#it could be the figure doomed to die from saving someone

[biruesque]

"I'm going to become a prince!"

[deadsetobsessions]

Between the whole “clone trying to kill her original version” thing and the whole “trying to find herself after being freed from the millionaire fruit loop halfa” thing, Danielle “Ellie” Phantom figured that she’d fit right in with Gotham.

They’ve got shades, a concerning amount of undead, and the people there seem to have traumatic backstories galore. Perfect.

Danny might die again if she told him where she’s staying, though. So she won’t tell him!

Ellie touched down in an alley near the first bus stop into Gotham, returning to the visible spectrum and returning her intangibility. She wanted to explore everything, and where better to start than the entrance of Gotham?

She slips out of the alley, walking past the terrified looking tourists. Ellie ignores the smell of soot they gave off, attributing correctly that it came from the explosion she heard before she approached Gotham. The city, like any other major city, was littered with trash and odd bits of metal. There’s graffiti too, but less so than the sunnier cities. The clouds- and smog, because Ellie could smell it miles away from the city- that obscured the sky left the city in a chilling atmosphere. Hazy. Like, a graveyard at dawn. Perfect for someone like Ellie.

It’s so different from Amity, stone where she dreaded plaster, gloom and doom where she dreaded seeing sunshine she couldn’t reach. 

Ellie wandered, under bridges, and in between paths. She danced through shootouts, glides past brawls, laughs when pick pockets find their hands empty after bumping into her.

She gets a coffee and one of those delicious lemon bars, with Vlad’s money. Hers, now that Tucker’s gotten his hands on Vlad’s inner systems. The barista gives her a suspicious look, but she brings out her strongest midwestern accent and the look melts into exasperation. And pity, but Ellie doesn’t really care about that. She “ooh’s and ahh’s” at the grimy stone, the gothic inspired architecture that Sam would kill to experience, goggles at the boarded up buildings. There’s a cathedral or two or five, she doesn’t remember, but the pretty glass seems to be broken at most of them. She wonders what happened. Then she remembers that there are vigilantes here, and concludes that she has to remember to look up more often. A giant clock-tower. A district with less people and fancier homes. A university! She might apply after she’s done traveling around and have gotten her GED.

Her shoes pound the pavement, something about the effort it takes to take a step burns in her soul. Yes, this is what it means to be free. She kicks the knees of two would be robbers in as she passes them on her way to purchasing three bars of the best chocolates she’s had in her short existence.

The cashier looks at her like she’s odd. Oh, well.

And then night falls. Ancients, does the city truly come alive. There are screams and sirens and surges in ectoplasm that balances her essence of being out. Ellie, with a new pep in her step, follows the trail of ectoplasm right into an area called “Crime Alley.”

“It feels almost like… a haunt…?”

Ellie hums and keeps walking. Maybe this is the territory of one of the undead Gothamites…?

She’s got a bit of Danny’s saving people thing after all, because the three bars of candy on her is gone in minutes to children with hollow cheek and dead eyes. 



Ellie startles backwards as a body slams onto the pavement in front of her, barely missing the risen steps of the building they were in front of.

“Oh.” She says. Because this is one of the Undead. And he’s Red Hood. Danny is going to flip.

“Run- run, kid.”

Ellie tilts her head. “And why would I do that?”

“You’re gonna get hurt, brat!” The man barks, and winces as his ribs shuttered. The red helmet’s tinny voice doesn’t intimidate her nor does it hide the concern and fear bleeding into the guy’s body language.

“Not really?”

And with that, Ellie slams her elbow into Goon 1, knocking him straight into another building. Goon 2 tries to grab her and she phases out of his reach, floating upwards and slamming her fist into his face. He joins Goon 1 in decorating that building’s new mural, called the two dumbasses that picked a fight with a wandering Ellie.

Hood watches her, cradling his ribs.

“You a meta?” He grumbled at her, wheezing as she crouched down and poked his sides. He smacks her hand away.

Ellie, who has clearly spent too much time near Danny, replies, “Being dead is a medical condition.” without missing a single beat.

Hood, on the other hand, misses several beats.

“What?”

Ellie barrels on, amused at his fumble. “Did you know you died?”

Hood looks at her and Ellie swears she can see the dumbfounded expression.

Ellie laughs, free and sharp. Yes, Gotham is nothing like Amity.

[astraariel]

scarlett love

pairing: sanji x fem!reader

summary: you forgot him, chose to let Sanji go, but was that enough? would the universe leave you alone and let you live in peace?

word count: 4.1K

warnings: cursing; spoilers (?) just mention of a character from the whole cake island arc, it’s a modern!au so I don't mention anything about the actual arc!

tags: angst; fluff; hanahaki disease; modern!au; reconciliation; second chances; unrequited turned requited; slight self-hate; happy endings

author’s note: okkkkay here it is. so many of you guys asked for it so here’s pt 2 to eternal snow! I initially wanted to post the mihawk fic first that i'm working on but I can’t finish writing it for the life of me so I decided to work on this one instead lol.

like I mentioned before, this is part 2 to this fic so obvi read that before you read this one!

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

They say people who have the surgery are doomed for life.

How could they choose to never love again; how could they deliberately go through with the surgery knowing they would never have those emotions again?

But in actuality, it was the choice of forgetting about that love. 

People don’t know the grievances and the strength it takes to choose to forget the love of your life. They don’t know the despair of being in love with someone wholeheartedly knowing they don’t love you back.

That you would never remember those emotions for whom you loved. 

You saw it as this: if you couldn’t live to love your person, you wouldn’t bear to love at all.

So in that way, you won.

You gained the power to no longer grieve for your love because you simply couldn’t remember him.

Since hanahaki disease was rare, there weren’t too many recovery patients to base knowledge on since many of the victims chose to die rather than to be saved. 

So you were honestly going in blind.

Nami would sometimes ask you if you could remember anything, a nervous look on her face, you knew she remembered your past love, but the doctor had told her to not mention anything to you in your recovery period. You think she asked out of curiosity.

Or maybe fear?

But every time you’d just tell her that you couldn’t, your head would hurt if you thought too hard and too long about who you had lost.

If you could remember specific memories, they weren't fully visualized, they were static, like when an old TV was out of range from the signal and would struggle to picture the channel.

All you could remember was his silhouette, his figure blurry and his name was always on the tip of your tongue but you could never place your finger on it. 

You remember during your first check-up, the doctor had asked you if you could describe your past love, 

“I'm not sure.” 

Your voice had been wobbly like you were on the verge of crying. Tears had pricked your eyes, along with the feeling of not being able to breathe even though those damn flowers were gone. 

Not being able to understand why?

That feeling went away a week later.

You laugh at yourself now, chiding yourself for being ridiculous back then. 

At what point could you have allowed yourself to be so deeply in love with someone that it was killing you? You could never understand. 

It was an absurd, abysmal idea that you had ever gotten to that point.

While the doctor said the following months would be difficult getting used to your new life of having one less emotion, you were fine.

It had helped that Nami had stayed by your side, and when she couldn’t Sanji would.

Sanji was an angel. 

He tended to your every need, always made sure you didn’t lift a finger even after you told him multiple times you could do it yourself. 

But he always reassured you he didn’t mind.

You were sad to hear that he stopped seeing Pudding. It was honestly too bad because she was good for him, he deserves someone who can love and care for him just as much as he cares for others.

Nevertheless, you were glad he was here for you. 

The sound of music playing softly in the background comforts you as you shuffle through your kitchen making dinner. 

You and Sanji have recently started having weekly dinners with each other, an idea he came up with.

“We can update each other about our lives, good ole fashion face-to-face interaction.” 

“I don’t think my life is going to change too much in the week we don’t see each other, Sanji”

The sound of the door ringing pulls you from your thoughts, drying your hands with a towel, you walk over to the front door.

The cool November breeze greets you as soon as you open the door, Sanji’s figure fills your view. 

The coat he’s wearing to protect himself from the wind encapsulates him in a way that makes you smile instinctively, you can see his red ears peeking from under his blond hair.

“Come in, come in, I was just finishing up dinner.”

“Oh, can I help you with anything else?” he offers while shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack beside the front door. “Or are you not allowing me into your kitchen again?” he smirks toward you.

You roll your eyes and scoff, “It’s my turn to make dinner, you cook for a living, it's my time to shine now, dude.” He chuckles and begins to set the table for the two of you. 

The warm food fills the plate in your hand, placing it on the counter, you grab another plate. “So, how’s work?”

Sanji grabs both of the plates and brings them to the table, setting them down, he looks back at you. “Ah, the old man’s got me working late most days.”

You smile softly at the scene; since you can remember you and Sanji have been able to work in tandem. Back when Nami first introduced you, it was like a pull connecting the two of you, also guiding and leading the two of you in perfect harmony.

It was nice.

Finishing your dinner, Sanji grabs his cup, “That was delicious, thank you.” 

“Well I did have a decent teacher,” you say into the glass smiling, gulping down the liquid you set it back down and look at Sanji.

He goes to say something before he’s interrupted by a cough.

Sanji turns his head and coughs into a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, he quickly wipes his mouth before looking back at you, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Shaking your head in acknowledgement you begin cleaning up the dinner table. 

“Oh I forgot, I bought flowers, they’re in the living room let me grab them real quick.” Sanji stands quickly.

Turning, you watch him walk away, not catching the lone petal falling out of his pocket.

♡‧₊˚

Vinsmoke Sanji has done a lot of things.

Some of which he regrets, but others he stands by, but there was one that met both criteria.

And that was you.

He was glad he met you, that he was able to spend time being with you, loving you, and knowing that you loved him back.

But he regrets hurting you. He regrets letting himself be temporarily infatuated with Pudding. Sanji had laughed in the face of fate, and in return, he got what he deserved.

His impending end.

The petals had shown up the day you went into the hospital.

While you were given a second chance at life, Sanji had just signed his away. 

He remembers the memory of Nami telling him what had happened. He had it permanently seared into his brain, never allowing himself to forget the moment. 

Her eyes were red, face hot with anger when she pulled up to his house.

“You absolute idiot.” He hadn’t even fully opened the door before she was swearing at him, cursing him to the ends of the earth over what he had done. “You did this. You caused that pain…if I hadn't found her…,” her hands had started punching his chest. 

“She would have been gone, all because of you.”

A part of Sanji died that day. 

So when he got the same disease you had, he knew he deserved it.

Wasn’t it only right that he got the same death sentence that almost took you away?

It was slow at first, from what Nami had told him about your situation, Sanji knew this was how it started. 

The first few weeks were bearable, he could go about his daily life without causing any suspicion. No one would ask if he was okay or anything, just simply being able to cough into a tissue and discard it quickly.

Then the blossoms came.

After one terrible night of constantly coughing up blood and flower blossoms, Sanji did some research. He knew the full blooms were next along with the finishing blow of the roots. It had only been a month since you had your surgery, and yet his hanahaki was a lot more accelerated in comparison to yours.

A month since he had realized he was deathly in love with you.

But he could bear this burden. Who was he to complain about his death trickling closer than it normally should? 

Sanji remembered the moment he realized his disease would finish him more swiftly, that he was faster along than he typically should be; whether it was because the universe knew you could never love him back or it was simply his punishment for what he did.

Probably both.

Even though he knew he could easily fix the problem, he didn't have the right to get a second chance.

How could he? 

How long did you spend hiding your condition away, not even when he had broken things off, before then? How long were you hurting because you knew he was lying when he said he loved you?

The gall he would have to have to go through with the surgery? 

Absolutely not.

But deep in his heart, he also couldn’t bring himself to forget you. He’d rather be a coward and a liar than choose a life undeserving of him.

He would rather die than forget you, to never be able to love you again would be death itself.

He hated himself for what he did to you. The insolence he had to hurt someone as caring as you, why did he take advantage of that?

He himself every day.

If he had to live with constantly coughing up blood and bending over the toilet puking up flower petals just for you to live your life? Yeah, he could do that. He could live with the pain of knowing that you would never love him back.

That you could never love him back.

It quite literally was in human nature that he would never be saved unless he did the surgery, since you couldn’t even love anyone anymore.

Sanji’s hand lifts his handkerchief up to his mouth, his body heaving with a hard cough of petals.

He sighs.

♡‧₊˚

The TV light shines on both you and Sanji’s forms as the movie comes to an end, the ending credits miniaturizing as the screen recommends a shitty Christmas movie that has the both of you turning to the other.

“That was an unnecessarily long movie.” Sanji’s comment makes you laugh.

“Right? God, it was dragging on for a really long time.” Shaking his head he stands up to place the popcorn bucket on the kitchen counter. 

You follow him holding the cups that held lemonade two hours ago. “It’s getting late, I should probably go.”

“Yeah, probably, oh wait-I bought something for you, meant to give it to you when we had dinner at your place but I forgot.” Sanji’s voice trails as he goes off to his bedroom. 

You stand there for a couple of minutes before checking the time, “Yo, Sanji, did’ya get lost?” laughing to yourself, you walk over into the bedroom. Your eyes immediately meet Sanji’s form hunched over on the ground.

A gasp falls from your lips as you rush over to him. “Sanji, oh god, are you okay what’s wrong-”

You cut yourself off when you bend down to look at him, there you see a pool of blood on the hardwood floor, petals scattered around the scene with a full flower bloom sitting in his hands. 

“What?” you can’t breathe.

Sanji says your name but you don’t hear him, your brows knit together as you look up at him. “I don’t understand why are you coughing up petals?”

No? This couldn’t be happening.

Your heart breaks.

Who did Sanji love so dearly that he was cursed with the same disease that had you in its chokehold not long ago? 

You would never wish this on anyone, no one deserved to live through the hurt of having unrequited love.

“You weren’t,” he wipes his mouth, “you weren’t supposed to find out.”

“I don’t-why wouldn't you want to tell me? If anything, I’d be the only person able to understand. Sanji, who is it?” your eyes scan his face. 

Sanji’s ragged breathing fills the air between the two of you. “I can’t.”

You furrow your brows even more, shaking your head. “Please just tell me so I can help-”

“You can’t.”

“What do you mean, I can’t? You’re not making sense.”

Sanji closes his eyes. “It’s you.”

You stop breathing, the figure in your memory rushes to the forefront of your brain like a tsunami. 

In the past the figure was always blurry, never in frame in your mind, only being able to trace his silhouette, but now it was different. 

It was like he was right in front of you like you could smell him, feel his hands in yours, his warmth. Feel his lips against your lips when he-

“It was you.” your voice was quiet, “You were the one I loved.” 

His eyes snap at yours, a gasp falling from his lips.

“The person I loved so deeply… that it caused me so much pain.”

And there it was, the fog had been lifted.

“How could I have forgotten?” How ironic the entire thing was.

“Why would I ever forget about my love for you, Sanji?” you look at him, “What grief did you cause me?”

A tidal wave of emotions, affections, all poured out of your soul and into your memories. The months of coughing up petal after petal till they turned to full flower blooms. The fear that a root would pop up once you pulled your tissue from your face. 

The pain and the hurt that Sanji had caused you. 

The pain of knowing that he didn't love you anymore.

It all came rushing back.

“Why would you keep this from me?” you were getting angry, but was it for the right reason?

Hadn’t you done the same with him? Hadn’t you kept it from all the people you loved as well?

“You know why I went through with the surgery? It wasn’t Nami who made me, well not partially, but why I allowed myself to let her drive me to the hospital was because I didn't want you to suffer.” your eyes were burning, the tears threatening to fall.

“I don't understand?” Of course, he wouldn’t.

