in a heavy and acidic rain whenever he meets your lovely gaze. Those galaxies blazing on your face make Fumikage’s head spin, so he instead clears his throat and hums. He closes his eyes, slowly lowering his head and turning slightly until his cheek rests against the underside of your belly, heavy air filling his lungs before he sighs deeply. 

“My Dark Queen, it’s the truth. Every time I look at you, I fall deeper in love. Your eyes captivate me in ways I never thought possible.” 

The hand against your hip finds rigor anew, and it begins to trace nonsensical patterns up your side and down your thigh, gentle and careful, and Fumikage squeezes his eyes tighter to listen to every little shift in your breathing. He loses himself in it, finding it nearly impossible to think with each hitch of your breath. With the way you gasp whenever he brushes against one of your sweet, sensitive spots, or the way you suck in a whimper whenever he moves away from those spots. You respond to his touches so positively, so wholeheartedly, and Fumikage feels his heart swell with pride, and a dedicated smile crosses his beak. 

“Everything about you is admirable. I strive to be like you, to hold up to your flame.” 

“He just thinks you’re really, like, super amazing. He has so many things he wants to say to you at all times~” 

Fumikage pauses at Dark Shadow’s whispers, especially whenever you giggle and respond in a hush, 

“Shush, he’s so romantic, let me listen to him!!” 

Your words encourage him. His head is back into the sky, but his brain is in space. Fumikage feels so full and airy whenever he’s able to stare down at your nude body, at the way the moonlight reflects off of your body, the shading, the pores, the glimmer of flesh, it all twinkles live a crystal and his own breath falters. Swallowing is hard, but he chews down childish words that he just wants to gush into your mouth, through delicate and passionate kisses that intertwine your voices. Fumikage shifts a little before he’s fully rested between your legs, relaxed against his knees and partially against his haunches. 

“I want to devote myself to you, truly, and all I can ever hope for is that I satisfy you.” 

Both of his hands are on your body now, trailing down until they find the center of your thighs. They rest on top before his hands tremble and he dips them in between. You part for him so easily, and Fumikage’s body freezes whenever he sees the smoldering emotion in your eyes and the ginger look melting against your features. Dark Shadow tilts his head far enough to stare at him, too, those glowing suns thawing him and spurring him to continue. You’re intoxicating, but Fumikage fights through his shivering fingers and inches towards your sex. One of his index fingers cautiously arches and presses against the meat of your lips, and you croon his name out with those smoky and suffocating blues. 

“Every sound you make fills me with more and more desire. I want you to sing for me, I want to hear everything you have to offer me.” 

Another moan follows after his name, your body wriggling and shifting to draw Fumikage closer. He lets you, and his knuckles strum down your sex, teasingly wavering his fingers until those blues change their tempo into precious kitten mewls. 

“You’re breathtaking. I need to make love to you. Can you comprehend what you put me through, you temptress?” 

Something akin to a giggle intermingles with another moan, and your hands are darting forward and linking against Fumikage’s wrists. Dark Shadow quickly buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your head easily crests against his. You’re all giggly, flushed out of excitement and boiling Fumikage alive—inside and out, from his core all the way to the smiles of his nails. Every part of him grows more and more alive, an insatiable monster that wants to hear the prayers of his name on your tongue and the feeling of your blood and flesh on his hands. 

“Ohhh, Fumikage. You’re driving me insane. I need you, too, my perfect darling.” 

A jolt tickles against the base of Fumikage’s spine, so he straightens and stares down at you, eyes wider than the sky, red depths that have no end, and he gulps. He gets a little shifty, but his body moves on autopilot while he’s lost in the oceans of your visage. Thumbs swerve forth, tips melded together before they both begin to feather your slit. The words burst out before he could capture them. 

“How could I ever live without you in my life?” 

Fumikage gasps softly, so quietly that it was soundless, but it was deafening in his head. The thought to stitch his beak together for the rest of eternity crosses his mind, but your expression just softens into honey and velvet, and you squeeze his wrists. 

“I’m always dreaming about you, Fumikage. I don’t know how I ever survived before you either.” 

His heart is beating a billion miles per second, electricity shooting through his stomach and down his groin. A groan reverberates in him, loud and echoing, and Fumikage jerks and imploringly fall into your hands, clay and blood. And then he’s rubbing your sex again, harder, and he groans again. 

“Anything, I’ll do anything. Let me offer myself bare, let me fulfill your dreams.”

Your moan is his oxygen, and you whimper his name before your hands leave his wrists and a husky sound flutters in your throat, 

“Yes, yes, Gods, yes, please.” 

And Fumikage crumbles completely into you. 

[demigod-of-the-agni]

I wrote this because you inspired me. I’m sorry for any spelling and Grammar errors;

Lloyd had never seen that much blood. Though he wasn’t quite sure it was blood. Sure, it leaked out of its pierced feathery bodice like blood but it didn’t look like blood. It was black like tar and seemed burn the ground it drenched as if the earth below it was rejecting it. The creature, no the monster, had been a towering beast. A grotesque amalgamation of animals: a bird of prey, a lion, and even hints of what could have been considered a humanoid women all clunked together as if stitched by the hand of a child who may have experienced the worst nightmare of their life. It’s thick clawed hands responsible for much damage both to the village that it terrorized and the Ninja who came to subdue it.

Yet, the tower beast lay crushed under the lance of another great beast. It’s monstrous body crashing into the earth, and it’s black tar-like blood gushing everywhere like a kind of acid rain. Most ran for shelter, grabbing whoever they could to bring them out of the way. Lloyd ended up dragging Frak away from a rather nasty blob that almost took him out. When the dust settled, he could finally take stock of what was truly happening. He was frantically doing a headcount of his family as he heard the familiar clanking of metal behind him where the monster was.

The monster seemed to realize what had happened to her (it) and it gave a large screech. It rattled what remained of the windows of the village. However, it wasn’t the ferocity of the scream that made his blood run cold but it was the fact that it felt so scarily human. Lloyd dragged his eyes from making sure Frak had all his fingers, toes, and scales back to the monster whom struggled frantically with the lance that was lodged in her (it’s!) chest. Her eyes looked so scared that it looked horribly out of place plastered on her (its) monstrous body. It was a perfect contrast to her assailant.

The mech(?) stood immovable, its hand plastered around the lance it had imbedded in its chest. The metal behemoth was unbothered by the blood and the female monsters cries. Its eyes showed no emotion as it dragged the lance from the monster’s chest and let it fall back on its hind legs. It gave an animalistic growl and despite its gaping wound it surged forward. She slashed at for the mech, but in a truly humanistic move that Llyod had never seen a human piloted machine make it dashed and dodged the monster’s slash and managed to maneuver beast to the ground where with a graceful spin of the lance and a hard (SMASH) it was once again embedded in the beast.

Another sad humanistic scream followed as the monster frayed back and forth like a scared animal pinned under a superior predator. The misplaced sympathy that bubbled in his chest almost made Lloyd not hear Nya yell at them all.

“Move!”

He barely saw it the beast’s other wing came lurching forward. It hadn’t grazed him, the impact probably would have shattered every bone in his body, but the wind it created blew them all into the nearest building or wall. Truly, even on the ground the beast was not yet defeated. With a thunderous roar, the winged panther woman surged forward ripping her wing in half to get to the now defenseless mech who was too close to dodge.

But just as the monster surged, a blast of red came out of nowhere, then a blast of green, and finally the village was engulfed in flames. Red, green, hot flames.

“Kai, what the hell?” Lloyd heard someone yell but Lloyd couldn’t tell who the smoke made it hard to think. All he could focus on was his brother who crawled up the mech as if he had the speed of hundred individual legs, his sword gleaming with red.

It matched his eyes, a part of him whispered. But before he could wonder why he thought that, a shadow spread over the village as if the sun had been erased and it drenched the world in darkness.

