#(ease meself back in)

[youareonlyastory]

Meanwhile, Emmett writes to Carlisle in Comic Sans.

twilight people, what do you think all the characters' handwriting looks like?

[reddeaddamnation]

Imagine: Going on a heist with John Marston

Genre: Fluff

Warning: Other than a long post, I can’t think of any more

“We can either go about 2 ways.“ you explained to John, watching the old giant plantation Dutch sent you to rob 2 days ago from a hill, far enough to not be spotted. The house stuck out like a sore thumb in the wilderness, far up in the north. Some kind of old hillbilly rich folk inhabited the place once, so in debt they didn’t own a penny to smile, but the old man held onto the treasure like a dragon, even if by now it didn’t belong to him anymore. His kids and grandchildren long since left the estate, seeing no hope in staying there and being pursued by the bank, but the old man stayed, shooting off any intruder to protect his legacy...but now that that legacy left him, he had fallen into despair and was willing to sell. Micah had explained that he was sitting on piles of ancient plantation gold, ready for the taking. You didn’t believe him for a second. His head was always in the clouds, living with imaginary riches in every house he comes across. And Dutch sent you to do the dirty work, of course.

“We either shoot our way in or...“ you followed up, but John cut you off. “I have a plan. Follow me.“ he drove his horse downhill towards the house “Trust me, it’s better than wandering around inside and wasting time.“ you stared at him with a raised brow. John? An idea? Where could this lead? “Alright...“ you shrugged and followed him. The giant garden was overgrown and unkept. Thorny and dying hedges and bushes littered the dry earth, weeds were growing all around them. The house looked in prime condition tho, at least as much as time let it be. You dismounted and hitched your horses on a nearby fence and proceeded on foot. The old man inside saw you coming and burst through the door with a shotgun in hand, aimed at you. Immediately John raised his hands in a position that shows he doesn’t mean harm and you followed his lead, even if your initial instinct was to shoot the bastard dead.

“Excuse me, sir, we don’t mean to bother you.“ John started talking calmly “I’m Jim Winters. This is my wife Betty. We’re newlyweds from down south.“ Wife? You tried to play along and not throw him any looks, but your blushing face was a giveaway, if it wasn’t for your clothes that weren’t very...typical wife style. Thank god the man was as dense as he was grumpy. “Wha’ye doin’ in these parts?“ he slurred drunkenly with a gruff voice. “We’re just looking to buy property. We’re ranchers by trade, wanting to start our own one day.“ John continued lying “Heard about this place from town that you might be interested in selling.“ The old man eyed the pair of you suspiciously for a few moments, before lowering his gun. “You got the money?“ he asked. “We sure do. Ten thousand dollars in cash, ready to be invested if we see it worthy for investing.“ John smirked, seeing his eyes flash and go wide with excitement at the sound of the sum.

“Well...uh...excuse my...lack of hospitality.“ he chuckled awkwardly “Ye always gotta be on edge around here. Never know what’s lurkin’ in them woods.“ he cleared his throat worriedly, hoping his words won’t scare away the potential buyers “I mean...there was never any need to shoot, but an old man livin’ alone out ‘ere...hehe...gotta protect meself ‘owever I can.“ he put the gun away and slowly went down the stairs towards you. You lowered your hands at ease. “I understand, sir. No harm in protecting your property.“ John chuckled “Like you said, you never know.“ The two shook hands “Jedediah Stone“ he introduced himself. You received only a judgmental look. “Not very fitting clothes for a lady, mr. Winters.“ the old creep commented, talking to John as if you were a cattle which couldn’t understand. “I would love to see you ride a horse in a dress, mr. Stone.“ you challenged, balling up your fists behind your back. “I liked you better when you let the men talk, woman.“ You were ready to lash out at him and tell him that you know now why his family left him, but John quickly intervened “So...mr. Stone, I suggest we go inside to have a look around, if you will have us.“

With a nod, Jedediah lead you inside, revealing the enormous entryway, leading up to stairs to the second floor. There were 3 rooms on each side of the ground floor with decorative cupboards with silver platters and hunting trophies above them. You wondered what could be inside the drawers, as you followed him from room to room. It surely didn’t lack decorations of the expensive kind. Photos littered the walls and cabinets of the whole family together - inbred hillbillies with angry expressions, armed to the teeth, guarding their prized plantation. You were scanning the area, taking notice of anything shiny and the body language of old mr. Stone - where he stood, if he was trying to hide something, where his eyes wandered. A couple of brass statuettes, some silverware, an interesting looking gun, some nick-knacks... John held you under the arm the entire time, making sure to keep the act going. The old man was explaining the history of the house and everything a buyer would be interested in. 

In the master bedroom, your eyes landed on a rather large jewelry box on display right across from the bed on a wide wardrobe. More photos. Gosh, how self centered are these people? “Your wife looks rather interested in the bedroom, mr. Winters.” Jedediah’s judgmental voice caught you off guard, making you immediately stop looking around. “I...uh...love what you’ve done with the place.” you smiled awkwardly. “She was always a fan of the finer things in life.” John added jokingly, trying to lighten up his reemerging suspicion. “Hmpf.” Stone looked away from you, his attention returning to the old photos behind a glass cupboard. You nudged John in the ribs, nodding your head towards the jewelry box. He took the signal. “So, mr. Stone, may I have a look around the plot? My wife was really excited about the plot, you understand. She’s looking forward to gardening and all that.” Your host raised an eyebrow, but agreed walking towards the door “Anything for the ol’ ball and chain, huh, son?” he muttered. What was his problem? If his marriage was a failure doesn’t mean everyone else has to be miserable...even if you and John weren’t really married. You couldn’t wait to rob him blind and get out of here. “Gotta keep her happy, mr. Stone.” John answered “It’s why I married her.”

On your way downstairs, you pretended to feel lightheaded and faint, falling down the last three stairs, much to the old man’s disdain. John immediately went to your rescue to help you up, as you held your head. “Are you okay, darling?” John asked, holding you by the waist. “I-I’m sorry, I...I suppose the heat got to me after riding all day. I feel lightheaded.” you lied, looking at the old man’s annoyed face “May I lay down while you do your business, gentlemen?” John lead you to the living room, helping you sit down on the couch. “Keep him outside for as long as you can.” you whispered to him, before he left. “You seem a little soft, mr. Winters, letting your wife boss you around.” the old man’s voice came to you as a mutter “You have to take control or you won’t have a say in anything before you know it.” John sounded clearly uncomfortable “Ah...I’ll...keep that in mind...”

You waited for the outside door to shut before you jumped off the couch and got to work, snatching up anything small and shiny from the drawers and cupboards and putting it in your bag. After scouring the first floor rooms, you went upstairs to steal the crown jewel - the jewelry box. You opened it, revealing a pile of silver and gold necklaces, earrings, bracelets and rings with valuable stones. Your eyes shone with excitement. You started grabbing inside, filling your hand with the valuables and stuffing them in your shirt, since there was no space left in your bag, which weighed heavy on your shoulder. Whenever his wife left him, she was sure in a hurry, since she left all her things behind. After emptying the contents of the box, you looked around for anything else, thinking one more score wouldn’t hurt. You looked out the window in search for John and found him, bored out of his mind, wandering around the overgrown land while the host was explaining something rather heatedly, judging by his gesticulations. You went back to work, looking through every chest and drawer left in the other rooms, filling your pockets and chest with whatever stroke you fancy - silver, gold and platinum watches, belts, bullets and anything of the such. You reached into the fireplace, pulling out a stack of dollars, just as a loud voice startled you, making you turn around immediately.