“You were obviously unhappy, Sanji. If I removed myself from the equation, it would solve everything and at…at first I thought dying was the solution I really did.” your eyes drop, “And maybe Nami finding me was a saving grace but, I originally wasn't gonna do anything.” 

“Week after week, Sanji, I was drowning. I wanted to yell at anyone who would listen and ask why I couldn't have anything, why couldn’t I be happy? That the universe had some sort of fucking vendetta against me.”

“So I decided to let you go, to choose to live a life of unknown heartache, and when I finally thought I had accomplished that. The universe just spits in my face by cursing you.”

“Don’t you see it? We don’t belong together, Sanji.” The anger was gone now, all that was left was emptiness.“We have the signs, we need to heed them and move on.”

Sanji says your name with a plea, but you ignore him. “Just get the surgery, stop hurting the both of us.” 

“It does us no good if you're dead.” And with that, you walk out of the bedroom and out the front door.

♡‧₊˚

The quiet murmurs of the newscaster talking about the weather for the week could barely be heard from the running water you were using to wash the dishes. 

You haven't seen Sanji in a couple of weeks, not since he announced that you were the one whom he was in love with. 

And definitely not since you remembered he was the one whom you had loved before.

And while at first, you were angry. Angry at him for lying and keeping such vital information from you.

It later turned to guilt. 

Guilt for getting angry at him. Guilt for causing him pain.

But it wasn’t your fault, it’s not like you chose not to love him, you physically couldn’t anymore. You signed that ability off months ago.

But you also missed him. Since you weren’t talking to him, you weren’t having your weekly dinners or your impromptu movie nights anymore.

You missed just talking to him. You missed the lame jokes he’d tell in hopes of hearing your laugh, that smile he’d get whenever he spoke about a new recipe.

You missed him.

But you were also confused.

After he had revealed that he loved you and you had remembered that your past love was him, it became too much for you to handle.

Glancing at the moon, you dry your hands on a towel and walk into the living room. The weatherman was currently informing you of a chance of rain tomorrow during the already cold late January weather.

Sighing you go to sit down before something catches your eyes. A picture frame that hangs on your wall glints as you walk toward it.

It was a photo of you and Sanji looking at the camera with wide smiles on display from Sanji’s birthday two years prior. On top of your heads sat a birthday hat colored blue for the sea theme your friends had thrown together as a joke for the blonde that year.

You remember how you felt that day, the anxiety of wanting to get Sanji the perfect gift and when he finally opened it, he had hugged you which had you blushing like crazy while you swatted his “thank yous” away.

God, where did this deja vu come from?

It was weird, you weren't sure what it was.

It felt like your entire being was full. Full of intense and overwhelming emotions, an emotion you shouldn't feel. An emotion that was eradicated from your life when you stepped out of that hospital.

But here it was, rearing its big ugly face once again.

For Sanji.

You stumble back as if you had been shocked with electricity. 

Looking around your apartment you close your eyes.

How could this happen? Why were you still being punished again?

You had endured the pain, chose to get rid of it and now you’ve been having to live with knowing that Sanji also was experiencing the exact same pain.

Sanji.

How could you have been so cold? Telling him to do the surgery? What was wrong with you?

You missed him. You missed your love for him. The feelings you’d get when he’d look your way. Sanji was your ambrosia and you needed him to survive.

But you didn’t miss how you felt when he chose another over you. Those feelings you wished you hadn’t remembered.

You weren't sure how you were still able to feel Sanji's love. But here you were.

An anomaly that you were. 

Guess that shows how deep your love truly was rooted.

How could you have allowed yourself to forget?

The drive to Sanji’s apartment was quiet, opting to not play music or turn the radio on so that you could think clearly with your new (re) developed emotions.

Pulling up to the driveway, you step out of your car. The jacket you have on trapping your heat from the cold winds of the night. 

The few steps to the front door felt like a lifetime. The moonlight provided a little comfort to your restless self.

Exhaling, you bring your hand to knock at the door, a small part of you hoping Sanji wasn’t home so you could go home and pretend like nothing happened.

The door swings open revealing Sanji. His eyes were wide like he couldn’t believe you were standing in front of him.

“Hey…can I come in?” you look up at him expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah come in.” Sending him a quick smile you walk past him and into the living room. 

He shuts the door and faces you, you turn and finally get a good look at him in the light. 

He looked worse for wear, his eyes had bags under them, a sign he hadn’t been sleeping if at all. Whether that was because of your argument or his condition, you didn't know. One hand was in his pocket and the other was fiddling with his handkerchief. 

“How are you…” signaling your hand at him, “I mean physically, how are you? What stage?”

He looks away, “well…I’m still living,” he chuckles quietly.

You sigh. 

God the two of you were truly messed up.

“It all came back.” 

“What?” he questions.

Your eyes begin to glaze over, “My memories, everything.” you wet your lips, “All of it, Sanji.”

“It just-all came back…on top of our argument, of you telling me you loved me.” Tears fell down your cheeks. “Of how I felt when you were-when you were with Pudding.”

He says your name.

“And I hated it, I hated remembering how I felt, Sanji. I remember pitying myself, wondering what I had done wrong, why you hadn’t loved me anymore,” he says your name again, “but I also remembered how I felt loving you.” you look up at him with your tear-streaked face.

“And I will never regret loving you, not then, definitely not now. I also don’t regret forgetting, because I understand why I did it. I loved you enough to be able to let you go. To be able to know you’ll live your life happily, whether that’s with me or someone else. I didn’t care. Just that you were happy.” 

“But I wasn’t-”

You cut him off, “I knew you didn't love me how I loved you, but I still knew you cared. So if I had died, even from death, I would have hated myself for hurting you. So I chose to forget.” you wipe your cheek, “I just wish you had never gotten that godforsaken thing as well.”

“Sanji I…I love you wholeheartedly. You encompass my entire existence. I live for you. Even now, when I didn't remember how I felt for you. It was there. My love for you was still inside. And it always will be. I think even if you hadn’t told me you loved me now, I would have remembered anyway. Simply because that’s who I am, I am my love for you, you consume my entire soul.” You probably looked like a mess.

“You look beautiful.” Did you say that out loud?

You smile softly, “So when you admitted that you loved me, that I was inadvertently hurting you, I couldn’t take it. I had been the monster I sought to eliminate. So I pushed you away.” you sigh, “I pushed you away because I didn't want to go through the same pain again. I was selfish if you had just done the surgery, I'd be able to forget about this again and you wouldn't even remember.” you walk toward Sanji. “I’ve learned that I can’t run away from you anymore. And I’ve realized that I don’t want to lose you again.” 

“So let me save you.”

Sanji’s face was red, his eyes were blurry with tears, his fist clenching his handkerchief filled with petals and blooms.

“I’m so sorry.” Sanji’s voice trembles, “I am so sorry, I caused you so much pain, if I could take it back I would. And I don’t even deserve you, I’m not worthy of your love, but if you allow me, let me make it up.” 

You close the gap between the two of you and pull his lips toward your own. They’re slightly chapped and both of your guy’s faces are wet but you don’t care. You feel his fingers carding through your hair, pulling you deeper. 

This kiss was different from any others before, this one was filled with desire and want but it was also filled with joy and love.

You were finally happy.

You pull away first, breathing heavily and your face flushed, “You already are.” 

“I love you so much, please never forget.” you wipe a stray tear, cradling his face. 

You want to commit this memory in your brain. No more forgetting, no more letting go. To make sure that for the night, no cough was to be heard, no petal was to be hidden, 

just two lovers finally with one another, forever.

[braxiatel]

You know that “if it were a drawing I would call it a doodle or a sketch” incomplete fic I posted a while back?

Well here’s another from a few months ago.

Mumscarian (shocking, I know) hunger games au except instead of being told from the POV of someone in the hunger games it’s told by someone they left behind.

Content warnings are all similar in style and detail to the hunger games books, anx include injury (with specific mention of broken bones, spinal injuries, eye injuries, burns), references to genocide, displacement, and loss of a parental figure. Child- and animal endangerment, dissociation, non consensual body modifications, and possibly more that I cannot recall at this moment. Proceed with caution.

———

Cats have healing powers.

Scar was the one who told him that, on a cold winter’s day in front of the fire. Had it really only been months? It felt so much longer…

Something about their purring, Scar had said. He had been more specific than that, but Mumbo’s head was somewhat hazy at the moment.

But the purring healed you, Mumbo could remember as much.

Still, he was pretty sure Jellie alone wasn’t going to get him out of this one, not for lack of trying.

It was her fault he was here anyway.

… No, that wasn’t true. He would have said as much to himself if not for the fact that even moving his lips to take in gasping breaths was agony.

They had been warned before the bombs started to drop. There has been time to run, Pearl’s hand in his so they did not lose each other in the crowd.

Until he saw a woman carrying a goat in her arms and remembered-

“I have to go back,” he panted through strained breaths - he was nowhere near as fit as Pearl, who had been washing the coal-smeared clothes of half the Seam since age eleven to make ends meet.

“What?!” Pearl asked, continuing to pull him towards the hovercraft that was waiting on the green. “Mumbo if we stay we’re going to die. Whatever you forgot it isn’t more important than your life, if can be replaced, I promise. Just-”

“Jellie,” he interrupted her. “We forgot Jellie.”

Pearl’s grip slackened. The crowd kept moving around them, indistinct bodies pushing them forward and together.

“It will break Scar if he comes home and finds out she’s gone. I’ll just… two minutes, okay? I’ll be two minutes. I’ll go to his house and if she isn’t home I’m leaving without her. I just have to try.”

Pearl had looked as though she wanted to argue. She was practical though, in the same way Grian was, in the same way every child that grew up in the Seam was

“No sense in wasting time then. Go. Two minutes, Mumbo, and no more.”

Jellie continued to purr in his arms, unaware of the danger they were still in.

Suppose he had fancied himself a romantic, running back into a doomed town to save his sort-of-boyfriend’s cat.

Grian would laugh and call him an idiot… or he would have once. Grian didn’t do a great deal of laughing these days.

Mumbo could taste blood on his tongue. He wondered if any of the animals that lived in the forests beyond District 12 could smell it, if at any moment a mountain lion might finish him off, defenceless as he was.

He wondered if any of the animals were even still alive.

There had been blood on his tongue the day it started too.

His father - his adopted father that was - always chided him for the habit of biting on his cheek when he was nervous. But not today. Xisuma may have been smiling under his breather, but the Mayor of 12 was anything but calm. Wishing that another boy - any other than Mumbo - would be the one whose name was drawn today, did not sit well with Mayor Xisuma, who had been appointed to keep the citizens of 12 in line and dedicated himself to keeping them safe instead.

Today Mumbo bit his cheek, lined up with every other boy age twelve to eighteen in the district.

Well, almost. Scar had offered him a wink from the line of girls, standing out like a sore thumb in his trousers and the white shirt that had long ago been tainted a greyish brown by wear.

Although Scar was only a little more than a year older than Mumbo, he had been towards the back with the other seventeen-year-olds, while Mumbo was perfectly in the middle, still two weeks shy of sixteen.

“You look as if you’re about to implode from sheer stress,” a familiar voice has said from behind him.

Mumbo couldn’t remember what he had replied anymore, but he did recall how the hints of blonde in Grian’s hair had stood out in the sun that day. Pearl, he knew, always insisted on both of them having a proper bath before the reaping.

They would have shared the same banter they always did. Grian would tease him for being nervous when his name was barely in the draw at all, and Mumbo would mentally assure himself that Grian was right, he was safe.

That had been the day he learned what he should actually have been fearing all along.

The world had stopped turning when Scar’s given name was called out.

It had taken a moment before anyone had recognised it, it had been years since he used it last after all.

“I prefer Scar, actually,” he had corrected, stepping out of the lineup with a smile on his face.

Scar’s nose wrinkled when he smiled and meant it. Mumbo had admired it a thousand times in breaks between lessons and walking home through the Merchant’s section of the district, had tasted it on his lips far too few times for Scar to go off to his death now.

Grian’s hand was a steadying presence on Mumbo’s back for only a moment before the next name was called.

“Grian Xelqua.”

This time the world had stopped spinning altogether. In Mumbo’s memory it did anyway.

His next real memory was sitting opposite Grian, in a room adjacent to his father’s office, babbling about making sure Pearl wouldn’t be left alone through sobs.

He had felt so awful about those tears. There he was, crying about the prospect of losing Grian and Scar, when his best friend and his boyfriend were both about to leave to die horribly in the Hunger Games.

He had only been given a moment with Grian before Pearl arrived. Even thinking about the look on her face as she went to tell her twin goodbye still chilled Mumbo to the bone.

Next, he had guided to see Scar, the seat still warm from Cub having sat there only moments ago.

Most people would have put Cub’s quick departure down to the fact that he and Scar were cousins so many times removed they were only barely more related than anyone else in the Merchant’s section.

Mumbo knew the truth to be something else entirely. Cub was a man of few words and a practical one at that. In the coming weeks, many would look sideways at his apothecary as it continued to be open even as Scar fought for his life in the games. Mumbo understood, though, and so did Scar.

“I love you,” it had been the first time either of them had said it, their romance still new. Now Scar spoke the words carefully, stroking Mumbo’s tear-stained cheek before he continued to add: “But when I leave this building I am going to have to forget that, and I want you to do the same. I love you, Mumbo, and that’s why I’m going to make sure you don’t lose both of us.”

At the time he hadn’t thought he would ever know greater pain than having to hide his feelings away, watching Scar use his golden tongue to charm the masses of the Capitol, convincing them of his undying devotion towards Grian, never once mentioning Mumbo in all of his interviews.

He was certainly in more pain now... Mumbo had always been a bit of a spoon, though, so it was no wonder he was wrong about that too.

Jellie crooned in his arms and Mumbo forced his right eye open - the left remaining stuck shut just as it had since the fire had licked across his skin.

Jellie’s fur may be a little singed, but Mumbo’s blood had put any fires that had touched her out. He almost wanted to laugh at that, but his lungs were stinging from the smoke and the ash in the air and it was all he could do not to choke on it.

Above the chasm he was lying in the wind blew harshly, stoking the fires consuming the forest around him.

It was definitely ironic that he should die this way. For months now he had had nightmares of flames, ever since that fateful day when the 74th Hunger Games had ended.

Grian had all but dragged Scar through the forests, Scar’s left leg trailing after him like deadweight and his right barely able to support him, fire chasing them ever forward.

Mumbo had been sick three times that day. When the fire started, again when a dagger was wedged into Grian’s right eye, and finally when the game makers had announced that Grian and Scar could not win together after all.

He had missed the part where they took each other’s hands and walked to the edge of a cliff, ready to throw themselves off together instead of either of them winning alone.

The fire crackled above the chasm again.

“Go,” he hissed through uneasy breaths, nudging Jellie with his shoulders. “Please.”

Scar would be devastated if she were to die this way, and he had only just started smiling again…

Hollow. That was the only word Mumbo had known that might describe Grian and Scar when they returned from the games. Facades, stitched together and polished by the best the Capitol had to offer, the very picture of Capitol beauty with none of what mattered left.

Scar had smiled and joked that hey, at least they had taken the tits while they were rearranging his skin to cover the fact that his leg had been mangled beyond recognition by a trap once meant to hold a fully grown bear. Mumbo had laughed. It hadn’t been funny in the least.

And while the things Scar said rarely failed to make Mumbo feel sick to his stomach, it was Grian’s silence that disturbed him.