A dragon, the size of the firstborn, hovered over the them all. Haloed, fearsome, awe-inspiring, the dragon was everything a child could have dreamt up in their imaginations when asked to describe their opinion of a “cool dragon.” Yet, it was this dragon who hovered above them ready to rain down hellfire down to them.

Blast.

Scream.

Blast.

Scream.

Blast.

Scream.

This haunting dance repeated for minutes as the monster was assaulted by barrage after barrage. Its skin beginning to smolder, boil, and fill the air with a noxious all encompassing smell of death.

And yet despite it all, the dragon smiled as the monster howled in pain. Lloyd was almost entrapped in the cruelty of the action that he almost missed Wyldfyre yell out, “Kai!”

Kai had finished his ascent and launched off the mech and like a cannonball armed with a sword slashed at the monster.

On the battlefield, for a quick moment, all was silent expect for the squishing, squashing, and cracking of bones, cartilage, and veins of the monsters neck as Kai’s sword slashed through it. A strangled scream, one that horrifically sounded like a “no, please” was the last thing the monster squawked out. Its freakish head landed with a crash, locked forever in a terrified expression.

Kai, on the other hand, never landed on the ground. He had clung to the mech’s lance which he caught after his finisher. His face was unreadable, but his eyes weren’t locked on the monster, his mouth was not curled into a smile, he wasn’t cracking a joke instead his eyes shifted between the mech and the dragon. The later of which, began to the descend, powerful thrust of winds threaten to destabilize what was left of the village below and as she landed her clawed foot landed (rather deliberately) on the bird panther’s head squishing it a truly horrific amount of jiblets that couldn’t be defined at anything anymore.

“Overkill,” the mech finally spoke.

“You always make sure that it’s dead,” the dragon replied. Their eyes trained on Kai, who remained on the lance.

He looked back. “Hello,” his voice sounded like the wind had been taken out of it. Quite in a way, Lloyd didn’t think Kai could actually reach.

“What is wrong with your hair,” the dragon asked. Finally, Kai smiled.

“What the hell is going on right now,” Wyldfyre asked. Lloyd had never been so glad for her candor.

anon. anon who are you. i need to grab you by the shoulders and shake you so VICIOUSLY HELLO???? YOU DROP SUCH AN EXQUISITE MEAL????? INTO MY LAP?????? trust that i am going to be chewing on this ALL DAY OH MY GOD (i'll leave my screaming below :3 !!)

ohhhh you and i. oh we do enjoy the idea of the monsters being cursed. oh we absolutely revel in it. the moment lloyd makes the connection that the monster shares too many human elements- he just can't get it out of his mind. him being the supposed elemental master of life energy he is absolutely connected with this creature and he has to actively detach himself from what he feels at what he sees.... oh my god. you cooked so good. the constant internal corrections he makes- "she (no, it)"- is SOOOO good it is so chilling

btw i'm in love with your characterisation and the description of the monster,,, making it feel so real, the amalgamation of familiar creatures, yet so alien nonetheless.... chef's kiss !!

RUSTY !!!!! you've made em feel sooo badass, the absolute ENERGY you've given to rusty and their movements- he works so efficiently, comparing his skill with that of a (superhuman)person is an ABSOLUTELY goated decision, hints that there is more to rusty than them simply being a mech

DAIDAN MY QUEEN !!!!! OHH I LOVE HOW YOU WRITE HER. SHE IS SO GOOD AT WHAT SHE DOES!!!!! pummel the enemy down until they can be pummeled no further. her utterly destroying any semblance of humanity in the monster by crushing its head, perhaps ending the turmoil lloyd found himself in... she takes survival so seriously. she has wholeheartedly embraced all the gore, smiling through it all (as she should. queen)

KAI'S ENTRANCE GOT ME SO HYPED I'M NOT JOKING. HIS ENTRANCE??? FLAWLESS. ATE. DEVOURED WITH NO CRUMBS LEFT. "...as if he had the speed of hundred individual legs" i know what you are (i'm jumping up and down with glee) him dealing the killing blow is so... it's so cinematic. jaw dropping action. and all the while kai's running out autopilot like it's second nature for him.... really highlights the disconnection and the ease he is able to slip into defense after his experiences. oh my poor baby

THEIR BANTER GOT ME GIGGLING KICKING MY FEET TWIRLING MY HAIR. they're all like high school buddies rocking up one day at someone's house lmaoo "what is wrong with your hair" crazy thing to say to someone who you saw absolutely shred themselves in devastation and loneliness a few months back girl. KAI SMILING WHEN THE FIGHT'S OVER AND HE KNOWS HE'S GOT PEOPLE WHO GET HIM AND ARE STILL BY HIS SIDE???? i'm going to scream. very loudly. TwT WYLDFYRE MY BBY she's going to have so much fun learning about all the insane things kai's done before they met haha

anon. please anon. let me give you a kiss. do you want more treats? i got food, seeing as you DEVOURED everything with this piece. holy crap. literally sitting in my chair like i got punched in the face. the flow, the action, the atmosphere, the tragedy of ending a cursed soul coupled with returning to the familiar, to home.... it speaks to me on such a deep level, goes right into my soul. THIS WAS SUCH A WONDROUS PIECE I'M SO HONOURED TO HAVE READ THIS :'''3 let me know if you decide to post this or write more I WILL COME RUNNING SO FAST,, the monstrosity-starved beast in me has been satiated... thank you dear anon, may you continue to write so beautifully and ethereally <33

[winged-void]

Here's the story yall asked me to post

Hello! I am posting this short little story, which is the first of a number of short stories I have written about these two characters, a delusional noblewoman and her deranged maid. By clicking the readmore you agree that both characters contained within, regardless of what the text says, are girls.

In some forgotten corner of some forgotten city, a forgotten noble of a forgotten family sits in petty agony. 

Protected from the onslaught of acidic rain only by a hastily constructed sheet metal roof, he imagines Mother's pain at the tears in his coat, and the scion of the Branche family considers weeping. 

What would it cost? 

Too much. 

Elan Branche pushes it down. At twelve, one puts such childishness behind them. 

Back straight. Assess the damage. Find the solution. 

The coat was heavy. Too large, and far too decorated with old and meaningless signifiers of unearned and forgotten glory, weighed down further still by the damp of rain and blood (hidden at least by the deep red color of the fabric), he takes it off and hangs it on a bit of exposed rebar. 

It was old and beautiful; burgundy and torn to shreds. The sleeves and the tail had cuts and rips that Elan knew he could never fix. He thought of a picture he'd found of the family's old staff, and the dedicated tailor among them. All gone now, gone since before his birth. This burden, like all before it, must be borne alone. 

Put it out of mind for now. 

He turned away from the coat to inspect his blade. Sharpening the noble edge sharpens the noble mind, he thought, and began to clean. His adventures to these parts were proving more expensive than he thought, but the rabble must know the Branche Family. Their petty vassals and pettier commoners had forgotten and darkness had come to them. 

By sword and torch and pistol he would bring light and flame back. He would polish the old blazonry with the blood of those foolish and cruel enough to have taken advantage of the weakness of his family. No longer would commoner merchant thugs an-

Hold. A sound. 

Elan jumped and turned, blade pointed at his empty coat, hanged and swinging in the breeze. 

Foolish. Too easily startled. Undignified. Waving your sword around at an empty coat. 

But then another sound, like the whimper of a kicked dog. 

“N-Nothing gets by you, milord….”

A hunched and crouching pathetic figure emerged from behind the rebar, raising its hands, but holding onto what seemed to be an especially short thin piece of scrap metal, bent at the end such that a thread could pass through it. 

Elan's mind raced. First, relief, then recognition. Figure was a boy. No older than thirteen or fourteen. Thin, so thin, tall and dressed in rags. 

“You. You're that kid from the other day. The mugging victim, yes?”