“Betty, darling! We’re back.“ John yelled, signaling that they are coming inside. You rushed down the corridor and towards the stairs, smiling at them as the two men walked through the front door. “Excuse me, I was just looking for a bathroom to freshen up.“ you explained, calmly walking downstairs. “You better not stole something, lady.“ the old man scolded, eyeing you. “Why, I never!“ you huffed loudly, hand to your chest in an offended manner “I have been putting up with your comments all day, mr. Stone and I promise you, it will be bad for our business.“ you rushed past them hurriedly, trying not to draw any attention to your stuffed bag and clothes “Calling me a thief above everything! The nerve! We’re leaving, Jim! I wouldn’t throw a dime in this dump, even if it was the last godforsaken plot in the asscrack of America!” The old man was left shocked, mouth hanging open. “You watch your tone when talking to me, wench!“ John followed you, but stopped after taking three large steps. He turned around and punched old mr. Stone right in the face, knocking him out on the spot “Don’t you dare talk to my woman like that, you miserable old bastard!“

You stopped and turned around to look at him. “John...” you blushed and giggled nervously “There’s...really no need to keep this up anymore, you knocked him out.” John was startled, staring at you with his mouth hanging open, but no sound coming out. He was blushing. “I...uh...” he stuttered “Listen, Y/N...” you cut him off, with a devilish smirk, walking past him “I forgot something. Hang on.” John followed you into the living room where you were trying to reach the fancy old-fashioned pistol, hanging on the wall. “Y/N, listen.” John repeated “Not now, John.” you were clearly struggling to reach the height. John sighed and reached up to remove it from the stand and gave it to you. “Ah, thanks.” you smiled “For the trouble.” you joked and walked towards the door with John following you. “Anything good?” John asked. “You bet. Guess old Micah was right for once. We got at least a good four thousand in goods and cash.” you gleamed, skipping ahead towards your horse “I couldn’t stand another minute in that bastard’s presence. You did right knocking him out. Don’t know if that was part of the plan, tho...” John was silent the whole time “How did you come up with that? Sure there was less bloodshed and all that but newlywed ranchers?” you scoffed at him jokingly. “Well, I figured there would be less gunshots that could attract attention, so keeping low out in the open seemed original.” John was blushing and rubbing the back of his neck.

You reached the hitched horses. Reaching into your shirt, you pulled out the stack of cash, dividing it as evenly as you could and giving him half. His hand brushed against yours as he took it, making you both blush. “So, uh...listen, Y/N...” John started, avoiding your gaze. “Let’s get away from here and I’ll give you half of the loot too.” you quickly turned around, avoiding the topic he wanted to start. You swore you’d never see him as anything other than a business partner, even going to great lengths to avoid him at camp, unless you were forced to do a job together, which you tried your best to stay away from by keeping yourself busy at all times with someone else from camp. It’s not like you had bad feelings...quite the opposite actually. You were very much fond of him and his character. You just didn’t want any trouble around camp by making someone suspect your feelings for him. 

Ever since one drunken incident with Micah, the boys around camp had been teasing you and John to get together, while the girls either side eyed you or looked at you with pity. Dutch has been especially disapproving and harsh since then and when Abigail wasn’t making snarky comments whenever you tried to talk to her, she went off about how she didn’t care. The scenario was that one evening when everyone was drunk out of their minds back at camp, Micah tried cornering you behind some trees and made rather poor and unwanted advances. You were just about ready to beat the hell out of him, until John suddenly came out of nowhere, lashing out at him and punching him square in the jaw. The others were shook. Sean was first to start laughing and teasing how he was in love with you, while you tried explaining that he was just defending your honor and nothing else. Karen and Mary-Beth were really the only ones who shrugged it off and told you “Don’t listen to those children. Love doesn’t pick and choose.” Since then it was hopeless. Everybody knew why you were avoiding him.

You rode back to your temporary camp up in the hills in silence. John only broke it when you were finished unpacking the stolen goods. “Listen, Y/N, I think it’s time we have a talk.” your heart dropped and you froze in place. “John...” you looked at him, sighing tiredly. But he didn’t let you finish. He pulled you close and kissed you passionately, leaving you breathless. “I know you’ve been distant since what happened with Micah, but I don’t care about what anyone thinks. I’m a man who stands behind his word and I’ll always protect your honor because I love you. Even if you don’t want me, I’ll still be behind you when you need me.” You blinked at him for a minute, speechless “When that old creep was making those comments, I just wanted to shoot him dead until he was an unrecognizable corpse. I won’t allow anyone to talk bad about you, I swore to myself and to you.” he avoided your eyes, looking away as if ready to tear up. “Honestly, when I called you my wife, there was nothing in this world I wouldn’t give to say that and mean it. To make it real... and...who knows, maybe one day we actually can be newlywed ranchers.” he chuckled nervously, looking away. “I have way too many things to say.” you answered quietly. “Good or bad?” he joked nervously. You felt his heart pounding in his chest. You gave him a light peck on the cheek. “Does that answer your question?” you joked back with a smile. “You’re dangerous, little lady.” he smirked.

“Who goes there?“ Sean yelled threateningly as you rode into the gang camp’s ground. Great. He’s on guard duty. “John and Y/N!“ John yelled back. “Oh. Did you have fun on your little getaway?“ Sean teased, letting you through. “It wasn’t a getaway, you idiot!“ you barked “We bring a fortune you never even dreamed of getting your hands on.“ Sean whistled. “Is there a ring you saved for the lass somewhere in that fortune, eh, Marston?“ John ignored him. Whatever happened in those hills stays in those hills, but the 50$ John sacrificed from his share to give you one of the nice necklaces was still hidden beneath your clothes, away from prying eyes.

[blubushie]

So I've emerged alive from my trip and I'm never taking that much again because it was a fucking rollercoaster. Here's some highlights (most of this is my best effort at transcription because my writing was practically unintelligible). Also ignore my weird posting times, my laptop is on California time.

I started gunposting to my best mate.

I posted that thing about the implications of the Cars universe.

My best mate woke up and I can't spell wobbegong.

I watched a Wendigoon conspiracy iceberg compilation that blew my mind.

Whatever this was.

I went down then and had some lucidity for a little while. Sent my beta some passages from Chapter 10. We started talking about lambs, and then we discussed ketamine.

I apparently had very bad nausea that I don't remember.

One point I blacked out and woke up without any pants on but I was wearing trunks when I came to. I was not wearing trunks when I took the shrooms. I have no idea when I decided to take off my daks and put trunks on. Apparently I took off my shirt and lounged in bed for a while because I woke up in bed without my shirt on.

I made meself a vegemite sandwich, which I don't remember making or eating but there's a dirty plate in my sink and vegemite stuck in my molars.

I had a dip and did some writing.

I crested again and there's about a half hour there where I blacked out and have no recollection of anything that happened.

I wrote "You're tripping BALLS" four times on my arm in increasingly messy handwriting. I only do this when I have a bad trip so I reckon the trip went south at some point. I have no memory of the bad part of the trip.

I apparently decided to start cleaning my rifle but I stopped halfway through and the bolt was left sitting on the seat at my table.

I went through my search history toward the end of the trip and I apparently blacklisted "ninjago" on Tumblr (also some other tags but that's the funniest one).

Here's my fun Google history.

I think I was looking for corkwood fruit here. Cured corkwood can ease nausea so that's probably it.

Priorities.

This is apparently when I started Carsposting.

More gungoogling.

I couldn't remember "MAS-38" so I looked this up instead. Really narrows it down.

I blame my best mate for getting me back into Warriors.

Started Googling knots.

I was hungry apparently.

Apparently there was a 20-minute gap where I read the comics and I got up to #4.

This happened.

I looked up this and found emojis for my Discord.

I saw a photo of a kangaroo, reblogged it, then when my mutual reblogged it FROM ME I thought it was the first time I was seeing that particular photo.

Told that same mutual this.

I've run out of images to post but I also:

Googled "how many raisins are toxic to a dog" twice. I called them "raisins" instead of "sultanas," also I don't have any sultanas. Apparently I'm more American when I'm high and more Australian when I'm drunk.

Googled "short story about a house with an aifrcan savanna" (It's The Veldt by Ray Bradbury)

Googled "fagot obliterator" 5 different times

Looked up "do irish catholcis pray the rosary" (I was raised Roman Catholic)

Looked up "plants grown in space" 3 different times

Watched this video.