That had come to a head one evening when Grian had torn the prosthetic eye from its socket, hurtling it so hard against the marble walls of his house in the victor’s village that the plastic had cracked. A new had arrived within the week.

Mumbo coughed and hacked, pain wracking his body as the smoke clawed on the inside of his throat and his lungs.

Stupid, stupid Mumbo. He had known the chasm was here, he had seen it on his adoptive father’s maps of the district enough time that he should have known to run the other way.

Granted, it had been more than half a year since he had last stepped foot in the mayoral office, when his father had disappeared overnight and his uncle had been put in charge of District 12 in his stead.

Xisuma’s brother had never been fond of either of them, and he paid little mind when Mumbo simply moved into one of the many spare bedrooms in Grian’s house in the Victor’s Village after they returned from their victory tour of Panem.

Officially he had become Cub’s apprentice, the district still needing medicine even though their one apothecary was now living with his cousin-nth-removed in luxury.

Unofficially he and Scar had finally talked again, combing out the tangled knots of their relationship and what it could even be now that Grian and Scar were only alive because of their status as the star-crossed lovers in the eyes of the citizens of the Capitol.

Mumbo loved Scar enough that he did not mind only holding Scar’s hand in private, did not mind how Scar looked at Grian in public view and in quiet moments at home when he thought no one would notice, did not begrudge Scar a single bit of the patience and space he needed before he was ready for Mumbo to kiss him again.

Scar, in turn, had not minded how Grian latched himself to Mumbo, how Mumbo and Grian would share a bed when nightmares kept them awake, and how Mumbo could not help but blush whenever Scar spoke of Grian.

In another world, they might have spent years dancing around the issue before they developed the emotional maturity to recognise that there was love enough between them for all three of them to share.

In this world, however, they were not afforded the luxury of time. It had felt as though Mumbo had only just gotten his two favourite people back, only for it to be announced that in a few months time, he would have to see at least one of them leave again, off to compete in the 75th Hunger Games as the only two living tributes in District 12 apart from Impulse, whose experience as a mentor was the only thing standing between Mumbo and the very real possibility that both of the boys - the men - he loved would return to him in a coffin.

Mumbo sobbed at the thought, then sobbed again when he continued to shake, muscles tensing and untensing around broken bones and ruptured organs as the morning sun rose to greet him, crimson red through the not-so-distant fires consuming his home.

Surely Grian and Scar were dead by now. The games… Mumbo was not politically savvy the way his two partners were, but he knew well enough that they had been supposed to die in the arena.

“Go,” he begged Jellie again, the burns on his face stinging as salty tears ate away at them.

Scar wouldn’t want her dead. Scar wouldn’t want anything, because he was no doubt dead in a box somewhere far, far away in the Capitol, but he wouldn’t have wanted her dead had he been alive.

The fires were close now, the air so thick even Mumbo’s desperate attempts for air seemed to yield none.

No one would miss him.

It hit him just then.

He was going to die, a broken body left to rot or burn in a chasm by a broken District. Grian and Scar would die too, his father had been dead for months. No one would even know that he was gone, just one name on a dizzyingly long list.

Silly, silly Mumbo, running back into a town doomed to burn to save a dead man from a broken heart. Pearl had been right, he shouldn’t have gone back.

Oh, Pearl! She would know he was gone. How had he managed to forget her? He felt he ought to know but his mind was providing nothign but static.

Another pang of guilt. He had promised Grian she wouldn’t be alone once, and now she would, all because he had been too sentimental. Because he had been too slow, clinging tight to Jellie as he watched the hovercrafts take off. Because he had taken a wrong turn, getting himself thrown into this stupid chasm by one of the countless bombs that had devastated the only home he had ever known.

“Go away,” he hissed at Jellie while he still had air left in his lungs to do so. “Shoo.”

Jelliw finally rose from her position at his side, earning herself a wet sob when her fur rubbed against one of Mumbo’s burns.

She yowled back at him, a familiar tone of complaint that most often harbingered-

Mumbo cringed when the first drop of rain hit his ruined skin, but instantly felt a wave of relief as water cooled his burns.

Soon the air was clearing too, his breaths less ragged but just as wet as it travelled through his ruined chest.

His one good eye fixed on Jellie as she sought shelter under an outcropping of rocks, looking expectantly at him, unaware that he couldn’t move to join her.

For now he was enjoying the relief of the rain anyway. His burns cooling, fat drops of rain slipping between his cracked lips to wet his tongue. He was certain he was far too calm when he congratulated himself on the fact he would likely bleed out rather than die of thirst.

Above him the fires hissed and sputtered, and for the first time since the alarms had sounded, he allowed himself to disengage from the situation.

His mind floated to the town he had grown up in. Would any of the Merchant’s Sector still be standing? He very much doubted it, given how long the bombs had continued to shake him to his bones and make his teeth clatter even after his tumble to the bottom of the chasm.

If any parts of the Seam were still standing it would only be because it covered a far larger part of the town than the Merchant’s Sector ever did, most of the houses barely able to withstand normal wind and weather.

Mumbo had called the Victor’s Village home for the past several months, but he found himself hoping it had been destroyed as well. There was nothing left for him there, even if he had held any hope of surviving.

Mumbo opened his eye with a start realisation: he very much did not want to die.

Silly thing to forget, really, but as had been established Mumbo could be rather silly.

He must have been drifting in and out of consciousness, because by now the crackle of the fire had grown distant, leaving a deadly quiet in its wake. The rain had stopped, and the clouds cleared enough to allow him to see the last rays of the setting sun painting the sky bruise purple.

He heaved in fresh air, his whole being shivering and shaking with the cold rain soaking his broken body.

His eye drifted to the side, to where Jellie was lying on her paws, watching him intently. She had a cut on her ear he had not seen through the haze of the smoke, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

Here were his choices:

He could stay where he was, dying of exposure or to his wounds.

Or he could try to move, and at least die somewhere slightly more dry and comfortable.

The choice would have been easy to Grian and Scar, he thought. Grian would have clawed his way out of the chasm by now, and not even death could have stopped Scar from holding Jellie in his arms.

To Mumbo it was far from simple.

See, Mumbo didn’t want to die, but he very much didn’t want to be in pain either and he had a feeling moving would hurt a great deal.

His mind was hazy, something that had been vivid earlier unclear to him now. Why did the thought of Grian and Scar make his eyes sting with sticky tears?

He didn’t want to leave them…

With a sob Mumbo realised he really had no choice at all.

“Jellie?” he asked. “Get Scar, won’t you? I need you to get him… I need you to get Scar so that he’s here when this is over.”

Jellie for her part stood and stretched, and that was enough to convince him that somehow the cat had understood his pleas.

Okay. This was it…

He flexed his toes but otherwise had no luck kicking against the ground.

No other thing for it, then…

If pain had weight the one that hit him must be hundreds of tons.

His lungs screamed for air, seizing as he dragged himself one little bit forward. The bone clicked in his arm, but far worse was the white-hot burning radiating through his spine and into his legs.

He wouldn’t have made it much further than half a metre when he collapsed against the wall of the chasm, his ears ringing… or perhaps that was simply the screams echoing through the chasm?

With each thundering beat of his heart panic spread further through his body, seaping into every muscle and every fibre.

“Help,” he called, voice hoarse and throat dry. “It hurts.”

A noise from above his head. A flicker of hope.

The rain had washed the blood from his face, at least enough that he could force his other eye open and locate the source of the sound. Jellie, despite her age, was quite athletic and had made it almost all the way to the top of the chasm.

Well, it wasn’t help, but it was a start, right? Jellie would run home and get Scar, or Grian, or maybe even Xisuma. Someone would find him…

The sun rose and at some point in the night Mumbo had stopped feeling the bite of the cold - in fact the chill dew on his skin was quite refreshing, as was the trickle off water next to his head.

He couldn’t move to drink it all, but with a tilt of his head he was able to gulp some of it down, soothing the dryness in his throat.

The forest was so quiet today. Mumbo had only ventured beyond the fence with Grian and Scar twice in his life, but what he recalled most clearly was how alive it had been compared to the stifling settlement they called home.

There were no birds now, no rustle of the wind in the leaves, not even the distant sound of hares and other small animals skittering through the forest floor.

Mumbo’s stomach churned. Was that roast meat he could smell on the wind? When had he even last had something to eat…?

He wished his clothes were not so heavy. If only they were lighter, he might be able to move and remove his shirt. When had the sun become so warm?

He tilted his head to drink more water, mud and ash sticking to the sides of his mouth.

The moon, too, was warm tonight. Mumbo had never known it to be as much before, but nonetheless, it was even warmer than the sun had been. He felt as though he was burning up.

The stars were so bright, as bright as Mumbo had only ever seen them through his father’s telescope. It had been the nicest thing they owned, the lense scratched but still functional enough that he had been able to look through it and dream himself far away.

They moved oddly, reflecting in the helmet of the person standing at the top of the chasm.

Their language was garbled too. Mumbo never knew there were animals that looked like people in the forest…

He blinked, tilting his head a little for a better look.

The person-animal recoiled and Mumbo wanted to shush it, tell it he grew up sheltered in the Merchant’s Section and had no idea how to harm it even if he wanted to.

It made another garbled sound. Except…

Except…

“-Nd a survivor. I repeat I have found a survivor. Requesting urgent medical attention.”

The person-animal - who may in fact just be a person, come to think of it - climbed down the side of the cave.

First they removed a glove, revealing pale skin, and then their helmet. A cascade of red curls fell out, framing a young woman’s face.

“My name is Gem, Scout for District 13. Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”

He blinked, certain he ought to know how to respond to that. His tongue, however, remained unyielding.

“Mumbo! MUMBO! Let me go! I need to see him!”

Mumbo wished he had the energy to turn his head and look up and see the owner of the voice, but he was simply too tired.

“Get him out of here and start working on getting a stretcher down here, I think his spine might be broken,” Gem said over their shoulder. Their tone was far softer when they turned around and spoke to him. “Mumbo? Is that your name? Mumbo, listen to me, you need to hang in there. Whatever you saw during the bombing of 12 could be very valuable to the resistance, so you have to hold on a little bit longer so we can get you to a doctor.”

The bombing of 12…

Mumbo knew he should feel something. Panic, grief, anger, anything at all.

In reality, he just felt tired.

“Grr… ggi,” he tried.

“You want Grian?” Gem asked. “Sure, sure. He’s on his way to the hovercraft and in a moment you will be too. I’m just going to give you something for the pain and the fever, okay?”

Fever? Since when did he have a fever?

A weight on his chest lessened a little, relief flooding through him as the dull throbbing of pain he had been feeling from his everywhere began to subside.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Gem instructed. “You might get a little tired but it’s very important that you don’t fall asleep.”

Mumbo wanted to open his mouth to tell them that of course, he wasn’t going to fall asleep. Instead he blinked and a moment later he was somewhere new. It looked like home, looking like the Market Square, only not at all. The Market Square should be bustling with late afternoon activity, judging by the sun being in the west. The market Square was surrounded by buildings on all sides, whereas this place barely had any rubble worthy of being called ‘walls’.

There was a mask over his face, one that reminded him of his father’s breather, its edges digging into his flesh.

“Let me go this instance or I swear I walk - and don’t think Scar won’t do the same. We both care about him and- Mumbo!”

Grian’s face entered his view. The Capitol liked to style him in a way that made him look older than a mere seventeen, but that was not the reason Mumbo could see no trace of the boy that had once sat next to him in school barely more than a year ago.

His one remaining eye was dark, clouded by unbridled fury.

His gaze softened a little when he sat next to Mumbo.

“Can I touch him?”

Yes, Mumbo wanted to say. His body felt so wrong, cold and hot and numb and aching, all of it all at once. He wanted Grian to hold him, wanted Scar to join in as well. Come to think of it, where was Scar?

“If you’re careful.”

Hold on, that voice was familiar. Cub? Why was Cub here? And where was ‘here’ anyway?

That train of thought died as cold lips pressed against Mumbo’s temple. Odd, Grian normally ran hot.

“Hey.” Another kiss, this time on his forearm of all places. Then again, it was one of the few places that didn’t tingle with pain… “Thought I’d lost you for a moment,” Grian whispered, one of his fingers trailing over the part of Mumbo’s arm he had just kissed.

The world shook, and Mumbo’s body went slack with pain.

“Gently,” Grian hissed over his shoulder. He looked at Mumbo again, and he looked so very human. “Be gentle… Mumbo? Mumbo?! Mumbo, you have to-”

If Grian actually told Mumbo what he wanted him to do, it was lost somewhere between the humming of the world around them and the static in Mumbo’s ears. His eyes had slipped close, and for the first time in days he felt safe to rest.

—

Mumbo was aching.

That was the first thought that crossed his mind. Next was this: he was not at home in the Victor’s Village, nor was he in the small apartment in the Justice Building that had been his childhood home.

The bed was too short for him, the linen too coarse, and most offensive of all there was an incessant beeping next to his right ear.

Heavy footsteps - familiar ones at that - approached and a door swung closed with a whir.

Right. The door opening had woken him in the first place.

He opened his eyes and had to blink when he saw the familiar face of his dead father.

“Xisuma?” he tried to ask, the name muffled by the mask sitting on his face.

“Oh, Mumbo, thank goodness,” his adoptive father said in the same tone as he would normally use when Mumbo came home half an hour late after taking the long way home from school with Grian and Scar. “Grian, he’s awake.”

Mumbo strained his eyes, only barely able to make out the bright red colour of a familiar sweater.

“What?” Grian, too, seemed to just have woken up. “Oh! Mumbo!”

A chair scraped across the floor and a moment later Grian came into view too.

“You’re alive,” Mumbo tried to say, trying to enunciate the words as much as he could with his mouth being as dry as it was.

“We could say the same to you,” Xisuma told him, pushing a lock of hair out of Mumbo’s face just as he had done when Mumbo first came to him at age seven. “I don’t know if you have the worst or the best luck in the world. Falling down a ravine like that, and staying safe from the fires and the bombs. Do you know the scouts only found you because Jellie found them and insisted they follow her? She’s getting a well-deserved rest now, but you’d better thank her when you’re up and about again… or well… Well, yes, when you see her.”

Though his father’s rambling was a comforting background noise Mumbo had missed dearly, one thing stuck out to Mumbo.

The bombs. The fires.

“12 is gone,” he shuddered.

“Some of the people made it out,” Xisuma told him. “The ones smart enough not to go running back after lost pets.”

Oh, had he really done that? Mumbo was certain he must be blushing with sheer embarrassment.

He couldn’t bring himself to regret it, though. Scar would have been devastated if anything had happened to Jellie.

Scar.

The thought struck him and the beeping sound increased.

“Gri?” He asked. “Where’s S…”

Mumbo choked on the words, his throat aching from the smoke he had inhaled and the dry air flowing through the breather covering the lower half of his face.

Grian waited for him to finish coughing, his hand resting on Mumbo’s right arm as a steady presence.

“He’s okay,” Grian told him, though the waver in his voice told Mumbo otherwise. Grian had always been a terrible liar, and Mumbo knew him far too well to believe him.

Judging by Grian’s expression he realised this too.

“He’s alive,” Grian corrected. “The Capitol have him. But we’re already looking into saving him. We’re going to get him back, Mumbo, I swear. You came back and he will too…”

Grian rose to his feet, kissing the same part of Mubmo’s forehead he had earlier.

“I’ll fix it all,” Grian promised him. “The two of us, we’ll find a way to bring him back, even if it means burning the Capitol to the ground.”

[velvet4510]

I just want to point something out.