Wasn't that mugging four towns over? 

He left it unsaid. He continued. 

“What are you doing with my coat?”

The figure squirmed, and tried to stand up straight. 

“I-I-I saw. The state of your coat. And I thought I might be useful, milord…” It paused, and jumped as though shocked, “My lord.”

It gestured towards the left sleeve, and Elan's eyes traced the crimson thread from the needle in its scarred hand to the sleeve of the coat, partially sewed with baffling skill. 

Elan considered the boy. His hair gray (common in these chemically stained regions), his form clearly starved, his body shaking but his hands so very steady. 

Potential and possibility, all of it. Solutions to problems named and those he refused to name. 

“How useful,” Elan lowered his sword and allowed himself to smile, “would you like to be?”

[meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender]

Chapter One --------- A Burning Meteor

Summary: The Bad Batch returns after over a year away from Kamino. But things are not the same with a noisy Bright Eyed girl.

A/N: This is my last and final attempt to update my story. I love this story but wanted to update it as I've grown as a writer. Thanks to @lizartgurl for feeding my brain worms and @saradika-graphics for the paragraph break images.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, language, and abuse.

“Where are we at with the drive stabilization?” Hunter barked, cursing as the wires he held sparked and died. It would be a miracle if they made it out of hyperspace, much less Kamino, with the severe damage done to his ship.

“Kriff!” Wrecker bellowed as the Marauder lurched. His skull smacked against the metal bar as Hunter worked with Tech and Crosshair to keep the ship in one piece.

Fueling lines ruptured to Hunter’s left, leaking a foul, acidic stench. Lights flickered on the control panel, and an alarm wailed behind him, a shrill reminder of his ship’s frail capabilities. Hunter wondered where he could jam his knife into the wiring to make it karking stop for five seconds.

“We are almost to Kamino,” Tech announced over the chaos. Hunter spared a glance to the combusted right flank which burned a bright yellow.

“Get us there faster!” Wrecker complained. Hunter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. An electrical coupling went out to his left, increasing the colors flashing behind his eyes. He tightened his bandana. He just needed to make it through the next five seconds—and then the next five seconds.

“Everyone, strap in. We’ll have to land in the water unless we can slow our momentum,” Hunter spoke before sliding into a free seat once his vod strapped in.

“I’m going to be sick!” Wrecker yelled as the Marauder bounced from turbulence. 

Hunter blinked slowly and began to count: One, two…

“Don’t you karking vomit on me again!” Crosshair yelled. Hunter took another deep breath and gritted his teeth. They were almost home.

Three, four…

“Breaking out of hyperspace in three… two… one…”

Hunter’s stomach flung into his neck. Clenching the seat in his hands, his molars ground together as the bile rose in his throat. Flames burst on the rear right flank as they broke the atmosphere, and the rain of Kamino did little to stop it.

Five. They were home.

“Bay 218 is cleared and ready for arrival. Please proceed.”

Two emergency ships flanked the Batch, extinguishing the flames. Hunter sighed as lightning illuminated the northeast landing bay through the sheets of rain. Tech seamlessly guided them through the small hangar doors with steady hands, his racing heart the only sign of distress—the vibrations biting at Hunter’s skin.

“Preparing for landing,” Crosshair spoke, flipping a switch. There was one final sweep and drop before the Marauder touched down, sparking against the metal floors as she slid across the flooring. Hunter added the landing gear to the growing repair list.

Clone Force 99 sat for a moment, taking a breath. They had done it. Three hundred rotations away from home and a few close calls, they finally were home for some well deserved rest and repair. Though Hunter doubted it would be very long before the Grand Army of the Republic decided they needed the Batch’s help again.

Wrecker slammed the safety bar up and rubbed where he had hit his head, “Great flying, Tech!”

“Thank you, but I—”

Crosshair shoved out of his seat, blocking Hunter’s view of Tech. Metallic blaster residue wafted with his quick passing of Hunter, toothpick tucked between his white teeth.

“Are we clear to get off?” Hunter interrupted, flipping switches to turn off the control panel. A deep ringing sounded as Crosshair slammed his steel-toed boot into the door.

"The Karking door is stuck!” Cross hissed, kicking it again with more force. The door bounced open, bobbing back and forth, refusing to open fully.

“Let me get it!” Wrecker laughed.

“No, don’t-” Before Crosshair could stop him, Wrecker took off, jumping on the door and using his shoulder to break it open. The steps clattered down, and Wrecker fell out of the Marauder, thunking onto the concrete floors. Crosshair stepped onto the steps and over Wrecker’s body, no doubt making a snide remark. 

Hunter shook his head, turning to Tech who already had his datapad out, “Good job flying, Tech. Come on.” Hunter gestured for his vod to exit first. 

“You might wish to know we have a new assigned social worker, by the way. S.W. Shem,” Tech typed as he strolled off the ship.

“We get reassigned every two months. Does this surprise you?” Hunter smirked, removing his helmet. He stood atop the steps, surveying the ashen scorch marks scarring their ship. They had their repair work cut out for them, but at least they had supplies on Kamino compared to the backwater planets they had come from. The hair on Hunter’s arms lifted, the weight of a gaze settling over his skin- someone was watching. Hunter swept the room, finding most personnel tuned to either the Marauder or their tasks.

“Why would I?” A soft voice floated from the wall where a pair of women sat on cargo crates. The woman with blue hair gestured to the Marauder, smirking.

“That’s the Sargent. He’s your type. Tall, dark, handsome; blunt to match, according to SW Poth’s notes.”

Hunter blinked. Never in his life had he been considered attractive, and he hadn’t particularly thought about it either. He looked like every other clone except for his skull tattoo and long hair. His eyes slid to the other SW in question, covering her face in her hands. Shaking her head, she slid off the crate and looked up to address the blue haired SW. Her glimmering eyes narrowed, reminding him of a loth cat, as she tugged at the side of her jumpsuit, pressing her lips together. Her jumpsuit showed off the curve of her hips and waist and the long line of her legs.

Hunter snapped his eyes back to her face, her pretty eyes sparkling in the lights…

“Are you kidding me? That’s completely unethical, Shem,” The pretty woman hissed, head darting as if worried about someone overhearing her. “I’m already one misstep away from losing my job. I can’t afford schoolgirl jokes that’ll cost everything else.”

Hunter narrowed his eyes, observing her determined steps to the door. She hesitated at the threshold, stopping. Turning around, her eyes scanned the room until they landed on the Marauder. The hanger, blessedly, became din in those seconds as they locked eyes, her lips parting in an inaudible exhale. Hunter licked his dry lips and nodded his head in acknowledgement. Something harsh glimmered behind her pretty eyes, determined and precise, before she turned on her heel, her nose tilted up.

“She’s pretty,” Crosshair teased, drawing Hunter’s gaze away from the closing doors. He rolled his eyes.

“Who’s she?” Wrecker questioned Tech. 

“Must be medical personnel or an SW. I do not know; however, I will find out.”

“Goodie. Hunter can finally get his-”

“Enough, Crosshair. Unload while I report to Cody,” Hunter hissed, gesturing for Tech to follow him to the debrief rooms.

Bright Eyes sat in her office with a stack of data pads, signing off on paperwork between cadet observations.  While her roommate Shem ran psychological evaluations for the 212th, Bright worked alongside a few other SWs to track the psychological development of cadets. Bright worked specifically with failing cadets as a last-ditch effort to prevent cadets from being decommissioned. A cost-saving measure for the Kaminoans. 

The office door opened and Shem strolled in with two cups of caff. Smiling, Bright Eyes accepted the caff as Shem made herself at home on the couch.

“I thought your office would be crawling with ankle biters,” Shem teased.

“Usually yes. But no cadets today. They have their lessons,” Bright Eyes bit back a yawn. “I thought you would be doing intake with your new special ops team?”