Looked up "australian stock horse working" a million different times

Sent a picture to my best mate of two horses getting married

Looked up "smith and wesson model 10", "is meat low in calories", and "burj khalifa" all within 5 minutes of each other

Looked up "how to write twelve hundred"

Looked up "carbonara"

Looked up "birdshot for home defense" and misspelt "defence," "will birdshot kill someone," and then 2 minutes later "can dogs eat tomatoes"

Looked up "do you need a permit to hunt in texas," looked up "400 divided by 5," and then "let me in meme"

Looked up "110 times 2," "1974 minus 220," "when was superman created," "when was it revealed that superman came from krypton," "origin of superman" on Wikipedia, "what toxin is rattlesnake venom," "hemotoxin," "hemotoxin" on Wikipedia, "neurotoxin," then "neurotoxin" on Wikipedia all within 15 minutes

Looked up "fit man with a paunch" at one point

Looked up "dundil tree," "dundil," "peanut tee," "bush peanut," "kurrajong," and "Brachychiton populneus". I couldn't spell "apples" but I could spell Brachychiton populneus.

Then I started Googling apples.

Started Googling venomous Australian snakes.

Started Googling my own job.

Googled "zooper dooper"

Started wargoogling. "Weapons of the Ottoman Army," "Dardanelles gun," "gallipoli cannons," "trench gun gallipoli," "Periscope rifle," and "trench gun gallipoli" again

Googled "deep fried gherkin" followed by "beach chicken"

Googled "woodward and bernstein watergate guy," then clicked the Wikipedia article "Deep Throat (Watergate)" and I distinctly remember laughing at this for a solid 10 minutes.

Googled "sbk frenhc smg"

Googled tenor saxophones in Sydney

Googled "stevo" and "stevo australia," I don't know anyone named Stevo

Googled "what muscles does thrusting use" and then looked up "glutes muscles"

Googled "deltoids," visited Tumblr for a few minutes, then Googled "muscles of the torso"

Have no idea what the fuck this was supposed to mean.

Apparently my writing was very hard to understand but my best mate said it was fun hearing what was on my mind, to which I replied "i jave mo f8lter and i mist scram" and then requested she put that on my gravestone when I die.

I also said "i dive okt of rjd plane saxton jale sutyle and oand on kakadu and immediatley get eaten ny a corcidle" which I think was supposed to say "I dive out of a plane Saxton Hale style and land in Kakadu and immediately get eaten by a crocodile."

At one point said "I DONT WANT TO DOE AT 43 I LLNE OLD" which I think was supposed to say "I don't want to die at 43, I'll be old."

Then I blacked out for the next two hours and fell asleep at some point.

[thepitofjob]

Job 20: 12-19. "The Suckling."

Judaism emphasizes net profit on the effort invested in it. One cannot put on a cute little hat and do the skippy dance and call it a day, life before and after the Shule must be discernably different. This does not mean one dispenses with the uniform or the customs, but without the conclusion to the argumentative process called a Gemara, these are empty gestures.

The frame upcoming calls the process a trade, and the Torah and Tanakh are the trade route. The process as we know includes trading playtime for school when we are little, citizenship is the result of law and order, adjustment is the outcome after one is sick and tired of being in trouble. All of these stages of maturity require violations and reparations, but the Torah says at some point the cycle of sin and salvation must come to an end.

The Jewish people know as well as any other where are the points of failure in the process- it is certainly a slap in the face to claim to want a trouble free life and work hard at it only to see cracked out white boys from Utah with spray tan and ski masks charging over the Wall with guns blazing and then to be told it is their fault, roll over, feed them and give them medicine.

The same is true in Ukraine- we must not tell the people of Ukraine to close their eyes and take three inbreaths and four outbreaths, that the problem is their breathing not the missiles, drones, and soldiers that are on the way. The US Government just staged a really smelly shit show when Donald Trump and Kamala Harris debated Hong Kong Phooey on theTake Out Taxi menu, instead of an end to a significant list of problems that may result in the deaths of billions of innocent lives very near in the future.

It seems as if the Mishnah below, the one that says "We cannot bear to let it go" is true. We are allowing the evil to linger, right under our tongues for reasons no one can justify. The oath of office is specific, and it must be kept. The enemies of mankind, foreign and domestic are engaging in a soap opera while the good guys sit on their hands. It is excruciating.

Gemara, in spite of meself, are not rants, however, they are much more. They are transactional, they bid the world to change its ways in a way that is very good, that creates ease and love of life, and asks us to sacrifice nothing of value at all:

12 “Though evil is sweet in his mouth and he hides it under his tongue, 13 though he cannot bear to let it go and lets it linger in his mouth, 14 yet his food will turn sour in his stomach; it will become the venom of serpents within him. 15 He will spit out the riches he swallowed; God will make his stomach vomit them up. 16 He will suck the poison of serpents; the fangs of an adder will kill him. 17 He will not enjoy the streams, the rivers flowing with honey and cream. 18 What he toiled for he must give back uneaten; he will not enjoy the profit from his trading. 19 For he has oppressed the poor and left them destitute; he has seized houses he did not build.

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 13-14: Evil is sweet. This is pure, utter, delusion. Donald Trump and that thing, Jerry Falwell are not sweet, they can't even pretend. You people are so stupid.

Kamala Harris used to be a prosecuting attorney. Both men are career felons. She can't figure out how send the fuckers to prison?

The Number is 6194, ו‎אטד‎ ‎, "and ated", "be prepared for the future."

Do you think we are preparing for the future?

Everyone thinks, "well we just have some hard lessons to learn, I guess." No we are not going to learn hard lessons. We are going to things the right way.

v. 14-15: He will spit out the riches he swallowed. We talked about spitting yesterday. So now...

"The verb בלע (bala') means to swallow with the implication of destruction of what was swallowed. Noun בלע (bela) means either a swallowing and by implication: a destruction, or a thing swallowed or destroyed.

The verb עמם ('mm) probably expressed to be inclusive or comprehensive. Its rare uses in the Bible relate to making secrets or making info available to an in-crowd. Preposition עם ('im) means 'with', מעם (me'im) means 'from', and עמה ('umma) means 'beside'. Noun עם ('am) means a people, ranging from all of mankind to the in-crowd of a small village. Noun עם ('am) refers to one's (paternal) kinsman."

So the Gemara says whether it is a small village or all of us, we are not subject to manmade causes of suffering, these are forbidden. What is so difficult to comprehend about this?

v. 16-17: He will suck the poison. From the nipples.

It is not logical to suck on snakebites all day long. The Gemara here says we are to draw the milk out of life through necessary effort. Now clearning up after these wars, famines, droughts and plagues is necessary, and somehow we have to rehouse all the nomads we have created and give them a new lease on life. That won't be easy either but it has to be done. The Gemara further calls these processes "familiarity with God" also "the essence of the functions of the government":

The noun θηλη (thele) means nipple. It's not used in the New Testament, but from it derives the verb θηλαζω (thelazo), which literally means to nipple (to use nipples for what they're for — although there's no real consensus on that, see our article on μαστος, mastos, breast). Translations into English of this verb run into a distinction between to suck (what babies do) and to give suck or to breast-feed (what mothers do), but in Greek that distinction does not exist.

In the Iliad, Homer used a particular variant of our verb, namely θαομαι (thaomai), which in turn technically derives from the verb θαω (thao), to suck. This verb θαομαι (thaomai), meaning to suck (to do the nipple-thing), is identical to the verb θαομαι (thaomai), meaning to marvel or wonder, from which come English words like theater and theory, and possibly even the familiar Greek word θεος (theos), or God.

The obvious connection between the two verbs θαομαι (thaomai) becomes clear when we realize that milk in the New Testament metaphorizes elementary instruction to intellectual babes: see for a more elaborate discussion of this our article on the noun γαλα (gala), milk.

Obviously related to the previous, the adjective θελυς (thelus) means female, the complementary counterpart of αρσην (arsen), male.