There’s a big reason why we should be pretty darn grateful for Gollum, and it’s not the obvious one.

Because think of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been there at the Cracks of Doom when the Ring finally overpowered Frodo. If Frodo or Sam had killed him, or if he’d somehow been mentally capable of heeding Frodo’s warning and just getting out of there.

Some who mention this cut straight to “Sauron would’ve won.” Which is an easy assumption. The Nazgul could’ve gotten there, killed Sam, and taken the Ring back to Sauron. But what would’ve happened to Frodo?

I think it’s more likely that instead of quickly killing Frodo right then and there alongside Sam, Sauron would’ve ordered the Nazgul to bring Frodo to him. Someone as malicious as the Dark Lord would probably want to inflict harrowing punishment on the person who endangered his Ring.

And you know what? I think Sam knew this might happen. Sam is not dumb or half-witted in the slightest. This hobbit is clever, smart, downright brilliant. During their trek through Mordor, between having experienced the Ring’s power himself while carrying it and watching it weaken Frodo more and more (especially hearing Frodo directly say “I am almost in its power, I could not give it up”), it must have occurred to Sam that the Ring was going to win Frodo’s internal battle.

Sam had already planned so many strategies throughout the quest. Ensuring they had enough to eat and drink, figuring out how to beat Shelob and break into the dark tower… Sam is a great strategist. As any good gardener must be. It’s in his nature. So I feel like he must’ve figured out ahead of time what was likely to happen, and thought about a possible Plan B to complete the Quest.

And I also feel like his consideration of a Plan B would be less about saving Middle-earth itself and more about saving Frodo. Our dear Sam Gamgee would naturally try to think of every possible option that would prevent Sauron from trapping his beloved Frodo in his torture chambers for years and years.

So, when you put it all together, if Gollum hadn’t been there to take back the Ring, Sam would’ve had no other choice but to throw Frodo and himself into the Fire after Frodo put on the Ring. This would’ve destroyed the Ring, saved Frodo from it, and enabled them to die together like they expected (and, I dare say, wanted). I’m certain this was Sam’s plan. Now, would he actually have been able to do so? That’s debatable. Because it would’ve been an act of will with the intent of destroying the Ring, which is quite impossible to act on in the Cracks of Doom. But if Sam had just concentrated on Frodo and not thought about the Ring at all, considered it an act for Frodo and not for the Ring, perhaps he could’ve done it. Feel free to argue either way.

The likelihood of this plan of Sam’s is why I don’t like how in the movie, Sam is yelling at Frodo “Destroy it! Just let it go! Throw it in the Fire! What are you waiting for?” Essentially echoing the audience’s thoughts, of course … but would Tolkien’s Sam actually say this? No. From everything he witnessed, Tolkien’s Sam knew that Frodo wouldn’t be able to let it go and prepared himself to make the ultimate sacrifice to complete the Quest. This is a nuance that the screenwriters clearly didn’t pick up on, or just ignored in favor of making Sam a voice for the audience. But doesn’t it make more sense for Sam to say nothing in that scene, as he does in the book, because he already knew what would happen?

This is why I’m thankful to Gollum. If he hadn’t been there, there’s a chance that Sauron still would’ve lost, but there’s also a guarantee that Frodo and Sam would’ve died in the worst possible way … if not at Sauron’s hands, then Sam would’ve had to kill himself and the great love of his life.

Thank you, Gollum, for ensuring this didn’t happen and saving our favorite hobbits. Even though saving them was no part of your intentions.

[musicofthenightphantomoftheopera]

So I'm back on my percy Jackson bs again and I saw this one post on Tiktok claiming that Solangelo is "Klance Coded" and I simply had to laugh because that couldn't be any further from the truth...

Klance is Red and Blue, Fire and Water type polar opposites in both personality and aesthetics

However, not every polar opposite style ship is "Red and Blue Coded" there's also Sun and Moon, ( Or in Solangelo's case, Sun and Star) Light and Darkness.

so basically, and this might be controversial, but I know those who will get it will get it, what I'm trying to say is.....

Solangelo is NOT Klance Coded.

Solangelo is SORIKU Coded

I can go into heavy detail, and I will!

Will is definitely a lot like Sora in that even when surrounded by so much bad happening or even when he's going through his own stuff, he still puts on a smile and pretends nothing is wrong. of course to his own detriment and also has self sacrificing tendancies. Overworking himself to heal others to the point of exhaustion and even down to the self esteem issues. Sora sees himself alone as worthless without his friends ("My Friends Are My Power") and Will feeling like Healing is the only thing he's good for since he didn't inherit any of the other natural talents most of his other siblings have as demigod children of Apollo. And the incident with Octavian probably didn't help either. They also have somewhat of a hero complex and struggle with dealing with the fact that they can't save everyone. Sora broke a major taboo in order to bring kairi back in kh3 because he didn't want her to die, and Will being a medic that had been through not 1 but 2 LITERAL WARS, one in which he lost several of his siblings and of course being a medic in general, no matter how hard you try or how good at your job, it's just a fact that you cannot save everyone that's put in your care. Also, Both Sora and Will are heavily associated with Light both literally and figuratively

And then we got Nico, who just like Riku was lost for so long in lieral and metaphorical darkness, both trapped in metaphorical labyrinths of their inner turmoil of thier feelings, their pasts, their trauma (wether it be losing someone they care about, or being abused and manipulated at the hands of a shifty adult figure for their own gain) , and feeling that they have no place of belonging. only to be brought back by the people that care about them the most and through their own self determination and strength. And also both characters associated with darkness literally and as a concept.

Riku and Nico also have a teensy bit of Angel character symbolism with Nico's last name being Angel in italian and Riku's original keyblade Way To Dawn having both a monster/demon wing and Angel wing at the hand guard and for the "teeth" of the keyblade

you could also argue Riku could technically be seen as a "Fallen Angel" type character since he was originally chosen to be a keyblade wielder by Terra but lost that right when he fell to darkness hence why the keyblade went to Sora instead, then Riku spent the next several games on a very angsty redemption arc.

And of course, Nico and Riku aren't strictly associated with darkness. Nico is a son of hades, a prince of the underworld, The Ghost King. However, he isn't all doom and gloom. He's still just a teenage boy that's secretly a giant nerd and is actually a a good kid.

Riku as well, has the power to wield both the powers of light and darkness and it was Riku's light inside his heart that sora reached out to that dark and stormy night on the beaches of destiny island that let him wield the keyblade in the first place

And don't even get me started on how Riku is 100% gay coded (don't beleive me? look up the "Riku Is Gay" video on youtube, grab a snack and enjoy. you're gonna be there a hot minute)

Both characters in both medias are opposites to each other but both also compliment and balance each other out. But not like Fire and Water. Like Light and Darkness. Not only hat, but the dynamic between Sora and Riku and between Nico and Will are kinda similar. not identical by any means, but enough to where I definitely noticed it.

If anyone else has anything to add to this, let me know! I had this lightbulb a few nights ago and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since!

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 14 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 7.9k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Library

Chapter 14: Shadow Waltz 

Bradley sinks into his seat before his legs might give out from under him. What did he just see? 

His breath comes out in short bursts like he can’t fully draw a breath before it forces its way back up from his lungs. 

It’s like his throat is being constricted. Why didn’t he call out? He could have jumped. Pulled the emergency brake and jumped out. Ran to you. Warned you.

The thoughts are coming and going in quick succession, nothing fully taking hold. Burying his head in his hands, Bradley tries to calm himself. Eyes screwed shut, he replays that moment over and over. The figure closing in on you. You’re oblivious. Why didn’t you turn around? Didn’t you hear the footsteps?

Why didn’t he call out?

He could have done something. Helped you. Saved you. The doomed scene replays in cutting sharpness every time he closes his eyes, leaving his insides quaking. Every heartbeat is like a sledgehammer coming down. 

Bradley doesn’t know how long he sits there, hunched over on the hard wooden seat, backpack weighing him down. Everything is distant like he’s not really there.

He is stuck in the moment you disappeared.

“Don’t draw any attention to yourself once you get on the train,” Your voice is so close and clear that Bradley is suddenly back in that small room, in bed with you. A moment in time when this was all just a plan. A rough sketch. Bradley’s reality was entirely between those four walls. You’re laying on top of him, naked, soft breast pressed against his chest. Even now, it feels more real than the jerky cadence of the train. Fingers gently caressing the quickly forming scars on his face, your tone is distressingly businesslike. “It’s your one chance, Bradley.”

“I’m sure I can manage,” He replies easily, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your fingertips. Your hands are warm.

But you never said it would be at the cost of you. The thought shoots through him like lightning, distorting the peaceful scene and drowning it in panic. Your giggle sounds strange in his memory, the once beautiful sound.

Time passes strangely; Bradley has no sense of how many stops the train has made, how many people flittered past him. Everything is a blur. The city is far behind him now, replacing the colorful buildings with green hills and lush forests. 

The train should take several hours before it reaches its destination. You told him so. Finally, Bradley’s breath evens out. It’s not the first time he’s seen someone seconds before their demise. Hell, he’s been the cause of those doomed final seconds plenty of time. He’s seen his brothers-in-arms go down in a ball of fire. 

He remembers all of them.

But it was never supposed to be you. No matter how blasé you were when you told him you could have died many times over already. How bravely you faced danger. Because Bradley remembers how softly your voice was when you admitted you didn’t want to die. 

No matter how much he tries to calm himself, focus on his breathing, and steer his mind to here and now, the strange tension won’t leave Bradley. It’s like a cold hand wrapped around his neck, setting him on edge. He is far from safety and should focus on the task at hand. Your sacrifice—the icy fingers tighten, constricting Bradley’s breath for a second as the realization that you might be dead sets in a little bit deeper—he cannot let your sacrifice be in vain. 

He is alive because of you.

He needs to go to the coordinates that you got for him. Find his contact. Get instructions. And get out.

It’s deep in the afternoon when the train stops in a nondescript town near the southern border. Most people have gotten off in the last large city about an hour ago—when Bradley looks up, only two other people are left in the wagon.

This is the place.

Getting up, his muscles and tendons creaking in protest, Bradley disembarks. He’s been sitting the whole journey but feels like his body has been through a marathon. Tiredness is seeping into his bones, overflowing from his brain. 

He looks around. The station is no more than a concrete slab and a small abandoned building in the middle of the forest. A single dirt road leads up the forest—the only sign of life is a sliver of smoke billowing up through the trees. There must be a house there.

“The station is here.” Your voice is eerily close again. Leaning over the table, one knee on the chair, your finger prods the map. Bradley leans closer. The map is slightly too large for the small table, with one side hanging off the edge. His compass, which he didn’t even realize you had, is in your other hand. 

“From there, you need to head…” You narrow your eyes as you think. The little crease between your eyebrows suddenly becomes evident again. “South-west.” You conclude.

“That will take me in the opposite direction of the path,” Bradley observes, his fingers brushing against yours as he traces a route over the green fields of the map. Nothing indicates there is anything for miles in that direction.

“Look for a game trail,” You look up, your face so close to his. Even now, Bradley can smell your soap. “A small path in the high grass, an opening in the underbrush.”

Your fingers follow his toward the small ‘x’ you’ve drawn on the map, the exact spot of the coordinates. On the map, it’s in an indistinct area in the middle of the forest. There are no marked paths or landmarks around. It has to be. It’s a delicate balance, as it needs to be a spot where you wouldn’t wander past wholly by chance but is also not terribly suspicious to be waiting there. 

Bradley will know when he sees it.

As suddenly as you appeared before his mind’s eye, you are gone again. Not even the smell of your soap lingers in the spring air. Opposite the dirt road, a trail of flattened grass disappears into the forest. Just like you said there would be. 

As he starts walking, he tries to remember how you looked as you did the mental math, trying to figure out how long he would be walking, figuring out which train to get. Your lips were pursed, still hunched over, fingers tapping against the map quickly.

“It should take me about 90 minutes,” Bradley offers. Your eyes flash, almost defiantly, as if you’re determined to prove him wrong. Mouth open, like you’re about to say something, he can practically see you do the math in your head.

“Yeah, 90 minutes sounds correct.” You finally admit, although not without difficulty, pulling away from him. It makes him laugh—you’re so determined to figure it out and do everything right. To eliminate every variable, be ahead of everyone and everything. But distance and speed calculations are daily chores for Bradley. There’s a surprising amount of math involved in flying—had he known that before he enlisted, he might have paid closer attention in school.

The track doesn’t stop when he reaches the forest. There are no markers, but the path between the blueberry bushes and ferns is clear. Now that he is sure no one is around him, he digs his compass out of his pocket. Heading south-west. Ninety minutes. 

Bradley glances around. It’s quiet—no one seems to be around. Although he’s only a few meters into the forest, it’s secluded.  Quickly slipping the backpack off his back, Bradley digs through the neatly packed contents. You’ve taken so much care getting him everything he’ll need; you had it all thought out. For a moment, Bradley’s movements slow. No. He needs to be on time. From the bottom of the backpack, he pulls his carefully wrapped gun. It feels strange in his hand, even though it’s his—he hasn’t seen it since you took it from him months ago. Unwrapping it, Bradley inspects the piece. It’s clean, and it’s still loaded. 

He desperately hopes he won’t have to use it. He has no spare ammo—it’s a tool of last resort. Choosing not to dwell on it, he double-checks the safety before tucking it into the waistband of his pants on his back. 

There is still no sound but for the forest. It doesn’t bring him any piece of mind.

Looking back, Bradley can barely remember the hike. Let alone the train ride. It already feels like everything happened in the past—a different lifetime. He’s lived so many now. The small room under the roof in Prague is just as far away as his barracks room in England. But the anxiety stays—it wanes in moments, only to come back full force suddenly as his thoughts inevitably turn back to you. You’re so intricately woven into every aspect of his life in the past months; almost nothing doesn’t remind Bradley of you.

The sun is streaming through the pine trees. In the forest, the air is cool despite that. Bradley needs to keep pace. Glancing at this watch, he knows he should soon be coming up to the rendezvous point—just ten more minutes.

His stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, too distraught to eat anything on the train. Everything is still just passing by him. Bradley isn’t hungry. When he was in boot camp, fresh out of high school, he was never hungry either—so much was weighing him down. His mother’s death, Mav, and the horrid reality of boot camp. But Bradley also knows it’s not about being hungry; it’s about survival.

A clearing appears—although clearing might be too much credit for the sudden widening of the path. It’s just a few meters across where the ground has been walked bare to the mud. Overgrown with moss, a large log peeks out on the edge of the clearing.

This should be it—nothing strange about a weary traveler sitting on a log to rest. 

Bradley sits down heavily. The hike wasn’t strenuous, and the weather is pleasant, but the ever-present tension and the feeling of being caught between fight and flight are steadily sapping his energy. Unwrapping some of his provisions, he chews mindlessly. The bread, the cheese—everything tastes like nothing to Bradley right now. The water in his canteen isn’t in any way refreshing; it instead feels like it’s a stone on his stomach, weighing him down further.

Sitting there, the sounds of the forest suddenly intensify. Bradley can hear how the wind picks up through the crowns of the trees. Leaves rustle, branches creak—something small is scurrying through the underbrush. A mouse or a squirrel, perhaps. Bradley focuses back on chewing. The food still tastes like nothing.

From here on out, he has no idea how long or far he has to go. He has provisions to last him several days, hoping it will be enough. Sitting on a large log in a quiet forest on a sunny afternoon is strange—Bradley feels like he should be running, fighting, doing something. Anything. Not just sitting here, waiting. 