Shem narrowed her eyes, always too worried for Bright Eyes’ wellbeing, “Not yet. I had to cover some other psych files today. Did you know their case has been passed from caseworker to caseworker? Nobody wants them for more than the three-month requirement period.”

Bright Eyes smirked, raising an eyebrow at her roommate, “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re baiting me to read their files. Something you should have read before they got planet-side, perhaps?”

“Oh come on! Troublesome troopers are your specialty! You would love reading their files,” Shem giggled. 

“Bantha shit!” Bright Eyes laughed. “So I can read them to do your work for you? Nice try. Read the damn files yourself!” Her laugh turned into a wince as she held her side just as Commander Cody and Rex strolled into her office.

“Where are all the cadets?” Cody teased, removing his bucket.

“Clearly hiding because they knew you were planet side,” Shem teased, moving over on the couch to make room for the men.

“Very funny. Don’t you have my men to hound with your tests?” Cody smirked, setting his bucket on the table. Bright Eyes yawned again as she set her data pad to the side to pick up a new one. “Why the yawning?”

“Just tired,” Bright Eyes brushed off, typing away.

“Just tired. Yeah right. Wanna tell them about the nightmares?” Shem prompted.

“Thanks for sharing on my behalf,” Bright Eyes sarcastically replied. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Ruussan, you were shot,” Rex injected, furrowing his brow. “By one of your cadets! That has never happened on Kamino.”

“It wasn’t his fault!” Bright Eyes shouted, standing from her seat, pressing a hand to her side. “It was mine. He was having a flashback with a startle response and I couldn’t help him deescalate. He is dead because of me.” 

“He is dead because the Kaminoans put him in decommissioning and found him defaulted,” Cody gently reminded. “You can’t save us all, Ruussan.”

“Not from the Kaminoans and not from ourselves,” Rex added, placing a hand on Bright’s shoulder. “Besides, what you two are doing with the Testimonial Project is above and beyond what anyone has done for us Clones. We need you both alive, Ruussan. One cadet for all of us Clones is a small price for freedom.”

[sanders1665]

Somewhere Between Faith and Static

god —

well, god’s a rumor,

a secondhand whisper passed down

from trembling lips,

held up like a busted umbrella

against the acid rain of existence.

faith?

faith is the old stray dog

that follows you home,

you feed it scraps of hope,

it sleeps by the door,

and you try not to think

about the fleas.

politics?

a carnival of clowns in expensive suits —

they juggle fear like flaming batons,

pantomime freedom for the crowd.

they smile with wolf teeth,

and you pay for the ticket,

applaud the illusion.

aliens?

hell, why not?

another gospel for the desperate,

the ones still squinting at the stars

looking for something

other than the emptiness.

maybe they pulled the strings,

maybe they laid the stones —

but why would they bother

with a planet so in love

with its own destruction?

science says we’re stardust,

particles spat from the mouth

of a screaming universe.

big bang. expansion. entropy.

everything from nothing,

and nothing creeping closer every day.

but sometimes,

I watch the wind move the leaves,

hear the hum of the earth beneath the asphalt,

and I think —

is that just particles too?

stories of minds bending spoons,

whispers of telepathy,

the shadows people swear they saw

but never prove.

maybe the ancient ones

carved the impossible with their thoughts,

stacked the stones with will alone.

maybe the sky itself bent to their hands.

but the question,

the question that gnaws the bone —

why?

why this circus of blood and laughter?

why the births and the burials,

the sunrises that ache with beauty

and the nights that swallow hope whole?

they say purpose is a candle we carry,

but I’ve cupped my hands

around that flame for years,

felt it flicker in the wind of every doubt.

what if there is no why?

what if we’re just echoes —

the last words of a dying star,

forgotten before they’re understood?

god, aliens, science —

belief’s a tired dog

and the truth’s just a bone

buried in the back yard.

I’ll dig, sure.

But I won’t pretend to know

what I’m hoping to find.

[hanafubukki]

How did everything turn against us

Lilia trudged in rain, clutching the egg close to him.

How did suffering become so endless

Levan…Meleanor…loss after loss.

I’m surrounded by souls of those I’ve lost

The blood of all those he slain tainted his hands and weapon. Those he could not save, dragged his feet, every step he took.

What if I’m the monster

What if I’m the one who killed you

How could he hatch this egg within his arms? Did he have what it takes? What if his inability to love killed Malleus?

What if I became the monster.

To everyone but us.

And made sure everything became dust but us

I’ll become the monster!

Let them all fall.

Let their blood splatter.

It didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t care.

The most precious bundle in his arms is all that mattered now.

Nothing else.

Then I’ll make it home!

He’ll bring Malleus home.

He’ll make sure Malleus lives.

He’ll do whatever it takes.

I’ll become the monster…

If he became the monster?

Then so be it.

Magearm blazed acid green, identical to a dragon’s flame.

Crimson eyes glowed.

He will be become the monster for his loved ones.

“Screeeee”

Lilia blinked…the world hazy.

Was something…nuzzling him?

“Kyuuuu?”

The baby dragonling stared at him, worried green eyes coming into focus.

He must have fallen asleep while reading. The day of play must have caught up to him.

A slight headbutt under his chin had Lilia laughing.

“I’m okay, Malleus,” Lilia stretched, “Why don’t we take a nap together hm? You can breathe fire at any bad guys.”

The dragonling swirled around him in joy, tiny flames escaping in his excitement to help his father.

Yes, a nap would be good right now.

With the warmth of his dragonling by his side, all of Lilia’s dreams were filled with comfort and joy.

Song: “Monster” by Jorge Rivera-Herrans

Hope you enjoyed 🫶💞

This drabble changed from what I orignally planned but I like how I went about it ☺️🥰 That fluffy end wasn’t there initially but I wanted to give some comfort and I saw a cute Lilia and Malleus art that had me adding in that section after. Baby Mal my beloved 💞💞

[aatifameer]

Sweet?

I am not sweet, I am bittersweet.

Even my tears are acid, eating away at what's left of me.

I yearn, I yearn, like a rabid beast clawing at its own flesh.

My hands are skeleton claws, grasping at air,

But you are the gentle flame, warming my cold bones.

My eyes are useless, empty orbs,

But in your gaze, they catch the glint of dawn, soft and tender.

My mouth is a cesspool, a ruin of bitter words and bile,

Yet you turn it into velvet, smooth like aged whiskey.

My lips are a desert, cracked, bleeding, sun-scorched,

You are the rain, falling softly, turning dust into bloom.

My body is a carcass, mangled, torn by time,

But you paint over my wounds, turning scars into quiet art.

My heart is red, a piece of rotting meat caged in bone.

Drain it,

Bleed it white.

~Aatif Ameer

[springsylph]

MAGNOLIA, CHAPTER ONE: “THE ROOT”

ghost x f! reader | read on ao3 | playlist

summary: your return to your coastal hometown is punctured by the sudden disappearance and subsequent death of your father. with all proof of his physical presence effaced, you resign yourself to a life of solitude. how fitting, then, that you should find God amidst your perils.

this story is 18+. minors/ageless blogs, do not interact. mind the tags!

warnings: 3.8k. dark!simon “ghost” riley. description of injuries. religious imagery/symbolism. blasphemy at some point in the near future (oops?). paranoia. mentions of suicide. familial grief is WEIRD, but simon is weirder so don't worry. 1 (one) slap. 1 (one) bug is consumed. just the one.

el·e·gy

/ˈeləjē/

noun

a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

You happen across a snarling dog in an alleyway.

The rain is a whip, and the darkness is a yawn stretched long enough to be cause for concern; muscles are pulled thin, vertebrae begin to collapse. Appraisal will only be possible if morning comes.