In antiquity, femininity was associated with collectivity and masculinity with individuality — which is why nations and peoples were considered "mothers" (see our article on the Hebrew noun אם, 'em), their kings and governments (including divine government) were considered "father" (hence the noun אב, 'ab), and their citizens their "sons" (hence the noun בן, ben)."

The Number is 10255, י'‎בה‎‎ה‎, "the Lord God." This is what He told us to do because He knows what is best. Humanity must govern properly, it must infuse its spiritual principals into the law till they are rendered inviolate. It is not legal nor ethical to mistreat other persons yet this has somehow become popular. We are missing a significant aspect of our religions in our styles of government. We are acting very cruel. It is already illegal to be cruel, so that's not the problem. Something stylistic has to change.

v. 18-19: What he toils for, he must give back. The Number is 9686, ו‎טוח‎ ‎ ‎"Find the range. Be sure."

The Torah is laced with ranges- how far is too far, how little is too little. Our Gemara like secular laws must clarify the practice that can result after the introduction of a spiritual question.

I have, for example said, the US Government needs to undergo a reorganization as a result of its permissiveness towards the corruption of the Republican Party. It must accept some limits as a result of its Crimes Against Humanity and War Crimes against other nations. The same is true in Russia. Everywhere the populace has used the government to abuse its people or their neighbors we must revisit rather than retest the limits.

[roughneck-remedies]

Interlude I: Riptide

The cool sea breeze carried the wings of the Thornspeaker's owl shape over the spindly canopies of the pines. The familiar sights of home as those keen eyes took them in from above. Being in the air always made things clearer, not just physically, but problems too. Amilisa felt as though if she could flap her wings just a little harder, go just a little further, maybe she could soar above those issues plaguing her. But eventually she had to land, had to face reality. Those talons reached out to settle upon the hewn wood planks to perch above the Roughneck Camp.

A familiar, deep voice bellowed out from below, "Were wonderin' when ye'd show back up!"

Amilisa's owl form melted away, feathers fading and replaced for leathers over her human visage. "Ye're always wonderin' when I'll show back up, da'!" She called back down, bounding the steps with ease as she ran over to embrace her father.

Deveral was a large man, not easily moved by even the mightiest predator but somehow his daughter always managed to find the right angle to send him on his backfoot. The man laughed as his arms wrapped around his girl and squeezed, "It's good ta see ya, love."

Amilisa buried her face into the chest of the man, returning the squeeze with one of her own. She was silent for a long moment before a trembling voice broke it, "Can... we go inside a moment? Talk?"

Deveral's hand gently rubbed at his daughter's back, looking down at her with some concern. He nodded, "Aye, Lisa, always 've time fer ya. Ya know tha'. C'mon." Two pats to her back with a jerk of his head towards the small building that served many purposes.

The two Kul Tirans settled into the seats near the fireplace. A long moment passed as Amilisa watched the flames. The heavy voice asked the question she had been dreading, "Wot's eatin' ya, love?"

Amilisa could not fight back the tide that had built behind her eyes, the dam broke as she sobbed. "I didnae want any o' this, yknow?! I didnae ask ta be a damned worgen! Or a Thornspeaker... or for ma' ta jus' show back up an'... an'..." Her eyes cast sharply to her father, "Why did ye let 'er...?"

The man rubbed at his left palm in his lap, eyes fixated on the task while he thought. "Ami..." he said slowly, still not confident in the words he had but there was no more time to think, "...I ne'er wanted ya ta bear tha' curse. Yer ma's a.... was... a complicated woman. There was no tamin' her. Ye didn' deserve ta be caught up in the crossfire of us but... ye were. We don' always get ta choose how our lives turn out."

Amilisa shook her head, hand swiping under her nose with a sniffle, "I jus' wanted a normal life. Here... an' I went an' tried ta have one out there!" She pointed towards the door, as if Stormwind were right on the other side. "But all I've done's hurt people n' meself..."

"Wot happened?"

"Nothin' like tha'... nae really 'least... I jus'--" She rolled her eyes upwards, pursing her lips, as she looked over the interior, "I rushed inta things. With girls... an'... I dunno. It's nae like all wot ye said with mum, yknow? I donnae... I donnae feel tha'. Well..." Amilisa trailed off.

"Well? Spit it out, 'en."

"Nae, it-- it's nothin'... Did ya really know? Right away? With mum? Knowin' wot ye knew, how hard it'd be... the consequences?" She brought her gaze back to her dad, shaky and uncertain.

Deveral sighed as he looked to the fire, thumb still idly pressing into his other palm. "Amilisa, I know wot she did ta ya were wrong. I'm nae defendin' 'er, right? But I loved tha' woman ta this day, aye? It were because she were wild, like the forests an' nature all 'er glory. She made poor choices but... she also made great ones like ye. So aye, I knew, knowin' everythin' I know now I would do it again. Especially because I got ye from all of it, an' I don' love anyone or thing more."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, burying her face into her hands. "Why... why cannae I jus' love 'em an' this be easy? Why is everyhin' always so difficult?!"

Deveral stood to move over next to his daughter, kneeling to wrap his arms around her, "Love ne'er is, my girl. It ainnae some cure, no' some thing ta magically wisp ya away from all yer problems. Ye can' fake er force it. Ye have ta be honest no matter wot it costs, ya hear?"

Amilisa melted into her father, so tired from being strong for herself. She nodded slowly to respond to him, she did hear him. It was just a matter of following through with his advice...

[talentforlying]

she looks at him for so long without comment that he almost thinks he could slink off out of sight and get away with it — weighs out the cost-benefits of drawing a shroud of shadows over himself and fading into the background, or even ducking around her and mirroring her movements back-to-back until she forgets he was ever there, like a sodding looney tune. but something deep in his churning gut says that it'd be useless; she'd find him again with ease. ( delirium always does. )

he watches the bubbles over the cage of his fingers, stepping hastily back as they burst. the urge to stick his tongue out like a kid in snowfall is brief and overpowering; instead, he cups a hand over his nose and mouth, shakes his other sleeve down, and swipes half-heartedly at his shimmering lapels, brow wrinkled with distaste. there's the end of this coat, for sure — no dry-cleaner is that good. ' er, yeah. thought as much. i'll keep my voice to meself, if it's all the same t'you. '

she reminds him of when gemma was young: flitting from question to question and observation to implication at the speed of sound, more for the novelty of asking than being answered. nothing like her taciturn brother in the slightest, in other words. it's a wee bit nostalgic, if hectic. ( is that really what he sounds like? bizarre. ) ' fuck d'you mean, what's a seventies? i get that you lot don't exactly tell time like the rest of us, but i mean, you of all endless should've been all over — oi! '

backpedaling away from her outstretched hand is less of a strategic retreat and more of a flinch, several hasty steps that falter and trip over each other as the array of faces spikes adrenaline through his nervous system and trips loud, squealing alarm in his brain. sour wine, glitter, and ghosts. jesus, he needs to relax. ' tell you somethin'. let's make a deal, aye? you get to purple-up a couple pieces of it, as long as you don't do . . . that again. the face bit. alright? '

He's a funny one, Delirium thinks. She likes the way he eyes her — and dislikes it, too, because couldn't they be friends, if only he set aside his silly little fears? She's not going to mess with him. Much. No more than she might with someone else who caught her attention in the way he has.

There's just... something about him that makes her think he'll be a fun little play thing. Human, but... touched by the other. Touched by her favourite sister, certainly, and perhaps her brother, too. Then again, there's very few humans who haven't been touched by any of the Endless. At the end of the day, if they're not touched by Dream or Desire, she or Despair will take them. And Death will come for them all, one way or another. So sad. They live such short, boring lives.

Her attention has drifted. She's staring at him, head tilted to one side and vibrant, oil-slick-shining soap bubbles hanging in the air around her. They burst audibly, like a death rattle, raining bitter-lemon-tasting glitter down on them both. It clings to her hair, her eyelashes, the front of his coat. He should probably take care not to inhale it.