But right now, he can’t go back. Neither can he go forward. Bradley is precisely where he needs to be right now, and it’s out of his hands. Truly, everything had been out of his hands the moment that night fighter tore his fuselage to shreds with a well-aimed salvo of bullets. 

It was easier to just go along with it when you were by his side. It distracted from his doomed fate well enough and for long enough. But now, Bradley feels more powerless, more aimless than before. Despite all the precautions, it might not have been enough for you. To save you.

For all you did to save him.

Deep inside, the cold rationale of years of training, years of seeing comrades die, and the many decisions Bradley has had to take are clear. Going back for you would mean you both die. It would render everything you’ve done for him useless. You fulfilled your mission. Now, he has to fulfill his.

He doesn’t want to think about that now.

Bradley swallows heavily, trying to get the acrid taste out of his mouth. You were not just part of a mission—he is pretty sure it was not just a mission for you anymore. It wasn’t for him.

A pack of cigarettes is tucked into one of the backpack's side pockets. Just when he reaches for it, tension creeps up his spine. Bradley is not alone anymore.

The man appears suddenly like he just materialized in the clearing. Not a twig that snapped under his boot, not a rustle of leaves as he moved. His face is tan; the skin is weathered from this sun, aging him. He looks at Bradley top to bottom—the man is dressed like a tramp in old and faded clothes, patched up with mismatched fabrics, holding himself awkwardly, almost as if he's injured, but his eyes are sharp. Discerning.

When Bradley observes him a bit closer, he notices the man's boots are outfitted with new soles despite his overall shabby appearance. 

Grinning, he tips his hat.

“Flash.” His voice sounds raw, like he hasn't spoken out loud in years.

“Thunder.” Bradley replies automatically. The man grins a little bit wider but doesn't say anything else. Bradley waits for him to say something, to introduce himself, or to start a conversation. However, the man seems comfortable in his silence, simply grinning at him in a friendly manner, beckoning Bradley as he starts walking off the path into the thick of the forest.

He passed the challenge; this man is the contact, of that, Bradley is as sure as he can be under the circumstances. And while it's not like he expected this to be a hike between friends, the clearly self-imposed muteness of the man is unsettling.

Quickly repacking his rucksack, Bradley leaps up, following the man. 

They walk, with only a drink break, until dusk. The hilly terrain is turning more rugged, with boulders sticking up from the forest floor higher and higher. When the man finally stops and motions for Bradley to sit down with him, pulling out a tin of beans from his pack, Bradley cannot help but ask.

“Where are we going?” 

The man, focusing on prying off the lid of the can, ignores him, scarcely looking up to acknowledge Bradley even said anything. Hesitantly, Bradley starts unpacking some of his own food—bread doesn't sound so bad now. The long hike hasn't done much to make him any hungrier. But he needs to eat. And bread is better than the cold beans the guide seems to be spooning down without blinking, anyway.

After what seems to be a much too short time, they are up on their feet again, walking through the dark forest. He sets a relentless pace for all the posturing the guide does to appear awkward or injured, he sets a relentless pace.

Bradley can't help but try again.

“How long do we have to travel?”

No reply.

“Are we going to walk all night?” He grumbles under his breath, annoyed now. The guide is the first person he has spoken to, besides you, in months. The only other people he ever saw were your fellow resistance fighters—the officer from the signal corps and his angry sidekick. The disconnect from everyone and everything around him is a constant irritation, like a weeping wound.

“Patrouille.” 

The sudden, raspy reply has Bradley snapping his head up.

Pointing west, where the sun is rapidly setting, he continues: “Kaserne.”

The guide simply turns around and resumes his path as if that explains everything. German wasn't exactly on Bradley's curriculum, and languages weren't his strong suit. You would know. And if you didn't know, you would probably figure it out, if only to to outsmart him.

You would never fully admit it, but the reason you really didn't like doing crossword puzzles with him is not because you couldn't take on the challenge—it's because he would always guess the answer faster than you. And as it turns out, you are an adorably poor loser regarding intellectual pursuits.

What Bradley would give to see you frown at him again, just knowing you were safe.

So they travel at night. It’s cold and dark—the ground uneven and slippery, as you warned him. When dawn breaks, they hide in the undergrowth or caverns scattered through the mountainside. Bradley feels like he hasn’t slept in days, but neither has he been fully awake. He is sure he can hear your voice somewhere between dreams and waking. It’s always so close like you’re next to him on the cold ground—your breath ghosting over his skin as you whisper to him. He can hear but can’t see you; he’s scared to look around, only to find nothing. 

The small square of cloth stays securely tucked in the breast pocket of his coat. Close to his heart. Bradley’s hands are so dirty he’s scared to even look at it. Sometimes, he brushes his hand over the pocket, imagining he can feel the folded edges through the thick fabric. Imagining you are still with him, however intangible.

He scratches off the wax from a match with shaking fingers before lighting it. The faint light from the burning tip is the only clear shape he can see. Everything else is formless, different shades of dark. In the absence of snow, like when you led him down the mountain, there is nothing to reflect the starlight. It makes the forest feel emptier and darker—the sound echoes louder, and strange noises travel.

His mind is leading him in circles, down a well-worn path.

By now, Bradley has replayed those last few seconds of you on that platform so many times in his head, he’s not even sure anymore what he saw. Were you grabbed? Did they run past you? Did you turn in time?

He’s not sure if his brain is playing tricks on him through the sleep deprivation, or his heart is trying to protect him in the most horribly cruel way—but the memory that was once so clear, seared into his mind’s eye, is playing out just a little bit differently every time he thinks about it. You turned. You moved out of the way. Dashing past the figure, you hid in the winding medieval streets you know so well. You would be alright. 

You have to be.

The cold rational pierces his heart, but Bradley knows he has to accept it. He made the right choice. He shouldn’t have turned back—you wouldn’t want him to. Every time he thinks about it, the knife twists a little bit more, not allowing the wound to heal. Somewhere, he doesn’t want it to. He deserves to suffer. If - if something happened to you, it’s because of him. The pain should be all his. 

As the days and nights melt into each other on the way to the airfield, Bradley is less and less sure of what he actually saw. Just existing is sapping him of every bit of energy now. The food you have packed for him is running low, and Bradley would kill for a hot coffee by now.

The guide doesn’t answer when Bradley asks how much longer. Whether he doesn’t understand or chooses not to understand is moot. It’s not like Bradley has the energy to argue with him. He just wants to get out of here.

Three nights in, Bradley feels like he's at his limit. The dark, the silence, and the uncertainty grate him to the bone. But he has no choice but to carry on. Gritting his teeth, he keeps walking. His feet hurt. His head hurts. His heart hurts.

The torch's strange moving light, deep at night in the cold mountain air, gives Bradley more time to think than he is comfortable with. There is nothing to distract him from himself. People pay good money for a hiking holiday in Europe, but Bradley can't help but be bored. It's like every emotion is slowly getting filed down to a stump. 

It didn't take him all that long to figure that "patrouille" was German for patrol—freely inferring that "kaserne" is a base or stronghold of some sort, which is the reason they travel at night. Barely enough of a challenge to keep his mind occupied.

When you are continuously exposed to danger, when your fight or flight instincts are constantly kicked into high gear, everything becomes dull. The tension and anxiety are always there; they are just so constant they are now background noise.

Sometimes, when Bradley wakes up and he sees the open sky above him, his heart clenches. Like he expected to wake up somewhere else. Like he wanted to wake up in that small room again. At the same time, it fills him with dread. Making his heart race in panic. The idea of being locked up in a small room again terrifies him.

Another long day and an even longer night go by.

It’s late, pitch black all around, when Bradley feels tarmac under his boots for the first time in months. It’s a strange feeling. He has no idea where he is or what day it even is, but the tarmac and the vague smell of jet fuel lingering in the air feel familiar. 

As they emerge from the forest, Bradley looks around in awe. This is an airfield. In the middle of the mountains, shabby and clearly long abandoned. But an airfield. 

This must be it.

At the far end of the runway, he can make out the familiar, terrifying shape of a German warplane. 

A man disembarks from the cockpit of the plane, waving them down.

Bradley walks around the plane, inspecting it with fingers trailing over the body. He's been up close and personal with many makes of enemy planes, but never like this. It's fascinating in the most morbid way.

The men are talking to each other in low voices. Circling the plane, Bradley sees it's a one-seater.

“Am I flying?” He asks, interrupting the tête-à-tête between the two other men. Finally, he receives a full verbal reply—although it comes from the other man, a rather young-looking and even younger-sounding man, and not the guide.

“With me, yes.” As he steps closer to Bradley, he can now see he is dressed like a pilot. A German pilot, specifically, the iron cross displayed prominently on the collar peeping out from this thick lambskin jacket. His accent, however, is very precisely British—too precisely, it’s almost caricature-like.

Bradley doesn't get time to dwell on it, or ask any follow-up questions, as he is quite unceremoniously and forcefully helped into the hold where bombs are normally stored. The pilot hands him another jacket and together with the guide, they slide an oxygen bottle into the hold with Bradley.

“It gets quite cold, I'm afraid.” Everything the pilot says sounds strangely rehearsed, like he never held a conversation in English before. “Put on the mask when we reach altitude.” He adds.

Bradley just nods. The guide is grinning at him again, simply tipping his hat in greeting. 

“Thank you.” He replies, nodding back at the guide just before the hold closes.

It's safer for everyone if no one knows everything. Not even names. That also means you will never know who you owe your life to.

Oxygen mask clutched in his hand, Bradley closes his eyes. The sound of the engines, the smell—it’s like coming home. Not the home where he wants to be, but the one he knows best. Despite his nerves—this is the most dangerous part of the journey, relinquishing the last bit of control that he had—he starts dozing off.

Bradley is exhausted, physically and mentally. It’s bitterly cold.

He can feel your weight draped over him as he slips out of consciousness. He can smell your soap. Bradley’s fingers brush over his breast pocket. 

“Bradley, my love,” Your whisper floats through the air. The slightly lilting syllables of his name—only you say his name like that—still send shivers down his spine. It feels so familiar. 

The engine's drone fades into the background, warping into a soft hum. 

It’s not cold anymore. Bradley can feel the sun on his face, and he knows, without opening his eyes, that he is home. It’s high summer, and he’s sprawled out on the beach. And you are here with him. His heart soars at the realization—but his eyes are so heavy.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Your sweet voice sounds distant and incredibly close at the same time. Bradley blinks heavily against the burning sun. You are leaning over him, your hair blowing around your face. The sky behind you is cloudless, such a heavenly blue. 

Bradley’s limbs are heavy; he feels like he can’t move. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he wants nothing more than to see you. He can see you again. He still wants to tell you so much—the words stick in his throat, tongue paralyzed. You’re smiling down at him fondly. The summer sun is bathing you in a warm light, casting an ethereal glow around your body. 

“Shhh,” Your fingers trace over his lips. “You need to breathe.” 

Bradley blinks slowly. He is breathing. Like you can hear his confusion, you giggle—the teasing sound wrapping around him in impossible patterns, like it’s carried on a gust of wind. 

“You need to breathe,” You reiterate, grin still on your face, hands cupping his face. Brushing your nose against his, Bradley allows his eyes to close again. He’s fighting to stay awake. He wants to stay here with you. 

“The air is getting thin, my love,” Your voice sounds strangely distorted, overlapping like an echo without a source. His thoughts are sluggish, struggling to comprehend what you could be talking about. 

“You need to breathe.”

Your voice sounds more urgent now. Bradley peels his eyes open; you’re still smiling down at him, your face not betraying any of the urgency in your voice. Reaching out, his fingers trace over your bare shoulders—your skin is so warm from the sun. The silty sea air is crisp, brushing through your hair. Bradley shakes his head, still lacking the strength to say anything. He shouldn’t have to; all you need to do is lean closer and kiss him.

As if you can hear his thoughts, you move toward him again. Your lips are brushing against his tantalizingly. Why do you insist on teasing him so? Don’t you know how worried he has been? How much he has missed you?

He reaches out for you, limbs heavier than lead, intent on closing the space between you. Bradley is not in the mood for your games and teasing—not right now. He needs assurance you are okay. You are laughing, so light and carefree, but he wants to feel you. His fingers tangle through your hair, pulling your face to his.

“Put on the goddamn mask.” 

The sudden loudness of your voice, callous and commanding, like it’s been amplified to an almost deafening volume, forces Bradley’s eyes wide open. His heart is racing. It makes no sense; you’re still smiling above him. The blue sky is flickering with darkness, like someone is playing with the lights. 

Suddenly, Bradley’s neurons start firing again, and he forces the mask clutched in his hand over his face. As the oxygen fills his lungs, it’s like he’s waking up: the strength returns to his body, and his vision sharpens.

Unfortunately, all he sees is the darkness of the hold. 

It’s bitterly cold again. 

***

“Let me go!” You jerk yourself back so violently, desperate to free yourself from the iron grip in your arm, you nearly send yourself keeling backward, pulling your assailant with you. Stumbling, he pulls you back harshly, using his much more extensive and heavier form against you.

“Don’t make a scene!” He barks at you.

You never liked Jan. But now you hate him.

“Make a scene?” You hiss venomously, digging in your heels. “You’re dragging me through the train station like livestock.” 

You know people are watching, although they hurry past you without a word. People don’t like getting involved—no one wants trouble. You’re dressed for a day out in the country; Jan is wearing an old, ill-fitting suit. You make an odd pair if you were just walking down the street, but arguing like this, you’re practically a sideshow.

A man in a dark coat passes, staring at you both a little too long, disapprovingly. The moment Jan’s grip loosens, you yank your arm away from him, clearly awkward under the man's stare.

“Stop being so goddamn difficult,” He bites at you. “And start walking.”

You want to tell him to go fuck himself, turn on your heel and leave. But there’s a reason he made it out here. After the decimation of the resistance network, the survivors split off—some staying in the city if it was safe enough, like you. Others reformed as partisan fighting groups because their identities were leaked to the authorities, and they couldn’t reintegrate into society like Emil, or simply because they saw that as the way forward, like Jan.

As much as you hate to admit it, as much as you despise thinking about it now, Jan’s sudden appearance means something is happening. It’s probably urgent, but it’s undoubtedly important.

For five seconds, for five fucking seconds, you want to not think about the war. Whatever message Jan has for you should wait. You want to crawl into bed and cry, mourn having to say goodbye to Bradley.

Because you will never see him again.

You can wish, you can dream—but realistically? If you both make it out alive, god knows how long the war will be. He will have forgotten about you by then. 

You always knew this; you felt it in your bones, especially in the last few days. You set yourself on fire to silence that nagging voice in your head, so determined to experience everything about Bradley that you could, to the point you allowed yourself to believe him. Truly believe him, even just for a few days. Because no matter how much you want to soothe your hurting heart with his sweet promise, the illusion that he will come back, you need to face reality. The world didn’t stop. People are still disappearing, still dying. Every day, you still wake up in a country under brutal occupation. And Bradley is gone.

But you’re not even getting a chance to feel sorry for yourself, you think angrily. Crawl into bed and cry, drink too much with Eva, and probably cry some more—normal things.

Except you haven’t had a normal day in years.

Blinking rapidly to stop the tears, hands jammed deep into your pockets; you follow Jan like a child being led to detention. He walks several meters in front of you, stride confident, weaving past people—you follow, trailing, practically dragging your feet. To the outside observer, you are two strangers just going in the same direction. The streets around the station are busy; trams are thundering, cars are honking, and people are pushing past.

