TheSeaGoddessAnna

The sunlight entering through the window hits directly in your face, causing you to open your eyes. Blinking a couple of times, your mind is a bit foggy and for a moment you believe you are in your own room. You plan on sitting up straight, but a sharp pain shoots through your entire body, making you feel sore and tired. Wincing, you let out a low groan. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Just rest a bit longer" A husky, sleepy voice comes up from next to you. You gaze over to see Sinbad next to you. He's lying on his stomach, his long hair covering his back, and only a sheet covers him from the waist down. You blush at the sight of him.

*** Warning: This chapter is a soft lemon.*** --------------------------------------------- "Yes. Sure. Come in" Sinbad moves from the door letting you go into his room. "How are you feeling? You should be resting" His hair looks a bit wet and he's not wearing any of his jewelry. It looks like he got out of the shower not long ago. "I'm ok. The doctor gave me something for the pain" You stand near the closed door, not sure where to look. "Listen, I... I want to apologize again. I acted beyond stupidity. I should've listened to you when you told me not to go out..." You look away, nervously tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Bomb. It was a BOMB! Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep.. No. Not a Bomb. The bomb was somewhere in the room. What Braun was clutching, was a detonator. Its appearance was different, though. Abnormal. It didn’t look like a detonator. It looked like something that had taken time to be carefully soldered together. And then it clicked into place. The reason for the lack of redness in Braun’s eyes. The missing, drug induced symptoms. Reiner wasn’t trading drugs anymore. He was trading weapons. What they had there, was a homemade bomb. “That’s one hell of a fucking arts and crafts proje

   The gong of the massive antique clock in the living room downstairs went off for the– you had truly lost count. You have been laying in bed for several hours now, waiting for Morpheus to grant you a visit and bloody put you to sleep. No such luck it seemed. Probably the fact that you had slept the most part of the day had something to do with your current insomnia. Yet it was not only your rested body that kept your mind painfully awake when all you wanted to do was pass out until morning so you could leave the place and lock yourself in your house for at least a week. The desire for isolation was ignited by a reason so irritating th

   The shattered glass on the floor catching the orange rays of the twilight were all still there. The dark frame still broken and laying on the dark red carpet, just as you left it. It was all the same, not a thing moved from its place, not a difference in the heavy atmosphere. The books you tore down from their place on the bookshelf in a fit of rage and uncontrolled emotion were still scattered across the office. The air felt suffocating as it felt that time, and all the other times you have returned to visit. You always wondered why you visited at all since you left. There was no one left there, nothing good to go back too. Just a hole in

A/N: Start this a couple seconds before you begin to read. I'd recommend that you listen to the song in its entirety. Oikawa was being left behind. And he didn’t like it one bit. He was a natural leader, respected for his wits, and his promising skill. It had always been that way even since his novice days. But the enemy that he’d been fighting against for so long, it had just vanished. The battle field became barren. It was like he wasn’t worthy enough to fight it anymore. How could the leader be left behind by the army? Ah, it was because the war was over. Oikawa lost. The end. But he didn’t want it to end. He sti

   The beginning of the week was always a hard day to go through. After the lazy rhythm to which Sundays seemed to slow down to due to late hours you would go to sleep on Saturdays, get up to a good start again was a draining activity. Especially when you also had a deadline around the corner and your mind seemed to navigate in a perpetual cloud of fog, blurring your concentration. It was a cyclic occurrence, though. Every time you came to a turning point in your story, not only doubt would begin to plague your plot, your good flow of ideas would also be affected. Your moody writing style not only was a problem for your editor and publisher,