"Box dye?" She tastes the words, spitting the consonants and elongating the vowels to better turn the flavour over on her tongue. It's chemical-y. Not unpleasant. "Um. No, silly. Luv." She affects his accent, his voice, and seems delighted by her own mimicry.

"What's'a seventies?" She scrunches her nose and shakes her head in a fresh flurry of glitter. "Nope. Don't care. Wanna have fun hair again?" Delirium reaches for him, her visage flickering rapidly between the one she normally wears and people he once knew. It settles back to her usual self, small and girlish, and she doesn't touch him. "I think you'd look nice with porpool hair. Can I? Please?"

[ljblueteak]

Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger and Allen Ginsberg

“After [Allen Ginsberg’s] reading...we took the tube to St. John’s Wood to visit Paul at Cavendish Avenue. On the train, Allen was absorbed in his own thoughts then he suddenly asked in a loud voice, ‘Does Mick Jagger make it with men?’ The carriage went deathly silent, everyone straining to hear my reply. I took the easy way out and said I really didn’t know. Sue backed me up. Allen obviously sensed that some peculiar British convention was being broken and didn’t pursue the matter any further.

We found Paul swatting up on Tantra from Ajit Mockerjee’s Tantra Art when we arrived. He had invited Mick Jagger and Marianne over, they lived close by at Harley House on the Marylebone Road. Mick had his biggest, most arrogant, rude and loveable smile on and was leaning back in a rocking chair in front of the French windows, a long white silk scarf trailing from his neck down the back of the chair to the carpet. He had one of Eliphas Levi’s books on magic with him and some of the discussion was about comparative religion and Western mysticism as a more usable and culturally understandable alternative to Eastern mysticism. Allen told us about the Western Gnostic traditions but maintained that there was no Western mysticism being practised and that only in the East could one find actual gurus and teachers. Mick revealed that he had optioned the rights to Frank Herbert’s Dune: ‘I quite fancy meself as a mad old monk with me cloak flappin’ abaht in the desert,’ he said. 

We all sat around on the carpet just inside the door to the living room. Incense was burning from innumerable sticks in a holder. The huge Takis sculpture--’My lights on sticks’ as Paul called it--blinked on and off in the corner by the bookshelves. I was a little surprised at Mick’s and Paul’s attitude to Allen, which was quite deferential. Paul was in a very receptive mood and though I knew he had many reservations about the things Allen said, he did not express them. Both he and Mick treated Allen as a visiting sage, much as I imagine they later treated the Maharishi. They put Allen at ease and wanted to hear what he had to say. Tea was served.

Paul sat close to Allen, cross-legged. Sometimes he would select a few of the packages on a table next to the door--presents from his fans....He found a red satin shirt and began to doodle a psychedelic pattern all over it...

They discussed William Burroughs, whose face Paul had put on the sleeve of Sgt Pepper, but mostly Paul preferred to tell stories about the old days in Liverpool and about his family. He tried to explain to Allen the nature of British eccentricity and said that most of the exploits of the Beat Generation would have been regarded as perfectly normal in Liverpool. There was some talking at cross-purposes, but it was a friendly visit.

As we left, Paul, sensing that this was an occasion, folded up the red shirt, which was now decorated with intricate psychedelic patterns, and placed it in Allen’s hands. ‘A souvenir of Swinging London,’ he said. Allen seemed moved, and carefully stuffed it into his Tibetan hippie shoulder bag before packing up his Indian harmonium. 

Paul’s chief memory of the visit was that Allen had advised him against using concrete to lay the foundations of the geodesic dome he was planning to have built in his garden. ‘What if you ever want to move it?’ asked Allen. 

‘He was right,’ Paul conceded, years later.”

From Barry Miles’s In the Sixties account of July ‘67 meeting between Allen Ginsberg, Paul McCartney, Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithful 

[disquietedpalefish]

Wake me up inside.

[silkybullets]

“Death Call”

Midland Hotel, 1925, sitting alone at a table the evening before Christmas, Tommy's icy eyes met with a face he never had ever thought of seeing again, not whilst being alive at least. Which lead us back to Birmingham, 1914, after he volunteered in Small Heath rifles, he spent his last couple of months home holding your hand in the hospital, watching your colours fade as dying of an unknown disease.

Warnings: English is my second language.

Words: around 2k

Tommy just ordered a drink, adding to that a whore, a brand new one in honor of Christmas when he initially went to light his cigarette. His eyes drifted to a table further away where a woman was already sitting down. He did recognize her, remembering the sweet touch of an old lover. His stiffened body didn’t receive the orders to continue moving sent by his brain, his mind too occupied playing memories of before the war. Before it all begins, or all ends, depending which side you’re looking.

One the other side of the room, you were searching the pockets of your woolen coat. When you finally found your cigarette case, you got one out, sliding it in between your soft lips. After pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, you hassled lightening up your cig and welcomed the poison in your lungs as if it was the purest thing. 

The waiter came closer to you, putting down your rhum, which you drank in one go and ordered another one. It’s been a couple months you didn’t drink and, after this first shot you don’t remember why. When doctors failed to diagnose you and closed your file with a lung disease you were young and never tasted the flavor of the liquid poison. But at the cliff of death, God granted you the wish to live.

Too bad that’s when your memories of endless & lonely drinking nights happened. 

Coming from a christian family, it was no question for them you had been chosen by God to do something great in this world. Pushing their luck they sent you to an orphanage run by nuns to pay your debts to God. When their initial idea was to keep you pure for as long as you were to be alive, you chose a different path for yourself, bounged down into alcohol, drugs and whatever came with it.

Saying you were a non-believer would be too much, but the idea of being some kind of “chosen one” was nonsense to you, that just meant death was right under your nose or waiting for you at the corner of the street. What happened next was logical consequence, your depraved self was sent back home after the nuns numerous warnings were ignored. You did not change, and decided not to. 

When being saved or witnessing a miracle helps people get their life in order, it had the reverse effect on you and you had yet to get your shit together.

When they recommended you to drastically change your ways for the sake of your family if not for you, you gave in. You had siblings, and knowing how hard your family could be on them at times, you didn’t want to leave them alone. But your good will ended tonight.

You looked at the filled glass in front of you for what seemed like an eternity,  weighting the pros and cons of getting drunk tonight and all the other after that one. You being dead or alive it’ll be okay for your family, you assured yourself to avoid feeling guilty for choosing not to fight. 

Ten minutes and three empty cups later, you were ordering another one. The waiter was intently looking at you, concerned, while you were ignoring his pout.

“You sure you want rhum, ma’m, Can I bring you something else, gin perhaps?” He was as smooth as one could, but the implicit meaning behind his words irritated you the most.

“Do I look like I’m sad, eh? Tell me ‘cause I don’t look at meself in mirrors these days.” You begin, agitating your fingers that were holding another cigarette. 

“Gin’s for sad women, whiskey for big boys crying, rhum for people like me: We are not sad enough for trying to drown our pain in gin, not hopeless alcoholics enough to to get drunk with something as tasteless as whisky. We simply enjoy a slow death with a sweet and spicy flavor. Please bring me the whole bottle this time.”

Without realizing it, you offered the man the warmest smile he had seen tonight and he gave one back even if still quite taken aback by your confusing revelation.

Tommy had seen enough, he got up throwing a bill near his drink and cleared his throat for lack of clearing his head. He walked to the table, the woman he once knew was seated, his voice already reaching her ears before their eyes would meet.

“Is this seat taken?” He motioned to the second chair around the table. Finishing another glass she invited him to sit down with a move of hand. Her cigarette in between her lips, she poured some rhum into her glass and ultimately lifted her eyes to his face.

“Are you sick of the hotel whore, Thomas? Am not one if this is your question.” She blinked as puffing on her cig. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Y/N” He coughed. “See you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Nor did you.”

Lies, it was all lies, if it wasn’t her eyes he hadn’t recognized her. The woman he was in love with was long gone and so was the boy who loved her.

“So OBE it is, now?” She looked up to him.

He stayed in her eyes before daring to speak, and break the eye contact.

“You were always used to call me Tommy, we can stick to that.”