Moonlight cannot reach you here—will not reach you here. The only proof of life spills out from the window of a flat overlooking the alley, yellow glow a monitory push away as your soul unknowingly pleads for scraps. It warns you of danger. A weakened liver.

Yours recalls, with a sardonic twist, that it is far beyond help. So you approach.

The instinctual flinching stops after the first three barks, but spittle and rain continue to wet your face with each snap of his maw, nerves crackling the closer you get.

At seven paces away, he stands at odds with gravity. It’s not quite sure what to make of him.

At four, the beginnings of what might be fear breach the surface of your psyche. You’ve not seen your ribs, but you think that if he were to pry you open they might look a bit like his teeth.

It’s when you’re at arm's length that you realize he’s large enough to look you in the eye.

His breath, hot against the chill, reeks of an unfamiliar intensity.

(Liar.)

You stand transfixed until the wetness on your cheek splits, and you press a hand to the divide.

Tears.

You draw in a generous breath—your first sin. It’s all rusted iron and scorched muscle tissue, adhering to your lungs like the seductive intonation of a cigarette, and you’re addicted before you can swat at the hand stuffing it down your gullet.

You’re brought back to the dog as your hand lowers, now silent beneath the spray. 

The blood matting his coat isn’t his, but how could you have known?

How could you have known?

(Blood is blood.)

Blood is blood. So you kneel on the cobblestone—-though there is no need to. The rain continues to shout, and he is ever so tall, but you kneel. Bend the rain to do your bidding with the twist of a limb. Strip down that Red luster to a blank slate, vestiges of watered-down violence running down your fingertips in a wet stream. It collects under your nails like damp earth the harder you scrub, replaced and replaced and replaced again until you concede the empty space.

(Well done, well done, well done—)

His fur is wild briar when you finally pull back; ready to burst into flames if you aren’t careful, and so stiff that your hands begin to prickle at the loss. His teeth are still bared, mouth still parted. But he is silent. Frozen in time. And you can’t help but wonder if that softness the blood had alluded to was a ruse—the slick lip of a pitcher plant punishing you for your altruism.

(Altruism. Tumbling right into the belly of the beast, unarmed. Acid burning through your credulity.)

But there’s a spot of Red, just between his incisors. 

(Is it yours?)

Globbing at the tip of your ring finger.

(His? 

Is it his?)

You reach forward. Wipe.

(Again. And again. And again. And again.)

And it is a strange thing, Devotion. If not for the slip of the blood against your fingertips, the rain blurring where one wound ends and the other begins, you might notice that Desperation and Destruction wait just outside the downpour. Patient, but still lingering, for there are things far worse than the Red that bleeds onto the cobblestone to fear.

(Dog is made man. Man is made God. Abomination.)

You reach forward. Wipe again.

And begin anew.

The symphonies composed by the houses of the deceased ought to be a case study.

No matter how softly you tread, how carefully you press the weight of your body against the wall, the stairs let out a fetid belch. An old lover—now free of all pretense and releasing the pungent smell of mildew and wood rot while you creep to the bottom of the staircase.

But the smell is hardly noticeable when set beside the rest of the orchestra’s musicians. Dissonance was a given; their only valued patrons had been the insects crawling amongst the dust until you’d discovered that you’d been named your father’s beneficiary—hardly a qualified audience. At the behest of the rocking handrail, you turn the corner. Amble into the cramped kitchen, yank apart the yellowing curtains above the sink till they grind against their rusty rods to permit the sun entry.

Only, there’s no sun today. Just as there was no sun yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Nearly a week spent cohabitating with empty threats of war. You’re trapped in the jaws of a waterlogged trench with nothing to show for it but waning patience and a stiff neck.

Outside the small window, the houses just down the shallow hill are still that same shade of diluted molasses, dulled by the awning stitched together from heavy rain clouds. The cottage isn’t quite elevated enough to see the full stretch of the ocean that lies just beyond—only small underscores between clusters of buildings and trees. The waves you can see are cleaved into wedges, crowned with white foam and kneaded into themselves by the wind. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear them collapsing against the rocky shore.

(You’re eavesdropping on your own consciousness. You were weak, then—scraped your shin after the fishing line nearly dragged you out to sea. He’d cupped the salty water to your leg as you’d wailed, thrashed, clawed at his forearms. Everything not absorbed into the exposed flesh was returned to its source, and the meaning of the word “fester” was spelled out in the days that followed: pus bulging out of what could not scab, an agonizing itch that you were not permitted to scratch. A bad omen.)

You shut the curtains.

Looking down, you manage to scrounge up a little regret over the lack of appropriate attire. Someone would nag. A funeral in a ratty sweatshirt and jeans was in bad taste, yes, but you could hardly be blamed: yesterday’s laundry still swims in the wet breeze. You make a mental note to bite the bullet and call in that favor from Mr. Davies while you pull an empty glass from the countertop and shove it under the faucet.

The pitch of the water drowning out last night’s wine lacks the hubris of its competitors. It’s a difficult admission to make, but it rings true nonetheless. Each atom that exists in this foreign plane is an affront to them—an insult. It’d likely remain that way even after the last brick sunk into the wretched earth. 

But, it’s still a house.

The house is all you have left.

Your thoughts continue to perspire, pilling up the cheap fabric of time until you feel the water curling over your hands and hitting the bottom of the sink with a splat.

“Shit, shit, shit—” You slap the lever down, dump the excess liquid down the drain. The pipes give a weak gurgle and you shut your eyes with a sigh. 

Just for today. Just for today, and you were free. Absolved of all faults.

You wet your throat with the little bit of water still left in the glass. Set it down gently into the sink. Peer down the corroded pipe and into the hells below as your fingers dig into the countertop.

It’s much easier, you find, to regret and correct when there is silence that needs to be filled. Silence to shame.

So you keep your mouth shut, and quietly consider the water amidst the noise.

Your steps down the winding dirt road are hurried, but careful.

The trees are no less curious today than they were the last time you’d taken this trek to the church; trunks held back by the dry stone walls, dark branches suspended overhead like lightning. A swampy gust of air passes through their fingertips, tangling them together in an achromatic flash of black and grey before they settle their grievances and separate. They share a common interest. 

Air on the coast is a permanent brine. The very essence of it settles on your soft palate, tenderizing your tongue till you’re on a sharp enough edge to spit a glob of accumulated saliva into a patch of grass. The mosquitoes have grown tired of you by this point. They hover over the sweat on your neck, the skin of your ankles, discomfiture evident in the irregular beat of their wings. You’ve not made a move to swat at them in the twenty-seven minutes you’ve spent tripping over your shoelaces, and it seems your tacit assent has disturbed the natural order of things.

You can't help that your mind is elsewhere. Timing your arrival and your exit requires a considerable amount of effort.

When the steeple begins to poke out in the distance, you pull your phone from your pocket. 11:43 am. Good. At the pace you were walking it’d likely be another ten minutes till you reached the main yard, leaving you with just enough time to say your “hellos” without having to linger. But just as you begin to slide your phone back into your pocket, it pings.

>> Sounds like an issue with the ventilation. Earliest I can do for you is tomorrow afternoon.

You squint. Right. You’d contacted Mr. Davies about the issue with your dryer just before you’d left the house this morning. How he’d managed to suss out the issue with your stairs from a single phone call was beyond you, but the persistence of your wet clothes had backed you into a tight corner.

But…tomorrow. Tomorrow, Tomorrow. You’re off early tomorrow—though not of your own volition. You’re halfway through typing a message of confirmation when your phone pings again, and your gut punches into your spine.

>> Can send my guy over to have a look at the cellar.

Another text comes in.

>> Emergency with the missus, won’t be back till late next week. Best to have it looked at ASAP if we’re dealing with mold.