Shoulders pulled up; you stare at the tips of your boots as you walk. You can feel the corners of your mouth pulling down. At this point, you can’t even pretend to look neutral. You notice Jan turning into a side street from the corner of your eye. The narrow alleyway leads into a backstreet, connecting the city center to quiet residential areas. Sighing, you follow. 

However, he takes another turn, legging it to the park behind the national museum rather than veering further up the hill, away from the crowds. Jan doesn’t look back at you once, assuming you’re following.

Your curiosity won’t allow you to turn away and go home. So, with a face like thunder, you shuffle after him. It’s a beautiful day. You hate it.

It’s good for Bradley, though. It shouldn’t be cold tonight. And at least it won’t be raining as he hikes to the rendezvous point. You hope the weather stays mild; you hope he stays safe.

Your heart sinks further as you realize you’ll probably never find out. Bradley filled your head and heart with so many dreams; perhaps the kindest thing you can do now is dream for him. He’ll make it out. He’ll be safe. He’ll return to Virginia Beach and live out his days in peace.

Maybe one day you can find peace in that.

The gravel of the park path creaks under your boots. You wonder how much further Jan will walk to ensure you’re not being followed—it’s making you impatient, but you know better than to stop him or start looking around to confirm that no one is actually following you. Glancing at your watch, you realize it’s not even noon yet. The day feels so much longer—the rollercoaster of emotions seems to have expanded time. It feels like you’ve lived full days in just a matter of hours.

Jamming your hand back into your pockets, you descend the pedestrian underpass leading out of the park under a busy road. The rolling thunder of cars, trams, and trucks resonates through the walls of the underpass, almost overwhelmingly so. Jan stopped walking halfway through—he is lighting a cigarette, waiting for you to catch up.

The further you walk down the stairs, the louder the noise gets—it’s practically shaking the walls. It’s like stepping into a liminal zone, the sparse artificial light looking strangely ominous, with no trace of the sunny spring day outside. And the stench. God. Stale alcohol and piss - it’s so penetrant you swear the air feels heavier, like a haze, as you arrive at the bottom of the stairs.

You swallow heavily, unsure if you want to keep breathing through your nose but also not really wanting to open your mouth.

Sauntering up to Jan—the smell of the cigarette amplifies the underpass's stench in a wholly new, disgusting dimension—you send him a suffering look.

“Really?” You force out, unable to keep the disdain out of your tone.

The way Jan is moving has a measure of frustration to it; the way he flicks the ash off his cigarette is a little too fast, his shoulders squared, and his movements a little too sharp. He ignores your rhetorical question.

“The Gestapo is looking for you.” Jan doesn’t look at you, keeping his gaze averted toward the end of the empty underpass.

“What?”

It’s like a bucket of ice suddenly dropped down your stomach. Your heart is suddenly beating a mile a minute. Panicking, you grab Jan’s sleeve, forcing him to look at you.

“What do you know?” You demand forcefully, trying to keep your voice stable, but the panic is rolling off you in waves.

“Someone saw you -” He jerks back, but you don’t let go of his sleeve. “Look, I don’t know. All I heard was the Gestapo was looking for a cleaner of your description who works at the Ministry of Interior.

“Why?” You’re desperate now, grasping at any straw to get in control of the situation. “And who told you that?

“You know I can’t tell you that,” He sounds contrite, gazing down for a moment, taking a drag of his cigarette. “But you need to get out of the city before they arrest you.”

Stunned into silence, you finally let go of his sleeve. Jan’s round face looks pained, his eyes darting around the underpass. You are breathing hard, the noise from the underpass in your head now, roaring and pounding. You can’t think. The stench is burning your nostrils, choking you. 

“Go stay with your parents out east.” He adds, not unkindly. “Just until this all blows over.” 

You shake your head.

“I need to go home.” You can’t articulate why, but you need to go home. You need to get clothes. Pack. You need to burn your false identities before they search the place. Yes, that’s it. Home. 

“No!” Jan grabs your shoulder, shaking you out of your reverie. “Don’t go home. Get the first train out of here.” 

Where is this sudden urgency coming from? It’s not like he just led you on a walk away from the central station. You feel a strange twinge in your stomach, but it’s so slight you barely acknowledge it. 

“No,” You force out. “I must go home first—I can’t just leave.”

“Yes, you can.” 

“I can’t!” Your sudden exclamation echoes. Jan, whose face is growing red splotches from frustration, clamps his hand over your mouth, silencing you. Tearing yourself away from him, you bite your tongue not to scream at him again. He throws up his hands before digging out another cigarette. He doesn’t offer you one but focuses his angrily shaking fingers on striking a match.

“This isn’t a game.” Jan cuts at you. He keeps his gaze averted like he’s too furious even to spare you a look. You are just shaking your head like you’re trying to shake your thoughts into place—to start making sense out of the chaos. In any other situation, you would never let any comment like that from anyone, but especially not Jan, go without defending yourself. Fuck.

“I’m going home.” You leave no room for argument, turning on your heel. 

“Is he still here?” 

The question makes you stop dead in your tracks, the blood rushing in your ears drowning out the noise around you. You feel that twinge in your stomach again, stronger this time. One thought suddenly looms large over the chaos in your brain, silencing everything: you can’t make sense of this because it doesn’t make sense.

“I can help-” 

“The mission was completed.” You cut him off flatly, not turning back to face him. Don’t elaborate. Biting your lip, your mind races to put the puzzle together. Something is off. You can feel it in your gut. It just doesn’t quite fit.

How did Jan know you were at the station? 

If he knew you were there, he must have seen Bradley.

And if he didn’t see him, what did Jan think you were doing there?

Slowly, you turn to face Jan again, blinking, face wiped clean of emotion. His movements are sharper now, like he’s going through the motions forcibly, never looking anywhere for more than a few seconds. He’s shuffling in place, like he wants to run from the situation, but is rooting himself in place.

As you finally take the time to observe Jan, you realize his movements don’t look like frustration. They look like nerves.

Now that the maelstrom of emotions and panicked thoughts in you has finally stilled, you can feel it. The weight of the realization is crushing—it’s just not adding up.

Trust your gut.

It’s like the world suddenly jerks into movement again. The noise is picking up into a deafening roar, the stench so heavy it’s misting over your eyes. Your body sets in motion before you can fully rationalize what you are doing. You need to get out of here.

You’re halfway up the stairs out of the tunnel when you hear Jan screaming at you, his lumbering footsteps closing in. Now is not the time to stop—lungs burning, heart pounding in your throat, you push on. You have a head start, which is your only chance to outrun Jan, who is larger and stronger than you. Nearly tripping over your own feet in your mad dash to get away from him, you cut through the shrubs surrounding the park, branches whipping against your body. When you think back to the moment later, you have no idea how you summoned the strength to scale the iron-wrought fence, nearly pivoting off the top as you tried to avoid the pointy spears decorating the top.

Don’t look around. Don’t look around.

You have no idea if Jan is still following you, but looking around will slow you down, and you can’t afford to lose a single meter of your head start. Blind panic is your fuel now. 

The main street is busy. It’s nearly lunchtime, and people are filing out of offices into shops and restaurants. You’re attracting attention, dressed so casually, running like mad—but you can’t stop now. A tram is just leaving the stop, bells ringing loudly. If you go a little bit faster, if you push yourself a little bit harder—desperately, you reach out, your fingers only brushing against the open balcony's metal handle for the departing tram.

You are breathing so hard, your focus singular, to get out of here; your heart nearly stops when you hear Jan calling out your name. He’s so much closer than you anticipated.

Straining, a strangled sound escaping your lips, you push harder. The tram is speeding up, you only have seconds left.

You can’t miss this tram.

It one final burst of energy that you didn’t know you still had in you that propels you forward just enough to grab onto the metal bar. Using your momentum, you jump, crashing onto the rear balcony unceremoniously, bashing your head and elbow against the dirty floor. 

You stay down for a moment, your mouth completely dry, spleen aching, head throbbing.

It’s a good thing Bradley left today. If the Gestapo really is looking for you, you couldn’t protect him anymore. Now, all you can hope is that he makes it out. 

He will. He has to. 

Sitting up, you roll your shoulder back to give your lungs more space as you catch your breath like Bradley showed you. It’s a good thing he isn’t here anymore, but… who can you tell now what happened? It’s like only now you realize that Bradley is not waiting for you at home. It hurts.

He’s no longer there to kiss you, ease your mind, and help you navigate this situation. Despite your ceaseless attempts to convince yourself that everything about your time was temporary, a lightning-in-a-bottle moment between two lonely souls and nothing more would ever come from it, the realization is dawning on you that you’ve grown accustomed to having him around. 

The only person that you could speak freely to. The only person who could truly see you. 

Bradley was the only person that knew you—the person you are now, the person you’ve been forced to become.

And he accepted you.

Suddenly, you feel like crying again. Sitting on the dirty tram floor, people staring down at you as they pass—you feel so incredibly alone.

Finally getting up and dusting off your pants, you enter the tram, trying to blend in with the crowd. A part of you wants nothing more than to go home, crawl into bed, and forget this whole goddamn day.

But you can’t ignore what Jan told you—his story doesn’t add up, but surely he wouldn’t lie about the Gestapo looking for you. It’s not even a question of why; plenty of things you have done could get you arrested at any point. Stealing, forgery, break-ins, harboring a fugitive… 

So it’s a question of what—how much do they actually know? And how much more information will they want to extract from you?

Your head is still throbbing—from the impact, the confusion, and the tears you’ve been holding back the whole morning.

Whatever happens next, you need to get rid of any evidence. If the Gestapo wants to pin something on you, they will find a way, but the line ends with you. You will not give them anything that could lead them to the others.

That’s the least you can do.

The closer you get to home, the worse you feel. It feels like lead is being poured into your boots, making every step harder. You are completely unsure of what to do now. After you get rid of the evidence, what will you do? Should you stay with your parents like Jan suggested? Wouldn’t that put them in danger?

You can’t even think about that right now.

Your stomach is churning by the time you unlock the heavy wooden door to your building. Something is wrong, and if your head weren’t feeling like it was about to explode, you would probably have stopped to examine your gut feeling. But you don’t have time. The quicker you get this done, the better.

Blindly, you make your way up the stairs. Voices of neighbors are echoing through the halls—it’s strange for so many people to be out of their houses. You are not in the mood for building gossip, so you hope you can slip into your apartment without any nosy aunties catching you. As you reach the first landing, you hear someone call your name. Can you pretend you don’t hear them? You keep your head down, legging it to the next flight of stairs at the far end of the landing. 

However, before you even make it to the first steps, your downstairs neighbor blocks your way—despite her being old enough to be your mother, she exudes so much class it’s age age-defying today her normally carefully coiffed blonde hair is… well, messy. Flyaway hairs are sticking out of the casual bun on the back of her hair. The sleeves of her normally crisp ironed blouse are wrinkled as she rolled them up in a hurry. It’s certainly not how your appearance-conscious neighbor, in all her vanity, would ever show herself.

“Anna, don’t go upstairs,” Worry is etched on your neighbor's face, her piercing blue eyes imploring you to stay. She is holding you by your shoulders. It’s an almost motherly gesture—it’s possibly the strangest part of an already confusing situation. You’ve known this woman for the majority of your life—she lived here before your family moved in. But you think that in all those years, you may have at most shaken her hand.

You don’t have words. Unceremoniously, with an incredulous frown, you pull away from your neighbor, pushing past her on the stairs. You break into a jog going up the stairs.

Today can’t end soon enough.

Something changes in the air the moment you reach the top of the stairs. Your neighbor’s voice still echoes through the hall as she screams out your name. Her frantic footsteps are coming after you. The second-floor landing is unusually crowded; more neighbors are looking at you in shock. 

It’s like you walked on stage for an audition, unprepared. Eyes are on you from every angle, staring. 

Why is the door to your apartment opened?

You should have stopped walking at that moment. You should have listened. Turned around.

But you speed up. You need to know. You need to find out exactly what happened.

Tearing through the doorway, you immediately slip on the soaked wooden floor. Clumsily, you break your fall by planting your hand on the floor. Your palms take the brunt of the impact, the ache ringing all the way up through your shoulder, your hands getting coated in the sticky liquid covering the floor as you scramble to get up.

But you cleaned up all the coffee this morning.

There is commotion behind you, but it could be on the other side of the world as far as you are concerned.

Because across from you on the floor, in the semi-darkness of the apartment hallway, Eva’s lifeless eyes are staring at you accusingly. 

She’s wearing your skirt, the rusty color blotted with the blood flowing from her head.

note | sorry i was going through some shit and stuff and I literally just finished writing the missing scenes - sorry for any oddities, it's almost 1am here, I will revise this tomorrow again but I also felt bad for taking so long

taglist |@katieshook02 |@gretagerwigsmuse |@yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch | @kmc1989

[umbrify]

So @liloinkoink tagged me in a little game where I post about all my wips, so people can see them and ask questions about them. I realized that I uh. I have twenty different AU concepts (all made with my beloved friend @made-nondescript ), so I’m gonna pick a few:

Merfolk AU (fWhimmy): in which Jimmy, sheriff to a small coastal town, realizes there’s something— or, someone— living right near their shores. fWhimmy mer au where fWhip is the merperson, and they have to figure out how to make it work, despite… everything.

And… is he sure about this? Joel’s gonna laugh at him— Jimmy’s certain he is. He can’t even blame him, really. What a ridiculous thing to say: I found a rock at the rock beach and I think there was a guy in the water— yeah, right. But… it feels important. It feels important enough to try. He has to try.

“I think… I think I met someone in the ocean, two nights ago,” Jimmy murmurs.

This AU does have one posted work already— [We Will See Tomorrow], which is like a prologue of sorts!

Vamp AU (WRA siblings, future fWhimmy): One mistake is all it takes to change the course of your life forever, as fWhip and Gem find out the hard way. Roseblings become vampires the messy way, and find it quite hard to come to terms with.

“Well, hello there!” The man calls brightly, perhaps just a touch too loud for the occasion at hand. fWhip bites back a flinch at the sound.

“Uh— hi,” he calls back, “I take it you have what I’m looking for?”

The man chuckles slightly, an easy smile stretching across his scarred face, and fWhip raises an eyebrow. The man steps closer, positioning himself next to fWhip. “You’re after some really valuable stuff here, you know.” The man leans down slightly, looking into fWhip’s eyes. “You sure you’re willing to pay the price?”

(If he were more observant, perhaps fWhip would’ve noticed the way the man’s too-sharp teeth flashed in the sickly orange light— his first, and only, warning.)

This one has lots of art, which can be found under [#esmp vamp au]!

Space AU (fWhimmy— sorta): They’ve landed on this planet, and too late, they’ve realized they can’t leave it. How do you come to terms with the fact you’re definitely doomed? Jimmy and fWhip are co pilots of a spacecraft sent to check on a planet that sent out a strangled distress signal, and now they’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted before the end— if fWhip could stop making things worse, that is.

“Commander Jimmy, transmission regarding the emergency distress signal received from planet ANC-19.”

“This planet is lost, and so are we. Do not send a rescue mission. This planet is sick, it cannot be saved. I repeat, do not send anyone else here. They will die. There are no survivors. There is nothing of value left here.”

Snowpocalypse AU— or, hey what if Xornoth kidnapped Scott and used his ice powers to cause eternal winter? Wouldn’t that be fucked up? Scott’s absence is noticed very quickly by Gem, who drags fWhip and Jimmy to his house to check on him

“Oh—“ Gem turns the handle, the door swinging open slightly. “Scott! I’m coming in!!”