She didn’t respond nor look at him, keeping for herself any emotions his words had unleashed into her, if they did.

“What happened to you?” He spoke in a more vibrant ton. An attempt to ease the heavy atmosphere.

“War happened to us, Tom.” 

His eyes snapped open on her.

“What France did to you, remaining alive did to me.” She offered him a fair smile, looking straight at him with the same piercing gleam hiding behind her iris than when they were younger. 

“We all came back alive. John, Arthur, Freddie... Although they are now some missing pieces.”

“Yeah, fucking pieces spilled everywhere. It’s looking like the puzzles we used to play when we were younger, huh? Does that ring any bell?” She giggles.

It was hard for him to read her, he didn’t know what he felt either. 

He stayed at the hospital three months straight holding her hand as her colors were fading. He remembers vividly how difficult it was for her to breath, speak, even keeping her eyes open was a huge sacrifice. But she’d never compromised to keep them shut as he told her to, his face gave him the strength of an army, as she used to say. And that had him laugh, even though now he doesn’t remember the last time something as close as a laugh came out his throat.

“Don’t get fucking lost in memories, Thomas. Just ask for it.” 

She poured some liquor into her glass and slowly slid it to Tommy as if anticipating him telling her he didn’t want it.

He watched her moves with amusement, it was odd to him to find her here, but even more peculiar was the fact it seems like she knew him still. Like those ten years that separated them weren’t there, like there wasn’t a day they didn’t think about the other fondly. Her gaze didn’t leave his, and he knew exactly where her mind was because his own was at the same place. She was getting all the information she could to try to match his now tired face with the one she had been picturing in her head all those years.

“Okay then.” he nodded. “ Where have you been?” 

A smile appeared at the corner of his lips, they were playing a game he couldn’t only play with her, she was the one girl before France, everyone got their advantages.

“Fucking dying of being alive after I got strunk by some miracle.” She raised a brow as if to voice the displeasure of missing the boat.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I wish I was, Tommy.”

He let out a long sigh. Once again he failed at keeping a light atmosphere. It was to be said she wasn’t any help.

That’s when he realized no matter how it felt like they were still the same teenagers, back in 1914 before everybody got fucked up, no matter how hard the memories were hitting him this exact same instant with their first kiss, their first touch and the first time they exchanged their desire to live a life together, they were not the same. Nothing was.

She was only a mere shadow of herself, and he? He couldn’t even look at her in the eyes for more than five minutes, too afraid it would dig out things that must be kept where they were nowhere to be found for his own sake.

Every little thing about before France hurt him. Even the happy throwbacks, especially the happy throwbacks. Knowing he would never feel those feelings again, never get silly about the breeze meeting with his skin or the rising of the sun at the top of a hill killed him most. That’s why he didn’t want to ask more about what happened to her. But at the same time, the questions came naturally to him, as if he waited all along to throw them out, taking off his chest a weight he never realized to initially be there.

“Have you done better after I left?”

“I did. For a time. Some years, in fact, even though my parents sent me to a nunnery to thank God for his mercy.”

He snorted at her words.

“Why doesn’t it surprise me? They were always about keeping you saint, even asked me to fucking give up on taking you running in the fields to watch the night sky until sun rised, they never thought it could be the other way around, you leading me.”

She laughed at this thought.

“Don’t you dare say this as if you disliked me being the lead, Tommy Shelby.” She sneered.

“No, I indeed liked it.” He shook his head without hesitation.

“If only they knew what we did, in those nights.” They both spoke, their voice overlapping along with their minds.

“Tommy you got to follow me, or else we’ll be too late.”

“Let me catch a breath, we got all the time to come up the hill some other nights.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s tonight the fireballs are going to be running in the sky!”

“You aware it’s not called “fireball” and that they are not ‘running’ in the sky?”

The girl stuck her tongue out, turning to him, her eyes mechanically squinted at the move. She did not realize he was right behind her and faked all along still behind at the feet of the hill to annoy her. His body strongly collided with her, making her stagger but Tommy’s arms locked her waist firmly, avoiding her body from meeting the ground, and his lips dropped on her mouth in a second, she couldn’t even close her eyes during the kiss.

“Stop it!” Her suave voice worded as one of her hands went hitting his chest, even if her deepest desire was for him not to let go of her lips.

“I’m thinking about that one night we first fucked. Bodies wet both by sweat and dew“ She muttered.

He was sitting but naked on the grass, his fingers intertwined in her hair that was falling at her back as holding her tightly. She was the type of flowers you thought were beautiful but couldn’t help but rip off the ground, dooming them to die in your hands. 

Her legs were strongly wrapped around his hips, she was carefully grounding down on him, making sure every of her moves were slow to make the pleasure last. She turned loose the grip of her arms around his neck and leaned backward so he’d hit her from another angle, this one allowing him to reach the bottom.

Her screams filled his ears and soon enough his mouth as she straightened back up, seeking his eyes, wanting to connect even more. The darkness he ignited in her eyes that night never left, always leading him to always want her, even in the most inappropriate places.

“I was thinking about that time at the local church.” He admitted.

“Every-fucking-body heard the screams--” She proudly stated.

“The priest was more than disturb” He added. “But they never found out who that was.” 

“Well, we know.” She handed him her cigarette. He gladly took it and smoked as much as he could, clouding his lungs as well as his mind.

She giggled some more, shaking her head both sides, she couldn’t believe they did such a thing, but knowing as mad they were when together, it was all figured out.

“It came back, Tommy.”

“What did?” He gained his serious tone back, eyes locking with hers.

“The disease, they say it’s even more violent this time, but I know it just never left. It has been lurking in the dark to come back when I’ll be happy again. But seeing I figured out its plan, it decided it was time to finish me off.” She sang. Her voice was devoid of any sadness, and he noticed it. “I think it’s a curse, Tommy. Run in our blood. Me grandma’ had that too, it passed a generation, leaving my mother and little sister alone. But I fear for the others.”

Old reflexes leading the way, Tommy’s hand fondled hers in the most natural way. He leaned forward to her as she took off his lips her cigarette, filling her lungs with that poison in hope it would kill the one that resided in her since way too long.

[docholligay]

Ghost Story

Sometimes I can do things for me, as a treat!! Total universe is here for timeline

Pharah was a woman of action. When Mercy did not know what to do or say, she would pray, and while Pharah wished she had the sort of faith that could give her that strength, the only religion she had ever bent to was that of order. This was what she could do. She could clean Tracer’s nails. She could comb her hair. She could wash and dress her, and ready her to be cremated. 

Others had offered, but Pharah had insisted. It would be too much for Emily and Winston, who had cared so much for her in the last months of her life. They should be permitted to simply mourn. Mercy had done the autopsy, sent out the samples to try to learn something from all this, and that had been enough to expect from her. Her family was preparing everything for her funeral. The rest of the Overwatch team had duties Pharah had assigned to them. 

She would have said all of these were the reasons she had chosen to do it, but there was also the matter of care. Pharah knew that few people had her sense of perfection, her sense of drive and completion, and so it was only Pharah that could be trusted to make sure that her body was properly prepared. It was a duty, something she owed Tracer, to make sure her final appearance in this world was a correct one. 

She smoothed the front of Tracer’s shirt. Mercy’s work had been exceptionally neat and careful, even for her, and the stitches had been so tightly spaced and small, with transparent thread, her own labor of love, that you would have been forgiven for not knowing Tracer had been autopsied at all. Pharah looked at Tracer, dressed in the clothes Emily had given Pharah, washed and straightened and ready for the coffin in the corner, a cheap wooden thing Tracer had purchased herself. 

She considered a moment. Something was wrong. She nodded as it came to her, and reached down, ruffling her hand through Tracer’s too-straight hair, letting the cowlicks fly up. 

“You won.” She looked down at Tracer’s body, “I saved your life once, and you saved my life twice. You died with the greater score. Congratulations.” 

“Saved your life once, Fareeha, in a bleeding miserable patch of desert outside Cairo. Not that I ‘ate winning, mind, but its the principle of the bloody thing.” 