The trees looming overhead are suddenly sharp in your peripherals. Pikes for your beheading. As you rack your mind for memories of other employees, your hands begin to feel clammy. You didn’t want someone else. You wanted Mr. Davies. And the cellar. What did the cellar have to do with the mold in the staircase—

A shout just down the road startles you. Your head snaps up and you’re shoving your phone back into your pocket when you hear your name called again.

The figure that approaches waves a hand, and you feel your body instinctively mirror her in an attempt to shelve your panic for later. Community connections are important, after all. Even when they’re breathing sour coffee into your nostrils, and their cheap red press-ons dig into the meat of your cheeks while they pinch, and coo, and squawk.

Distant cousin, aunt, family friend—you’re not quite sure yet. But she has your father’s nose and the same crow’s feet, so you suspect she’s somehow related to you by blood. And, judging by the smoldering cigarette hanging from the corner of her dry lips, she’s already well into her exit route.

“Christ, haven’t seen you since you were still running around in nappies!” She takes the fat of your right cheek into one hand and gives it another tug, using the otherwise unoccupied hand to tap her cigarette ashes into the air. “Shot up like a bean sprout, you did. I told them—told everyone, really—you’d catch up. Knew you would, eventually. They didn’t believe me, but I knew.”

Unaccustomed to the familiarity of the gesture, you stiffen in her grasp while your mouth twists between a smile and a grimace. There’s a dig nestled in there somewhere. But there’s not much time to process it; your equilibrium is tipped the moment the woman loops a leathery arm through your elbow to pull you forward, and you stumble after her as she turns to walk back toward the church. Her pace only evens out once you’ve settled in close enough to brush shoulders.

Not knowing her name is a disadvantage. The conclusion is drawn in greater detail the longer she speaks, twisting around your lungs with enough force to burst the blood vessels that reside there. You don’t know enough. Either that, or she knows too much. It should be easy enough to ask what exactly she is to you, and yet, you can’t. You’re not sure you know how. You chalk it up to her unbroken ramblings and settle for the polite choice: nodding in place of a response.

She doesn’t ask you much about yourself—small mercies. It’s balanced out by the curious glances she shoots you as the minutes slog by. But something etched into the ground must remind her of your sentience, because her face suddenly lights up as she breaks off in the middle of an anecdote to look at you.

“I hate that we had to meet under these circumstances,” she begins, voice rife with something you now can categorize as pity. The coffee still renders it rotten. “Terrible thing, what happened to your father. Can’t imagine what you must be feeling.” 

“Mm.”

You curse inwardly. Too clipped—you’ve let your frustration get the better of you. But the woman doesn’t seem to mind; she finally pulls her arm from your elbow, and you’re almost able to relax until she begins to rub her hand up and down your back. The sensation is peculiar, as is the sound of her hand passing over your sweatshirt.

“Still living in that old shack?” She prods.

Old shack, house, same thing. “I…still am, yeah.” You pause. “Why do you ask?”

“Just reminiscing, is all. It’s a good thing you’ve got there.” And her voice trails off, lost to another round of tapped ashes and shifting dirt.

You manage a nod. You didn’t have much choice in the matter, anyhow.

The churchyard comes into view soon enough. Despite how often you haunt its grounds, you’ve never had much to say about it. It’s old, you suppose. Made from stone, but more of an imprint than a structured thing now that the dense fog has settled over the cliffs behind it.

(At the foot of the cliffs is the sea, still churning in time with the wind.)

“I’m here, if you need anything.”

It’s your turn to look. She’s finally stopped touching you, both hands empty and swinging lazily at her sides. 

If you…need anything. 

“Of course,” you mumble.

You’re distracted by the hesitant timbre of an organ. Its handler is unpracticed.

“I appreciate it.”

It’s over.

You’re sitting in the very first pew. Hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes glazed.

It’s over.

You remember a few faces, more unfamiliar than familiar. Pupils had narrowed as you’d trailed in behind “Bethie.” A family friend, not a relative. The nose had meant nothing.

They’d smelled the tobacco clinging to her and laughed, sucking out the humidity that’d crept indoors like venom from a snake bite. Proximity had allowed you to reap the benefits, but not for very long. Their eyes had turned to you with the same curiosity Bethie hadn’t the wherewithal to fully disclose, but they were quick with their heavy-handed condolences in the interest of time. Another blessing.

You can remember more things than faces. Light filtering through the stained glass windows. The sound of tongues unsticking themselves from the roofs of mouths before every speech, every discordant hymn. That air of indecisiveness in knowing that the urn was hollow, that there was not enough left of the body to constitute a casket.

They express their joys, their sorrows, though you identify with none of them. There’s disbelief, too. That such a man would take his own life. You find yourself nodding along with the chorus of sniffles and sobs. Impossible. Unbelievable.

But one voice—you cannot, for the life of you, remember the face it belonged to—relied upon the poeticism of it all. The ocean had been harsh in its taking, he’d said. But your father, more than anything, had loved it. Those gathered could be hopeful in that regard. He had died at the hands of something he loved.

Everything after that was a blur. Whatever words you’d uttered during your speech were a blur. But it was enough for claps, and a few chuckles. Nothing like the laughs Bethie had prompted, but a response was a response. 

Invitations to convene afterward at the local pub are declined. You’re tired. You need time to think. You miss him.

They leave.

The nave has been emptied.

It’s over. Long gone. Downstream. Discarded.

And you’re still sitting in the pew.

You look down, after hours have passed, to find your shoelaces still untied. The growling of your stomach and the weight of your head on your shoulders fold you over, and you will your fingers to refasten them. It’s time to leave.

When you stand, it’s with a wince. You’ve tied your strings too tight. You can feel your arches pulsing in time with your heartbeat, but you can only hope that the sensation will keep you sane long enough to make it home.

As you turn to finally walk down the aisle, you’re struck by a sudden chill. Anxiety blossoms in the confines of your throat, tearing through muscle and vocal cords that are ill-equipped to handle such pressure.

It should be over.

But something has been unearthed.

Your eyes flit from one thing to the next in the cavernous space, searching for the disturbance until your eyes lock with a divot in the shadows. 

The moment you meet his stare is like flint to steel. The darkness disperses, leaving behind—

This.

(There is a dull horror here. The crepuscular noises of your residence, appearing only at night when the chill has set in and the foundations have shifted. A tree felled by a violent storm. Sinking its teeth into a house occupied by unsuspecting bodies. Time has remedied what it can, righting nature’s wrongs with roots and vegetation to soften the edges of all that has split open. Pieces of the outside world have been braided into the vines. But the more you look, the more you begin to see that it is not a braid, but a sickening tangle. Hair shorn with rusted clippers and impatient hands. A bent nose pushing out from beneath a mask. Bones, wrapped in hulking muscle. Eyes. The hint of a mouth. Was there a victor? The tree? The house? You’re unsure. But you do know that all who set eyes upon this mass have lost.)

You’re sure that he is many things. But he appears to you as a human, so you greet him as such.

“...Hello?”

You think his eyes have withdrawn under the heavy cliff of his brow bone until it dawns on you that he’s blinked. A slow sort of thing, yet once it’s over it’s as though it never happened.

“‘Ello,” he responds. An echo tinged with mockery. Flint to steel. Flint to steel. Flint to steel until there is nothing left to strike with but your bare hands.

In the back of your mind sits a flinching clock. Growing more and more anxious as the seconds stretch on. The man sits in the rear of the church, closest to the exit.  The pews reject him. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you reach for it almost immediately. Some robocaller looking to scam you out of your meager savings. You set it to your ear like a shield as you walk, measuring your steps so it isn’t obvious that you’re attempting to flee.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Over and over until his voice spears your chest in one quick thrust once you’re standing just beside where he lurks.

“You’ve been sitting there a while.” You think you can hear the wood screaming under his weight. It chokes out into a whimper when he opens a heavy thigh out into the aisle. “Believe in God, do you?”

He thinks you were praying.