The lights are on as the step inside— fWhip knew they were, of course, but…

Well. He didn’t expect this.

The house is completely trashed— the coffee table is turned on its side, a mug of what might’ve been coffee or tea has shattered on the ground, the liquid partially stained into the rug. The pillows from the couch are strewn all around the room, and half the cabinets are thrown open, as if someone was looking for… something.

“…Scott?” fWhip calls, hesitantly.

Something is definitely wrong.

(More quick ones below the cut!)

fWhimmy Apocalypse AU (also featuring lots of fWhip & Pix): In which fWhip and Pix make the hardest trip of their lives to Jimmy’s house, with fWhip determined to see Jimmy again, against all odds. Apocalypse, but not in the zombie sense— think more like if sculk was a bit more fucked up. This one has all of its current writing posted [here!]

Superhero AU: You know the trope of “villain goes to superhero’s doorstep, super injured, and is like ‘I didn’t know where else to go’?” That, but it’s Jimmy going to fWhip, and fWhip is more of a vigilante than a hero, and Jimmy doesn’t necessarily… like… get redeemed. I remember this one had a long section in the notes about how Jimmy is a villain by choice, not because he was forced to be.

Antique shop AU: Nondescript and I went off for a While about this one, which created [this post]— basically, Pix runs an antique shop in a college town, and he hears about the lives of fWhip and Jimmy when they visit his shop

Android fWhip AU— or, hey what if the reason empires one fWhip survived the blast was because he wasn’t human at all, and nobody knew until Gem finds him in the wreckage? And then there’s the whole situation with— well, how do you just not notice that your brother is an android? This one had a whole scene where Gem takes a mangled fWhip over to Mezalea, as one of the last standing empires, and Joel tries to help them repair fWhip. I made [art] for this one, which is the only thing this AU has so far

There are a lot more, but I think that’ll do for now! I’d be happy to answer any questions about any of these, or any of my other writing :D !!

(As for tagging folks, I don’t wanna bother too many people, but if @blocksruinedme or @stitchthesewords wanna share any AU’s, go wild my friends!)

[tinybro]

thinking about jasico feat. that soulmate tattoo sleeve concept i posted about literally six years ago now, this got so long i'm just putting it all under a readmore to save y'all from having to scroll through it

the tattoos appear bit by bit in real time as someone's soulmate grows up and develop as a person, which means shit's wild when jasico-flavored. nico and bianca both grow up never developing any tattoos the whole time they're living in italy – bianca because she was fated to die young, and nico because jason's decades away from being born. it's not initially odd since people have relationships with age gaps, but the older they get without anything showing up at all the rougher it gets. they both get teased about being forever alone, or future cradle-robbers whose soulmates haven't even been born yet. it's part of why they were so close growing up. but then nico's develops rapidly towards the end of their stay in the lotus hotel, and by the time they get out of the haze of it he's suddenly got a partial sleeve.

bianca can't help but be quietly resentful. she knows it's not his fault, but she's just a kid herself, and they were in this boat together their whole lives and then suddenly her little brother has someone out there and she still doesn't. it becomes part of why she jumps on the chance to join hunters of artemis, eager for some space and rationalizing to herself that becoming immortal would mean she wouldn't be way older than her future soulmate.

meanwhile nico was distracted from bianca's frustration by the excitement of his new tattoo. it means he does have someone out there, someone close to his own age, and he obsessively studies his tattoo's imagery trying to see if it could be linked to anyone he meets. he gets his hopes up meeting percy, but they're dashed pretty quickly – his tattoo is all stormy skies and wolves and eagles, and try as he might he can't justify any of it as being related to percy. it's even more obvious much later when he finally gets a chance to see annabeth's arm and it's so clearly percy-themed. for a while he confusedly wonders if the lightning on his arm could be tied to thalia, and the thought of it is a little suffocating even if it should feel good to know he's "normal". but none of the rest of his tattoo seems to match her, thankfully, and she doesn't have a sleeve at all pointing to him either. for a long time, he figures his tattoos must be the frustratingly metaphorical kind and dismisses the obvious zeus connection.

jason, however, has a fairly developed partial sleeve of tattoos from the moment he's born. it's a little weird that it never changes at all – nico's development as a person is pretty much frozen in the lotus hotel – but jason spends his early years comparing the imagery to all the older campers, curious but never quite managing to link anyone to it. he knows right away that reyna couldn't be his soulmate, because they're the same age and whoever his soulmate is has to be at least 5-10 years older than him. he's still the popular golden boy of new rome, so he of course has other kids crushing on him that try to see themselves in his tattoos. the boldest ones try to claim a connection directly, but he can always shoot them down easily knowing the ages don't line up. and then when he's around 12, his forever-unchanged tattoo suddenly develops rapidly out of nowhere. images of some kind of playing cards appear in it, as nico discovers mythomagic soon after leaving the lotus hotel. ocean waves show up one day only to turn black a few days later. a silver arrow sneaks in soon after. then the imagery starts getting macabre pretty quickly – skulls and bones and graves take over most of it.

nico has an idea of what's up before he even meets jason – from the moment he's told about new rome and lupa and hears they have a son of jupiter, a lot of things feel very obvious. but he's still fighting all that internalized homophobia and feeling the fallout of his doomed crush on percy, so he keeps his mouth shut. he always wears his jacket anyway, and makes sure to wear long sleeves when it's too hot for the jacket. he keeps his tattoos hidden away, and no one's really close enough to ask about it besides hazel, who can tell it's sensitive and so doesn't pry.

but jason remains oblivious for a good while. the newer imagery on his arm has obvious pluto/hades vibes, but hazel or nico are both clearly too young for his false estimate of how old his soulmate would be. he doesn't hear about the lotus hotel shit until he's on the argo ii hearing stories from percy, and that's when he finally starts wondering.

[misslovasstuff]

I will be back

Dazai x reader oneshot

“I’m scared.” - your voice shaking and your whole body trembling, once you close your eyes you find yourself in someone’s embrace.

“Don’t be afraid, don’t... - a voice that was beginning to bring you relief and comfort, gets interrupted by sounds of gunshots. They keep you close to their body, protecting your head with their hands. You tighten the grip around that person’s upper body as they hold you close to their figure.

At first you widen your eyes, but the longer your chest touches theirs, your being finds peace. That warmth, that delicate touch which never hurts you, and that scent...

“It’s you Dazai, isn’t it?” - you say as you stroke the skin behind his neck. Your voice although heavy and quiet, it does not go unnoticed from the love of your life.

“You’re going to be alright love, trust me, -  Dazai had a worrisome look in his eyes as he scans you. He sighs in relief as he cups your cheek. - You’re not hurt, are you?”

You give a weak smile, shifting your eyes at your stomach. And there it was, a view you had never seen before.

Dazai was flabbergasted. He was frozen, like no thoughts were running in his head. His eyes went literally blank while he stared at you.

“They shot you.”- He says while noticing your injury. Even knowing that you had done nothing wrong yourself, you were taken aback. Dazai had never looked scarier. He notices your eyes expressing more fear than hope, and snaps out of it.- You’re bleeding!”

He gives a quick scan to the area around while you start coughing. There are gunshots everywhere, in every corner there are people who are trying to harm you. 

Why is it we can’t really help people we truly care about? Why do our minds freeze and our bodies unable to move?

It’s because we are afraid of making a mistake, we are afraid of being our lover’s doom.

“Dazai, - you call his name, trying to calm the storm in his head. - you need to know something. - trying to pull him by the sleeve of his coat, it is soon you realize your lack of strength. 

“Save it for later.” - you felt his voice shaking.

“There wont be a later.” - you say and he immediately faces you, eyes widen.

“Don’t, just don’t s- “I am not afraid anymore, Dazai. You’re here with me.” - You interrupt his words who were meant to encourage you, but would encouragement help a heart that already knows its doomed?

“You can’t die because of me, how could I ever do this you?! How could I... damn it!” - Dazai lowers his head as holds your hand close to his temple.

“Yosano is on her way, you’re going to be alright, there’s no reason to worry.” - he says, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself rather than convince you.

“You know what, - you cup his cheek, stroking it lightly with your thumb, giving another dry cough. - it’s a beautiful way to go, this death of mine. If you’re holding me like this, than I might have done something that was worth it in this life.”

“As modest as always, but this is not the time sweetheart. - he gives a nervous smile as he keeps looking around. - Where the hell is she?! Yosano!!”

“We didn’t get much time, if we had more time, just a little more,

... maybe we would have become happier.” - you say, holding back tears burning in your eyes.

Dazai sighs heavily before answering: “Is there a living soul in this cruel world that wouldn’t be happy near you? Even happiness envies you, a smile of yours makes me want to see the light of the day in the morning, your eyes give me the courage to face everything I once feared and you... my goodness all of you is what makes me so happy.”

It’s impossible to contain your tears any longer.

“I want you to be happy, so I will be back.” - you smile once again. “Please stop, I am begging you-

“I’ll be back as a butterfly.” Among tears, Dazai sniffs and shakes his head: You have always liked butterflies.

You two smile at each other as your foreheads touch, as Dazai hears your last breath.

A week later

“How is he coping?” - Atsushi asks Kunikida, who observes Dazai from afar, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“He’s not coping at all, Dazai doesn’t cope with his emotions, not when they hurt so much.” - He claims and takes a leave, followed by the grey-haired boy who sighed heavily, wiping his tears.

Dazai strengthens the grip he has on the flowers. almost cutting them off.

“First spring without you, - he squats down, lending the flowers to your grave. - I must say it’s not as colorful as it is supposed to be.”

A warm wind blows, as Dazai closes his eyes and then shifting them towards the sky.

As he does so, a little blue butterfly comes and lands on the tip of his nose.

“Ahh, - he does try to shoo it away at first but, - wait a minute...”

He smiles at the sight of the butterfly flying around your grave and then lending on the flowers.

“You’re as beautiful as always, my love. - he says as he lays his index finger so the butterfly comes and sits there for a while. - Good to see you again.”

Dazai is happy again, and you’re back as you promised. 

Two souls who love each other truthfully, are not really separated  from each other.

[hybbart]

So what’s up with Cleo in the raau? I see she’s got the snake hair and the greenish zombie-ish skin but also zombie apocalypse? And zombie magnet? What’s goin’ on? Is she like a carrier host, where your body vibes with the infection enough that it doesn’t really affect you, just hitched a ride around? Or— what if, before the apocalypse there was a much more benevolent zombie virus that certainly wasn’t pleasant to be sick with but eventually integrated into the persons body, leaving it in an odd, but sustainable state of simultaneous growth and decay, and Cleo’s lived with it most of her life. It’s part of the reason the apocalypse-zombie virus spread so quickly, people didn’t immediately panic because they assumed it was the normal, safe zombie virus and it was Very Much Not.

(My brain refuses to not come up with ideas about the stories I think about and your soft apocalypse au has captured it its so good!)

Well, I'm not a doctor so I can't fully explain it realistically. But the answer I made up is that the zombie disease (it is a disease not a virus in this story) does not kill you. It can be lethal, but the current disease doesn't do so on its own. With proper care someone can recover, though they might become weakened.

Its life cycle is supposed to be infect host, suppress host's immune system response, incubate, wait for host to die, use host's body to find and infect next host. Theoretically someone properly mauled by a zombie dies pretty quick after from other infections, but the host has to die before it can control them.

Whats going on with Cleo is that she's just got some bad luck with getting bitten, maybe a bit of a skill issue, probably moreso just weakend by repeat infections. Zloy too. They just both happen to have people willing to care for them.

It did mostly spread under the radar, basically a domino effect of spreading out from hospitals and people being unwilling to hurt their loved ones. It wasn't known for a while whether zombies were dead or just being controlled so a lot of people tried to save them thinking they could be cured. It's a disease that unknowingly used human empathy to be far more successful than it can sustain.

Tbh I made that choice because I think if humanity was to be doomed, I would at least like to think it was while caring about each other. Probably someone else might use that to justify making a very cynical setting, but really the real problem imo is a lack of knowledge on what type of care people needed, and they're trying to figure that out without the infrastructure to do much.

The origin of the disease however, is unknown. It wasn't discovered before society collapsed and they dont have the means to figure it out now.

[thestayathomedragon]

I've been thinking about Luis Serra a lot lately. Obviously. And I just feel even worse about the way things ended for him. And yeah sure there was hope at the end. He did save Leon and Ashley and by doing so probably a lot more people than he ever could have dreamed. But still I feel so badly for the way his story went.

And I know his death was meant to be seen as some kind of redemption in it's self but I can't help but think about all the lore you find on him in the village as you go through the game and how these events in his life turned him into what he became.

Like how losing his grandfather, the only family he had at such a young age left him out in the world on his own to have to figure so much out by himself. I mean he was born and raised in a isolated rural village out in the middle of nowhere Spain with a bunch of traditional devout Catholics.

What could he have possibly learned about the way society works outside of the village until he was actually outside of the village? How old was he when he left? I mean it's clear he was still a bit naive even after all he's already been through when we meet him, so imagine what he must have been like in the beginning of his journey.

Was he truly taken advantage of? And what exactly did that look like?

I mean he was convinced once, twice, almost three times that he was doing the right thing with his research that it was going to lead to helping people. Which he seemed obsessed with doing. So much so that he was blind to the consequences until it was too late. Even with Leon and Ashley. He wanted to help them so badly that he put himself into the line of fire time and time again.

I feel that he did truly do it because he wanted to feel better about his past mistakes but look at all the risks he took with Leon. Even Leon was scolding him about taking things more seriously toward the end. I don't believe he truly thought he would be killed.

I get that this was a remake but the story beats were always going to be the same. That Luis was doomed by the narrative that had already been written but I don't know how I feel about him having to die to be redeemed. Sure he made mistakes, a lot of them, but so does everybody. It's unfortunately the human condition. We will make the same mistakes over and over again, fooled every time because they're wearing a different coat of paint, or outfit, or name. But it's the same ones.

What we do in response to those mistake does matter of course but I don't know if the lesson here should be that someone deserves to die because of it.

I feel like once again Capcom and Resident Evil missed out of giving us a very complex and interesting character that we get to see move on from terrible, terrible things and potentially teach a much more valuable lesson.

[sicklyseraphnsuch]

What do you think would of happened if winter king didn’t die? Let’s say after they saved him, and nothing went wrong. Then what?

So, the way I wanted the Winter King episode to be remodeled is primarily to serve two purposes:

Give Simon a way to see his flaws from an outsider's perspective

Gain some insight into the flaws within his and Betty's relationship

I actually would change the Winter King episode a little earlier - before Candy Queen crashes the party. When Simon asks about Betty, Winter King says that he doesn't remember her beyond being the "dead one". Simon will push, asking how could he say that. And Winter King will shrug, saying:

"Well, how was she any different from my other obsessed fangirls?"

"She wasn't an obsessed fangirl!"

"Are we sure about that, Simon?"

Simon can leave in a huff. Fionna approaches him, picking up his sour mood. Simon explains and we get an earlier introduction to their relationship. Fionna gives Simon the hint that all was not well.

Anyways, more Winter World shenanigans, the kidnapping happens minus the big smooch that ruined everything. We start the next episode with Winter King trying to strike up a repartee with Simon but he's still fuming. Simon outright rejects that the Winter King could have ever been him.

And Winter King starts rattling off a bunch of personal information about Simon that he only he could possibly know about. (And yaaay, more Simon lore!) Simon doesn't understand but Winter King gives him a big hint by saying, "Really, the main difference between you and me - I throw myself parties and you throw yourself pity parties, but we only invite ourselves."