Pharah stepped back in what was nearly a stumble, and looked at the body in front of her. It had not stirred, still cold, and grey, the cheekbones still too sharp and sunken, eyes closed, breath still, heart stopped.

“God, but I look bloody awful,” Pharah’s entire body stiffened at the sound of it, the clear, bouncing impossibility of it, “Not to say as you didn’t do your best, Fareeha, but, you know, cor, blimey, and what the ‘ell..” A giggle. 

“I have not slept well in days,” Pharah said, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, “I have been stressed. I have been jailed. Lena was close to me. I have been thinking of nothing but her.” 

“And I am sorry about that, love,” Out of the corner of Pharah’s eye, a motion at her side, “But I suppose it would ‘ave been the same if it were this week or a year from now, right? Right.” The question she always asked and answered. ���Sides all that, if Ang was telling the truth, and of course Ang always tells the truth, about these sorts of things, it would have been a bit of a rough go, dying that way. Maybe would have been worse memories, than me just sort of….” Pharah looked to her as she made a fluttering gesture, “fading away in Win’s arms.” She grinned. “Fareeha?” Her eyes widened. 

“You are,” she took a breath,”  a hallucination.”  

“Right,” Tracer nodded, “you're speaking English because you don’t think I can ‘ear you. Makes sense.” 

Pharah looked at her, and down at her body, and back to her. The Tracer in front of her had round, pink apples back in her cheeks, her eyes were clear and bright with no sign of pain in them, and her voice chirped and popped with joy. The blue RAF shirt she wore fit her neatly, all that muscle that had gone from the body in front of her apparently restored, and her tan corduroy pants wrinkled and straightened as she rocked on her heels. 

The effect was so perfect that tears prickled in Pharah’s eyes. Her brain was a cruel thing. 

“Oh, it’s all right, you big ol Turkish delight!” The hallucination swatted at her, and then launched herself onto the edge of the table where her body lay, dangling her feet, “We all die, don’t we?  I always did rush things, a bit. But I’m alright now, nothing to worry about, love.” 

Pharah stared down at the body, unmoving even as the unmistakable feel of her filled the room. She is dead, Fareeha. You were there when she took her last breath. You carried her body up here. You slipped off her wedding ring and gave it to Emily. Lena Oxton is dead. 

“I am hallucinating.” Pharah said it like a prayer, letting it ring out against the walls. 

“No you ain’t, love.” Tracer barely missed a beat. “Wish you’d all ‘ave let me just ‘ave me body dumped out the door. Seems a waste, this, even after all I saved doing it meself.” She jumped off the table and scampered around to Pharah’s other side. “‘Ave you always been able to see ghosts, Fareeha? You never did tell me that! Leave it to you, ‘ave a secret like that. I’ve nothing like that. Me thumb’s double jointed, I suppose.” She giggled and bounced, flashing a bright smile. 

Pharah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Rest. All she needed was rest. And still, these mantras being true, a tear sprung from her eye, and rolled down her cheek. 

“Oh God Fareeha, but I ‘ate seeing you cry. I’m only dead, love, and you’d be surprised--”

“I am not sad that you are dead.” She said, the words barely coming out. 

Tracer gave a bark of a laugh. “Wasn’t expecting that. Bit ‘arsh, love, bit ‘arsh.” 

“I am sad,” she gave another slow, deep breath and opened her eyes, “Because when I imagine you this way,” she indicated to her side but did not look there, “I am reminded of how very sick you became. I never told you this, when you were alive. I will not burden you with it.” 

Tracer paused for a moment, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “All right love, all right, but,” She dashed around to the far side of the table where body lay, facing Pharah, “‘Allucination is all I am, right? So it’s only you talking to yourself, not burdening me with nothing, innit? And maybe you’ll feel a bit better, saying whatever it is.” 

Pharah looked at Tracer, whose eyes flicked around Pharah’s face, waiting. She had a point. To refuse to say this to Tracer meant she gave her hallucination power. Her hallucination was not real, and it was only a way to cope with the loss, and so she would only be putting in words what she already knew. 

Yes. This was the most logical path. 

“Watching you deteriorate was one of the most painful things I have ever experienced.” Pharah nodded. “Seeing you be taken, slowly. It hurt.” 

Tracer’s voice was soft, and her eyes were warm. “Could ‘ave told me, love.” 

Pharah huffed and shook her head. “Yes, I should have told you how bad your dying, your suffering, your struggle,  made me feel. That is a very responsible thing to do.” 

“Oh ease up, Amari,” Tracer rolled her eyes, “Talked about it with Win. With Ang. Ang cried, even, god but she felt so guilty. Wish I could tell her it wasn’t ‘er fault, and she did all by me, I mean, I did tell her that, but again, right? And you and me are friends. You ‘elped me, Fareeha, and I’s feeling useless, right? Might ‘ave been something I could have reassured you over, felt better. “ 

“Why would I complain to you about something that is my fault?” She looked bad down at Tracer’s body, somehow seeing her dead easier than the firework in front of her. 

“I do ‘ave to say that discovering you’ve been Moira O'Deodorant all this bloody time is a bit of a shock, love.” 

 Pharah turned away from the table, and put her hands behind her back, pacing just a little bit away, eyes flicking to the coffin now and again. 

“Do you remember when we were captured? And tortured?” 

“No, Fareeha,” came the annoyed chirp behind her, “completely bloody forgot about the most painful experience of me life, that ended up killing me, slipped me bloody mind, it did.” 

“My mind does a very good impression of you.” Pharah shook her head and tried to take a soothing breath. “You drew her anger. You needled at her, you annoyed her. You made her furious, and so she did not hurt me as badly as she did you.” 

“Alright,” she walked up next to Pharah, arms crossed, “What were you meant to do then? Die as well?” 

“I could have saved you,” The tears choked in her throat again, the painful guilt that had run through her mind with every one of Tracer’s struggles, her spasms and seizures and suffering, “If I had been faster with my tongue--” 

Tracer laughed. “Right, love, and if I was 190 centimeters, then. Fareeha,” She put her hand on Pharah’s elbow, and Pharah swore it felt warm, “I did what I did because I wanted to do it. You couldn’t ‘ave saved me, love, anymore than Ang could. Moira’d had it out for me for a bloody decade. Would have all ended the same, but,” she smiled, “I got to save you. And when things were ‘ard, I thought of that. She was going to kill me one way or the other, and you can count on that, but now I know Overwatch is in good ‘ands. Your ‘ands.” 

“Still--” 

Tracer put her hands on her hips and stood in front of her. “What you’re saying is you wish it was me felt guilty, instead of you? Not very kind of you, Fareeha, I’d be bloody miserable in your position, so you’re saving me a bit of trouble by ‘aving me die instead.” 

Pharah looked at her, letting the tears fall quietly. 

“I will miss you.” 

“Suspect you ‘aven’t seen the last of me,” she stood on her tip toes and wiped a tear from Pharah’s cheek, “Thank you, for ‘elping with me. This, but also, the washing, the cooking, everything, when I was poorly. For ‘elping Win and Em. I love you too, Fareeha.” 

“You can’t really be here.”

“Doesn’t matter, love, if I’m ‘ere or not. Makes you feel a bit better, seeing me, and let’s not worry too much about me reality. I’m ‘ere for now.” 

Pharah nodded, took a deep breath, and turned around, lifting the light body into her arms, and laid the shell of what had been a strange and wonderful friend into the unstained, plain little coffin. 

She chuckled as she stood up. “You spared every expense on this.” 

“Bloody fucking right I did, you see how much a casket is? To be set on fire?  That’s a shipping crate, it is, bought it online, ‘ad it shipped to the ‘ouse.” 

Pharah roared with laughter. There was no one like Lena, in this world, and if imagining her kept her here a little longer, well, maybe she would allow herself a little belief.

[murderousginger]

Cherry Red

Cops & Robbers epilogue???

Warnings: They’re criminals, guys, they do bad things.