“I’m just here for my dad,” you supply. You keep your eyes trained on the heavy wooden door. You don’t look, but you hear the pop of a single knuckle.

“Tha’s not wha’ I asked.”

Cheek still pressed to your phone, you gulp. You should answer, and answer only. Par for the course. But you overshoot:

“No,” you confess. Then, after a pause, “not really.”

The man hums as the rest of his knuckles pop. “Why.”

He sounds young enough not to judge you for your lack of faith. Old enough for you to recognize that he’s probably toying with you. So you throw him a bone: a saccharine pursing of lips while you “contemplate” your response. You’ve been plagued by thoughts of this omniscient stranger longer than most.

“It’s a little easier to believe all the shit luck I’ve had happened by chance.” You slide your phone into your back pocket, seeing as the poorly put together excuse isn’t working. “Someone else trying to pull my strings sounds a little too human for my tastes.”

Nerves are shoved into a cramped corner, and you shift your focus from the doors to the man’s face. Interestingly enough, he turns his gaze back toward the altar.

“Made in his image, ain’t we?”

“I hope not.”

He barks out one laugh, then another, and your body seizes up. It rattles up your spine, metal rod clanging against the bars of a cage.

You’ve met your fair share of strange men, but something tells you that you’ve bitten off more than your mouth can chew. More than your stomach can digest. More than your body can entertain.

A glance at the crack in the door tells you that the sun has been cut from the sky. It’s nighttime.

Go.

“I’ll…be off then,” you say. His shoulders are still shaking when you finally wrap your fingers around the cold door handle, prepared to walk out into the nothingness.

Only to stumble sideways when a calloused hand slams into your neck, shoulder crashing into the wall next to you and sending a spark of pain through your collarbone. One blink, and he’s towering over you. Previously dispersed shadows form a curtain around the two of you as he hauls you upright with one hand.

“Mosquito,” he says. “Nasty little buggers, hm?” He flashes you his palm as proof.

You, still winded, still lightheaded, force yourself to nod. There is no apology.

Any sense of composure you’d prided yourself on is torn to shreds when you burst out of the front door, neck still throbbing. You must be imagining things. Another bad dream, come to haunt you.

It must be.

(You’re sure of it, for no other reason than the fact that when you chance a look over your shoulder, you think you see him drag a palm over the flat of his tongue.)

CHAPTER TWO: “ROOT ROT” ->

[cielob03]

[June 2024 Art] → [My part of the AT] ← This is the part of the AT that Melody M. made of my OC Lito x Alastor, LOOK AT THIS LITTLE COUPLE ON A RAINY DAY! Illustrated with BEAUTIFUL ART! PLEASE LOVE IT! ✨

Melody M. Social Networks: Twitter [X]: https://x.com/0MelodyMarquez0 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/60.spring.09/ Tumblr: https://melody-marquez.tumblr.com/ DA: https://www.deviantart.com/flame-finn-marce

This situation could be considered cute. A handsome gentleman offering his umbrella to a lady in distress, but OH! Lito is having one of her "blue moments" here. She intentionally stood under the rain... Luckily, it's just normal rain and not acid rain, otherwise, she would have let the drops hurt her and wouldn’t have cared. 😥

Fortunately, Alastor saw her and offered her his umbrella, even though Lito, at that moment, is completely blank, feeling an enormous emptiness for no apparent reason. Poor girl!

I really loved how Lito and Alastor turned out in this style. Plus, I LOVE the background, the coloring, Lito, Alastor, EVERYTHING! 🥰 Mel truly captured what I wanted for this scene, not necessarily romantic. I see them more as friends supporting each other here. ;3 THANK YOU SO MUCH for the ART! 💙✨

[storges-oranges]

Feeling insane about the hound origin again

Warnings: LI death mentioned, "Hound" title is treated rather literally as in; very doglike devotion, mentions of blood and injury. Please tell me if i should add anything else.

Title: by Leah Horlick

There is something to be said about Vere and the hound. Something about being collared or abandoned on a road after playing fetch. Something about looking at everyone distrustfully, despite knowing that absolute loyalty is the only thing you were made to feel. Something about remembering where that loyalty got you. Something about wanting help, needing help, but the only thing you can do now is bite.

The hand that seeks to harm, the hand that seeks to help, the hand that seeks to comfort, they all feel the same against your teeth don't they?

How does a fight dog love another fight dog anyway?

Ais loves you the way a nature reserve worker loves the beasts under his care. You bite him and look up, his hand still in your jaw, expecting anger. Expecting him to strike you for daring to betray him like this.

He smiles and pats you on the head. When you release his hand, he offers you tea. He keeps you around. He is so patient with you. Others would've left you. You can feel yourself getting attached. Again. You hate yourself for it but you stay.

Because you never leave first. That's not allowed for you.

You spend your days visiting him and joking around, wrestling his attention away from the soulless or Vere. When Vere pisses you off, you make a show of holding Ais's injured hand, with your teeth marks still visible on his skin. Ais chucles at your possessiveness.

The first kiss you shared started off as a bite, too.

Before he dies, you drop to your knees and hold his hand. He's looking up at you with an unbearable gentleness, and his body is getting colder.

Without thinking, you bite. 'How stupid' you think. 'He is bleeding to death already' But he understands you better than you do yourself, so he pats you on the head, and tells you it's going to be okay.

You clamp down on his hand harder, because the only things that stay are the ones caught between your teeth. Because that's the only thing you know how to do.

You never told him you loved him. You never showed him in the tender way you dreamed of. You wail into his open wound.

But it's ok. Ais understands. You know it by the way he tenderly holds the back of your head, by the way he smiles at you. By the ways he tells you to be good and take care of yourself after he's gone.

Kuras got used to seeing you sitting front of the back-door to his clinic. You're there in the acidic rain of Eridia, you're there in the suffocating sandstorms, you're there in freezing winter storms too.

You're there when he comes back from another harrowing experience that chipped away at his faith in humanity. He sees you right as his guilt and hopelessness threaten to swallow him whole.

You rise to your feet upon seeing him. You ask to open the door to escape the apocalyptic weather.

He is taken aback by... your continued presence? Your optimism? He doesn't know. But you are there, like you always are. You both get in, like you always do.

He offers you food, real food instead of the atrocities you got from...where did you get that exactly? Why can't you buy normal food? "The wet wick doesn't have anything edible" And that is better? You shrug. Doesn't Leander pay you for your services? "Its late this week".

You follow him around. As always. Until you both sit by the fire, plate in hand. Kuras watches the flames dance absent-mindedly until he feels you shift closer to him.

"Long day, huh?" You say, mouth full.

Your eyes are so pretty, illuminated by the fire as they are. He knows you went through alot , but they are still so pure, so full adoration. You look at him with so much adoration. He is an old being, he knows what adoration looks like in humans. He is unsure if he deserves it.

The day left him feeling like it was all for naught again. That really, he should just step back into the shroud and let history take its course. But he looks at you, at your worried face. He thinks of you sitting on the porch of his backdoor, waiting. Waiting in the rain , waiting in the sandstorm, waiting in the cold. For him to come back. To let you in. To come in with you.

He knows you would stay there for an unreasonable amount of time. Alone. Faithful.

He cannot bear the thought.

His hand finds your cheek before he knows what he is doing. Before he can take it back, you nuzzle against it, grinning.

Its like a weight is lifted off of his shoulders. If its for you, he can make it another day. If you're waiting, he will always come back.

[utterimmolation]

SPOP WINTER SOLDIER (kind of) AU

Trying to inspire myself to finish this one by sharing:

She gasps for breath, staring wide-eyed up at the equally exhausted looking foe. One minute she'd been on top of a tank, staring out as the Rebellion "barracks" were engulfed in flame, trying to place the uncomfortable feeling in her gut as soft-looking cadets(?) fled the area with their equally soft-looking commanders.