At which point, maybe Simon starts to question if Winter King makes any sort of sense. Maybe he goes to Cake for a second opinion and Cake shares her story at the market - where she was having fun and she thought she knew what she was doing. But it turns out that she didn't know diddly squat because she didn't see the way others saw her actions. Which can stew in Simon's mind a little more.

The episode vibe pivots into a Nancy Drew Mystery as Fionna, Cake, and Simon figure out the sus thing that turned Ice King into the Winter King. Then we get like a little debate. Does Winter King have a right to exist? Is the only option on the table to doom Winter King?

We can absolutely encapsulate the main choice of the series - doom a Simon in exchange for the livelihood of someone else. Sure, maybe Simon Prime didn't mean to unmagic Fionna's world (and give her horrible depression), but if Fionna wants what she used to have, then Simon has to go.

We can bring that tension through the following episodes because Winter King would fight tooth and nail for his right to exist, which Simon is horrified by. Whereas Fionna is realizing that the curse of the Crown is no joke because Winter King is so so afraid of the curse.

Through shenanigans, Winter King does eventually lose his power, but he doesn't dust himself immediately. Simon gets a chance to see that Winter King wasn't kidding. Underneath all that bravado and selfish whimsy, Winter King really was just Simon Petrikov.

It would be a conversation like this:

"I don't understand. How could you turn out to be like this?"

"Oh Simon, we were always like this. I just hope that you figure it out soon, before you meet her again."

This leaves the surviving Simon to stew about the fact that maybe there was a nugget of truth in Winter King's comments about himself and even about Betty.

Meanwhile, Fionna's dread is ramping up faster because she realizes what precisely is at stake here.

[nygmobblepot-trash]

Just watched the first episode of Loki s2.

THEY'RE SO FUCKING CUTE.

*spoilers*

Mobius is so in love with Loki it's painful. His whole world got turned upside down and the timelines are falling apart. All he cares about is Loki. Even when Loki is basically bouncing off the wall terrified because something bad is coming. Mobius just doesn't care because it isn't important right now. He doesn't immediately start berating Loki about what happened at the end of time. He trusts Loki and cares about him (Sylvie even pointed that out last season).

So after trying to calm Loki down he takes him to OB (who is having a contest with Casey on who can be the most adorable). When they finally get an answer on how to fix the issue they both want to try something else. Loki doesn't want Mobius to lose his skin and Mobius wants the same... and I guess not wanting Loki to die of course. Also the bickering of who has it worse was perfect.

Regardless when the time comes Mobius steps up to the plate without complaint... besides writing "skin?" on a dusty computer and giving a thumbs up. Which was so iconic and I love that for him.

I also desperately need to know what Loki was going to say to Mobius in case he didn't make it. I'm sure he was still thinking about The One Who Remains and Sylvie. He was probably going to tell Mobius to find Sylvie but I need to believe he was going to have a heart-to-heart with Mobius. Maybe talk about fully what happened. All he told Mobius is that Sylvie and he fought, they tied (she won), and that he is coming. Loki is still unsure about the decision he made. He wanted to discuss it with Sylvie but Sylvie had already made her choice and decided to assume the worst of Loki. I think he has a lot of guilt. He either tried to do what he thought was right and would have doomed the timelines if he succeeded in stopping Sylvie or he almost did the right thing but couldn't commit to stopping Sylvie due to wanting a version of himself to be happy thus dooming the timelines. Basically, he's worried that he backed the wrong option and almost ruined everything (either because he believed that a dictator is better than a whole multiverse war or deep down he wanted control of everything) or backed the right option and failed because of his own selfishness.

--okay sorry back to my point. He knows Mobius deserves to know the truth. Hell, he probably wants Mobius to tell him he made the right choice or scold him for being selfish.

So in that moment where Loki may become lost to time (whatever that means. Death? An eternity of solitude, not belonging anywhere?) he apologizes. He admits that he might of fucked up big time and that Mobius was probably wrong to trust him. That maybe Lokis are incapable of doing good even when they're given free will. Maybe he really just wanted the throne.

Mobius is confused by the outburst and has no idea what Loki is even talking about but that doesn't matter right now. He sets his hand on Loki's shoulder immediately shutting the demigod up. A reassuring smile appears on his face.

"Tell me about it when you get back."

Tears well up in Loki's eyes. "But I ruined your life and now you're risking yours to save me. You deserve to know-"

"Know what? You keep forgetting I know everything about you. I wasn't lying when I told you that you could be good. I stole that line from your brother by the way. All you ever needed was someone to believe in you, not a throne. You aren't the same Loki that I met a week ago. You were a God that never questioned his actions because he believed them to always be just. Now you're a man terrified of doing the wrong thing. No matter the fallout we'll figure it out together. First, let's put an end to this whole time-slipping thing... it's honestly making my stomach flip."

Loki is too stunned to speak. It makes no sense. How can two people who know him so well have two different opinions of him? Why does another version of himself believe he can't be trusted while the man who studied every lifetime of every version of Loki trusts Loki with his life (skin?). Loki has to make it make sense. "It bothers you when I am in pain?" He asks still in a haze.

Mobius who had walked away to watch OB work doesn't look up from the control panel. "You're a jackass most of the time but that doesn't mean I enjoy watching you get yanked from past to present."

Loki's own words echo in his mind; 'I just want you to be okay.' The prune stick slips from his hands and clatters to the floor.

Mobius turns his head startled by the noise. "Loki," he notices the tears in Loki's eyes, "what's wrong?"

"I-" Before he can form a sentence a sharp pain shoots across his body as it contorts in ways it shouldn't. As the pain subsides and he gains control of his body he notices his surroundings have changed. Or rather the time has changed. Loki is greeted with an empty dark room.

He looks at the device OB had given him and reality sets in. Pruning stick. His eyes frantically scan the floor for something he left in the present. Of course, it wouldn't be here in the past. As his eyes shoot towards the door something catches his peripheral vision. Something written on the side of a monitor.

Skin?

But that's not possible. Mobius wrote that in the present. It can't be here in the past. Unless he's not in the past. He has never been pulled to the future before. He's running out of time. It's now or never.

Loki runs through the TVA searching for a hunter but only finds empty hallways. The device shakes in his trembling hand. The gage is almost back into the red. He's failed again. He'll never see Mobius again. The old variant of Loki was right; all he does is bring pain and unhappiness everywhere he goes. Glorious purpose, what a cruel joke.

A phone rings close by breaking his trance. With nothing else to do, he slowly makes his way to the odd occurrence.

Then he sees a pair of hands pry open a door. It's Sylvie. Her hair is long and she seems... happy? Emotions again well up in him as their last interaction stings in his mind.

Before Loki can talk he feels an immense pain starting at his back radiate throughout his body. He's felt this exact burning pain before and it isn't the time slipping. For the second time, Loki is pruned while staring at Sylvie. He has no idea who is the responsible party but he doesn't care. All he can do is shut his eyes tightly and pray that the plan works. He wants --no-- he needs to see them again, to make sure they stay safe.

The next thing Loki feels is weightlessness. Is this death? He got pruned too late, right? Surely the universe making him see Sylvie again was punishment.

When he gains the courage to open his eyes he is moving through space at an alarming rate towards someone in a space suit. The person in the suit turns and he sees Mobius and the blast doors closing. Loki swears he sees Mobius smile as the men collide with so much force they are thrown through the doors just as they close.

As they lay on the floor neither are quick to remove their arms from each other. Loki uses one arm to prop himself up slightly while using the other to hold on to Mobius. As he stares at Mobius so many things come to Loki's mind.

I'm glad you're okay.

You still have your skin.

I came back.

Instead of saying any of those things his stomach turns and he remembers Sylvie. "We have to find Sylvie," is all that he can bare. Love is a dagger after all. If he doesn't reach out it can't disappear again.

[carissimipaixao]

For the Christmas prompts- could please I get protection with Shay Cormac? Happy holidays!! Thank youuu!!

─ PROTECTION

published on: january 25, 2023 requested by: @littlemisscare-all pairing: shay cormac & reader word count: 800+ note: submitted during the christmas inbox!

Since the very first moment that you met Shay Cormac, your life changed.

You often assisted the Finnegans�� — your neighbors — and it was during one of those days that their son’s boss and his men dragged a body inside, which you initially thought to be more dead than alive, upon spotting the blood and ugly bruise on the stranger’s head, along with a long cut from his forehead to below his right eye.

From then on, the list of tasks and chores that you did around the house grew ever so slightly to accommodate the stranger, to help him heal and get better as soon as possible — as it was requested by the Colonel. You did not know why he brought a wounded sailor or soldier to the house of two average citizens with little to no connection to the Royal Navy or His Majesty King George II, and you did find it confusing and odd.

When the house was attacked by a bunch of gang members, pushing Barry onto the floor, breaking the dishes and terrifying Cassidy. Even when they were chased away, after receiving a beating from your wounded patient, the threats that they left behind crawled inside your head and burned fear into your heart. Cassidy believed that it would be the safest if you were to remain with them, but you thought otherwise. You had never considered yourself to be the bravest soul, and thus, you ran from the danger.

But, you could never kill the paranoia and the dread. Everywhere you went, it seemed like the eyes of the gangs in New York followed your every move, watched you as you slept. Little by little, you thought yourself to be going insane.

Then, it happened — proving your suspicions.

On a nightly walk to your house, after handing Cassidy the groceries that the elderly couple needed inside their home for the following morning, you were stopped by a familiar face, whose nose had been crooked and broken since that fateful day. The man gave you a nasty grin, lips curled up like a wolf, and, pulled by your wrist by a strong grip, the man took you towards the docks. I hope you like swimming, miss, he had told you. Because that’s the last thing you’ll do.

A gag around your mouth and wrists bound together, you found yourself inside a ship — the name Serenity engraved on the back — and tossed inside a storage room. You heard the whispers and laughter as you walked on board, as those men cloaked in yellow and white spoke of your doom. She’s such a pretty thing. It’ll be a shame to toss her into the sea!

Hours have passed since the ship left the docks of New York. Since then, you have begun to pray to a higher being, someone who could save you from those monsters that had decided to kill you. For what purpose? You cannot help, however, but think that they are trying to get revenge through you, for their losses and the humiliation. When the ship shakes aggressively, the shouts begin and the bell rings, you close your eyes to stem the flow of tears.

You are certain that your death is coming. Then, when everything begins to die down, the clash of swords and the sound of gunshots decreasing, the door to the storage room rattles and you tremble. 

After a few more attempts, the door is ultimately kicked open, thus breaking the lock. Amongst the smoke and death that lies on the other side, a tall silhouette stands in the doorway, sword and dagger unsheathed. Half a beat of silence, and the figure approaches you as it puts the sword away. Your name comes out of your savior in a breathless whisper, as if suddenly frightened.

Shay kneels down in front of you, eyes frantic as they look over your face and body — searching for any wound. His eyes darken at the sight of your damp skin and red eyes, and he swiftly cuts the rope around your wrists with his dagger, before putting it away. ‘You’re safe now,’ he tells you as he takes the gag from your mouth. ‘Let’s get you out of here, lass.’

‘Shay,’ you call for him. You find yourself incapable, however, of getting up, tucked as you were in the corner of the room, arms around your knees. You feel your eyes water once more. You feel guilty for his troubles, but, most importantly, you wonder how he found you. It feels as if your roles have been reversed; in the beginning, you took care of him and made sure he got to his feet. It was a rocky journey, but, inevitably, Shay was out of the Finnegans’ house. And, now, he has saved you, rescued you from a certain death by the hands of the same men that had endangered you months ago.

Something shifts in your chest—no, you conclude. It’s only growing. You have often shoved the attraction for the Irishman, thinking of it as improper while you were tending to his wounds. There isn’t anything wrong if you acknowledge those feelings now, is there? You don’t know where his heart lies, but you are certain of yours.

His stare softens. Gently, he speaks. ‘Nobody will hurt you now. I won’t let them.’

And, since that moment, everything changes.

[tathrin]

🖤 a dark ship?

[from this ask meme]

I think I have to answer Silvergifting for this one. (And let me also throw you a rec for my brand new Celebrimbor joins the Fellowship AU, with lots of post-Silvergifting trauma baked-in.)

For starters I'm completely obsessed with the very idea of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and desperately need some kind of hardcore world building 75-chapter story set in Ost-in-Edhil about these crazy smiths and the culture of their city. And of course you cannot talk about Ost-in-Edhil without talking about Sauron, and how he wormed his way into their lives and forges and was probably happier there than he'd ever been in his life before he destroyed it.

But it's about how much they had in common, and how great things could have been if only Annatar had meant any of his pretty lies (and maybe he did, just a little; maybe he wished he did, just a little; a Sauron who is at least tempted to Be Someone Other Than Sauron is my favorite flavor of this; a Sauron who destroys his own happiness, too in his pursuit of his dreams of power and does it anyway...) and how impossibly terrible everything was instead.

Doomed less by the narrative than by yourself: by looking at the blood that stains your own lineage and being forgiving of a maia who has blood and shadows in his own past as a result of wishing that you could ever forgive your family and yourself for their sins (because Celebrimbor might not have known that Annatar was Sauron, but he had to have figured out that something was wrong eventually; had to have made a conscious choice to ignore the warnings of Galadriel and Elrond, even if he didn't want to admit to himself quite how conscious; had to have sensed something off eventually, after so many years of working so closely together, and either decided to ignore it or to accept it because maybe everyone deserves a second chance, right? And what else is Ost-in-Edhil for...?).

Doomed by the knowledge of the horrors that resulted from your family's smith-craft in previous years, and your fear of what your own hands could make as a result; and being coaxed to step beyond the self-imposed limits that you set upon yourself because of that fear. By the fact that you finally, finally feel comfortable and safe enough here working with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain to take a risk in the forge and try something great...and the damnable results of that risk being taken alongside the worst person you could have possibly chosen to craft with, and knowing that you've doomed not just yourself but the world, too...

Knowing that in the end, you've done exactly the sort of damage that you once swore you would never do; that the only good thing left for you to do is to die without giving every last scrap of yourself away again; of having the precious knowledge of the Seven and the Nine dragged from your bleeding lips by the one who'd helped you walk the beautiful paths of their forging in the first place; to have spent so long waiting to show Annatar the glories you achieved with the Three while he was gone, and then realizing too late that their glory was just another form of doom and you could never, ever let him see.

To die at the hands of the lover who taught you to trust yourself again but who was himself lying all along... (But was he lying to you, or to himself?)

There's nothing good about silvergifting, but there could have been. In a kinder world, there would have been; should have been. And that's the appeal, I think: it's the tragedy that was always going to happen, but shouldn't have had to. They should have been able to heal one another from the scars of the First Age and the Years of the Tree; to use the combination of their great skills to heal the world from the damage that Sauron and his Master and the Oath of Fëanor did to Middle-earth; to make things better...

But they didn't. They didn't.

Instead all breaks to ruin and Celebrimbor dies broken in the dark, and love isn't enough to save him; love is only enough to damn him. To lift his shattered dreams like a banner before the Enemy and see his home and all his hopes burn to bitter ashes.

The Lord of Gifts and the Silver-handed Smith should have been able to create beautiful things between them; the most beautiful things seen since the Silmarils. But instead, all they wrought was destruction. Which is another, terrible form of beauty, in its own wretched way.

*Also see this previous post where I ramble deliriously about the joys and horrors of Celebrimbor/Annatar/Narvi.