The next, she'd had a name for that feeling: vertigo. The sound of something not unlike acid rain on a shingle, accompanied by the smell of flowers and something like the rare sugar cubes Shadow Weaver rewarded her tea with on an especially good day was the only warning she got before pudgy hands seized her tail and world shifted in a haze of pink. Her organs lurched and she didn't even try to lash out at what had to be a princess as she collapsed to the ground, more focused on trying not to hurl her guts out.

"Call off your attack Horde Scum!" The princess shrieked, hands glowing with ominous fluorescent power. She didn't look too steady herself, her glittering, nauseous-looking pink curls matted with ash and sweat.

Still, she had the advantage, given that she had hands full of some kind of shimmering magic and the ability to seemingly pop in and out of existence at will and Catra had…well claws were all well and good but she had a feeling that it wouldn't be enough. Maybe if she could distract them, she could get in a swipe, as soon as it stopped feeling like her tongue was too big for her—

A dark blur on her peripheral is all the warning she gets before something dark and tall and strong slams into the stout princess looming over her and seemingly body-checks the pinkette halfway across the battlefield.

Feline eyes widen as they absorb the sight looming of them: a humanoid, armored in the black and grey of the Horde, sickly green wings menacingly emblazoned upon their chestplate. Steel plates clink and shift over thick armor weave as straining, muscular shoulders and arms ripple and strain against their confines. Muscled thighs that look capable of crushing stone between them flex in armored combat pants. Steel-toed boots crush smouldering grass and ash under this powerful frame. The lower half of their face is sealed beneath a toughened plasteel vented mask. Blond hair cut short at the top nestles upon a military undercut. And between the two…

"You," Catra breathes and she swears the steel-blue orbs peering back at her flicker with recognition. For a moment, all sound stops. For a moment, the world seems to pause. For a moment, all Catra can do is gaze into the very, very pleasing eyes (and arms and legs and neck and—) of this warrior and think: beautiful.

[bedtime-broadcast]

Zestial: Hark, Alastor. How fare thee this day?

Alastor makes a radio static sound effect, looking slightly scared

Egg Boi: Who's that, boss? Want me to rough him up for you?

Alastor: Follow in silence if you value your shell! *taps Egg Boi's shell with his cane before turning back to Zestial* Greetings, Zestial!

Zestial: Ah, the weather doth become this fine day.

Alastor: Indeed, looks like we might have some acid rain this afternoon!

Zestial: If our luck doth hold! I do revel in the screams. How art thou? *begins walking down the street with Alastor* It has been an age since thou hath graced us with thy presence. Some hath spun wild tales of you falling to... holy arms.

Alastor: *laughs* Oh, I just took a well-earned sabbatical, nothing serious. *adjusts bow tie and coat in a window reflection as his eye shift side to side* Though it's fun to keep everyone on their toes *laughs as a laughing sound effect plays from his microphone*

Zestial: *chuckles* There too hath been rumor of thy involvement with the princess and her recent flight of fancy. Tell me, *cloak flares open briefly* how dost thou fall in such folly?

Alastor: *spins cane* That is for me to know. But please, do guess, I'd love to know the theories! *continues walking*

Zestial: *chuckles* T'would be grander folly by far to assume the workings of your mind, Alastor. Thou hath been naught but an enigma since thy manifested in this realm!

Alastor: Coming from someone as ancient as you, I take that as quite the compliment!

Zestial: *looks down and finally notices the baby in the stroller* Oh my! Oh my stars and stagnant skies… What be this cherubic creature thou wheels before thee?

Alastor: *Voice softening slightly, eyes twinkling* Ah, allow me to present the star of the show—my daughter, Calliope. Isn’t she radiant?

Zestial: *examines the baby* …Thy daughter bears a most peculiar visage.

Alastor: Oh yes my little baby certainly shine like the sun amongst the dirt and grime around these parts!

Zestial: I wouldst say she resembles not just light, but a very particular flame. Golden curls, radiant skin, the shape of her eyes… *Leans in just slightly, head tilting* Does she not remind thee, perhaps… of the Princess?

Alastor: *blinks* I have no idea what you’re talking about. Many babies have golden curls, dear Zestial. Why, I’m sure yours must’ve looked the same, once upon a millennia.

Zestial: *stares at Alastor* Art thou truly blind to it… or doth thou simply refuse to see?

The stroller creaks to a stop. Alastor stands still. The red of his eyes flickers faintly, like a frayed transmission. His microphone buzzes with a low, almost imperceptible hum.

Alastor: *grinning menacingly* Honestly Zestial you and your theories. Calliope is my pride and joy.

Zestial: How do thou acquire such bundle of joy?

Alastor: Simple. I gave birth to her.

Zestial: *looks deadpanned* How now, what’s this?

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"STOP LYING!"

I WROTE ANOTHER FIC WITH CHARLES HELLER

I hope you like it! 🖤

THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS OF THE AMATEUR

You had a new delivery, this time in London.

So, as always, you quickly loaded the missile warheads onto the back of your truck and headed for England.

The buyer had arranged to meet you at an abandoned warehouse northeast of the city.

It seemed like a strange place to meet, since the area hadn't been redeveloped in several years, so it was still standing on its old foundations.

Still, you didn't try to renegotiate.

The buyers were the ones who chose the delivery location for a very simple reason: they were the ones with the money.

You entered London, feeling the chill of the rain that the atmosphere warranted.

You looked at the truck's GPS and headed for the delivery location.

No one was there when you arrived.

You frowned, since you had agreed to meet at five-thirty, and it was already almost six.

No one had ever been so late.

You decided it was best to take a look around, investigate the place in case the buyer was a lunatic or something similar.

It wasn't the first time your buyers were psychopaths, murderers, or rapists—people who must have spent their entire lives behind bars instead of living in society with the rest of humanity.

You tucked your gun into the waistband of your pants and started walking.

You used your phone's flashlight to illuminate the areas where sunlight didn't reach.

Then you saw a box sitting in the middle of the room.

You wondered what something like that was doing in a place like that, and even though all your senses were screaming at you to stay away, curiosity finally got the better of you.

You lifted the lid and that's when you saw it: a bomb made with homemade materials, but still very well put together.

Your phone started ringing, and you took it out of your jacket pocket and put it to your ear.

"Who is it?"

"The buyer," he introduced himself, "I suppose that when you came here to make another of your deliveries, you didn't expect any of this to happen, right?"

"Look, man, I don't know what you want. I only brought what you asked for, nothing more," you blurted out, starting to panic

You looked at the lid and moved it slightly, imperceptibly.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice entered the scene.

A dark-haired man of medium height watched you from a safe distance.

"The cables are connected to a couple of bottles of ammonium nitrate hydrochloric acid," he announced. "If you move the lid, these two components will mix, creating a flame, and… well, I don't think you need me to explain what happens next."

"I don't know who you are, or why you're doing this," you whispered. "But I want to get home to my family in one piece if possible."

"At least you have a family to go back to," he growled, taking out his phone and showing you a picture of a woman. "Do you know her?" he asked. "Do you know who she is?" "I've never seen her in my life," you answered truthfully.

"She was my family," he blurted out, his voice breaking. "Some friends of yours killed her, so I'm not going to let you go until you tell me the name of the one who pulled the trigger."

"I don't know what you're talking about…"

"You're lying," he interrupted. "If you want to see your family again, I suggest you start talking, and fast."

"I've never seen the woman in the photo before, you have to believe me," you said. "But I know where you can find the guy who did it," you muttered. "He has a ship in the Russian sea."

"Russia has 37,653 kilometers of coastline," he explained. "In what sea?"

"I don't know."

"Stop lying!" he yelled. "In what sea?"

"In the Baltic, damn it!" you finally blurted out. "Are you going to let me go now?"

"If you run fast enough, you might be able to escape the explosion," he muttered, turning to leave. "Good luck."