Word Count: 2,982

Song inspiration here

Warm rough fingertips danced along your bare back, stopping to trace along the horse tattooed upon your shoulder. The cool rings made you grip your champagne flute tighter as the hand -- which most certainly was not your husband's -- dipped from your shoulders down your exposed back to the indent above your waist. 

"Backless dresses suit you much better than men's clothing, pet," his breath tickled your ear as he rounded you, his red beard unruly compared to his sharp black suit. "You lied to me those years ago. You are a Shelby."

"You ever hit me again, Mr. Solomons, and I'll gut you in front of God and Polly," you smiled as you tipped your glass to him, your wedding ring gleaming against the flute. "Keep that in mind tonight."

"I don't remember you being so brave those years ago," he squinted, looking over your dress. As his gaze followed the line of your body you cocked your hip, showing your leg through a slit in the gown. His eyes widened before snapping back to your face. "Pretty creature gained courage with a ring on her finger."

His hand lingered on your waist as his fingers played with the edge of your cherry red dress. You lifted your eyebrow at him but refused to move out of his grasp. 

"You looked me in the eye far more when I was dressed as a man," you countered before finishing your glass in a gulp. "Perhaps my witchcraft only works on you when you're reminded of my body. You forget what you told me?"

"Which part, love?" He smirked as his free hand smoothed his beard.

You leaned forward and pressed your hand on his chest as you whispered into his ear. 

"Funniest thing about pretty creatures, pet," you drawled, mimicking his accent. "The most colorful are usually the likeliest to kill you dead without warnin'."

You pulled back and looked around the room with bored eyes. You could see Arthur shooting glances your way as he conversed with a man, and John and Esme were at a table across the crowded ballroom. Esme wrangled their youngest and John's glare fixed on Alfie's arm. His fist was tight on the table as Esme drew his attention back to his family. Finn and Isaiah were both talking in a corner with the help, darting glances your way from time to time.

You raised your glass to a maid and nodded for her to bring her tray over. She smiled nervously and hastily cut through the crowd. 

"Mrs. Shelby," she said, eyeing Alfie standing so close with his hand on your waist before her eyes snapped to yours. 

"I'm bored of champagne," you monotoned. "Get me a whiskey, please, Dolly. Mr. Solomons? Would you rather rum? Gin?"

His eyes flashed and you felt his fingers flex on your side. 

"Don't drink the stuff, meself," he said. "I suppose, when in hell, I'll have a whiskey."

"How courteous to fall to our level," you teased as the maid tittered away to fulfill your request. 

"I've seen no white knight come to your rescue yet, pet," his cold rings pressed against your bare spine. "Why do I feel glares but no one has dared interrupt us? Where is my good friend Mr. Shelby?"

"I've no need for a good man, let alone a knight, Alfie," you smiled and raised your glass to the ballroom. "This is my dear husband's fundraiser. He's around somewhere talking old men out of their money and into his favor."

"Ay, Birmingham and London wasn't enough, he had to join parliament," he chuckled. "And his wife's scandalous attitude has gained more than one headline in the papers."

Alfie's hand raised to graze along your tattooed shoulder. 

"You show you are marked so openly," he murmured. "Like a badge rather than an abomination."

"God never visited Small Heath," you laughed. "No need to gain favor of an absent father."

"Blasphemous with a smile," Alfie shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight line. "Perhaps you should be in men's clothes with the balls on you."

"Says the man with his hands on another's wife at a very public gala," you smiled curtly and squinted at him, as if assessing him and finding him wanting.

"How will the papers headline it?" Alfie said, leaning closer as if to tell a secret. "Another man touching the good politician Shelby's wild wife. Her bare back at that. Scandalous, innit love?"

You laughed loudly and threw your head back, running your fingers along the seam of his suspender inside his jacket. You felt him freeze under your touch as you pressed against him, taking in the spice of his cologne as heads turned to follow your laugh to its source.

"Aren't you a prominent beacon in the Jewish community, Mr. Solomons?" You pushed the words into his ear, velvet draping over him as your grin grew Cheshire-like. "I'm not the only one that can suffer a scandal, and I can promise a pious man will make more headlines than a Shelby."

The maid returned with a stiff 'ma'am' as she handed the whiskey glasses to you both. You murmured your thanks, sipped your drink as you deftly took a step away and turned to face your adversary. 

You looked over his shoulder to see you had Polly's full attention, her scowl cutting you as your glance stuttered on her. She nodded once slowly as she glared daggers one more moment before returning to her conversation. The signal was loud and clear: behave. 

Your eyes searched the ballroom again, finding John's jaw set as he held a toddler, his eyes squinting at yours in question. You winked at him, a smile curling on your lips that you tried to hide by the rim of the whiskey glass. He was not amused.

"Getting all your orders signed to you, love?" He chuckled. "Did you get in trouble with your family? Not as free as you'd like to think."

Alfie smiled wide, a wolf who realized he found a soft spot, and took a large gulp of his drink. He grimaced, clearing his throat as he frowned at the glass. 

"I'll forgive you this once," you said, your attention returning to him. "So it won't interfere with our business."

"Business?" Alfie frowned. "You would never interfere with my business with Tommy."

"No, Alfie," your eyes hardened as Alfie's expression blanked. "I do mean our business."

"Alfie, old friend," a warm voice called from behind you as a familiar hand rested on your back. "I hope you didn't start business without me. Some of my guests require more attention and it becomes difficult to get away. I see you found (Y/N) to entertain you."

Alfie watched as Tommy came up beside you, all ease and familiarity as if it was instinct. His suit was crisp, every corner of his appearance perfect and every bit a politician, down to the fake turn of his lips. His fingers played with the fabric against the small of your back and goosebumps covered your skin as he talked with the increasingly agitated man in front of you.

"What do you mean she's in charge of your shipping business?" Alfie's voice had clipped, his games falling aside as his shock got the better of him. 

"Exactly what he said," you smiled. "If you would like a piece of our shipping gin -- and possibly your rum -- to the Americas, you'll need to speak to me."

"Ah," Alfie said, tongue circling an eye tooth as he reassessed you in Tommy's arms. "So the soldier had become a general herself."

"More like a queen," Tommy said, leaning down to kiss your cheek as he pulled you into his side. 

"Wouldn't the charity be better business for a woman to run?" Alfie frowned, squinting between you both. 

"Lizzie is running the charity," you supplied, your fingers running along Tommy's arm that stretched along your middle. "We're a modern company, Mr. Solomons. Multiple women can run multiple pieces."

"I was hoping to introduce you two, make the transition smoother," Tommy said as his jaw ticked. "But you seem to have shot straight for (Y/N) before I could."

"We've met, we did," Alfie said as he twisted his beard in his hand. "Had a nice little discussion all those years ago, didn't we pet? Thought it only proper to give her a hello while you were busy."

Tommy's face was blank, his eyes half lidded as if bored. If anyone could shut Alfie Solomons' erratic energy down, it was Tommy Shelby and his nature of being completely still. Looking between the men was like looking between fire and ice. Both were dangerous, conniving, and ambitious to a fault. 

Alfie was loud, erratic, constantly flipping moods, expressions, energies, to keep everyone around him on their toes. You never knew when he would strike because he constantly tapped on walls for weaknesses. By the time he had done what he wished, no one flinched because it was old hat. You couldn't tell whick way was up or down by the time Alfie was done with you.

Tommy, on the other hand, preferred to be still, watchful, quiet. People often would see his blank face and -- unable to read an expression -- take whatever he said as truth. He would hold himself still until everyone forgot he was there and when he would strike there would be nothing but astonishment and dust in his wake. He was a ghost.

Tommy licked his lips, letting the air thicken between them before he unwrapped himself from your waist and took your hand. You placed your drink on a nearby table. His eyes instantly warmed as they left Alfie to look you up and down. 

"Do you like this dress, Alfie?" Tommy asked as he twirled you slowly in front of the man, letting the long red fabric frame you. "I picked it out myself. I believe it's from Paris, right love?"

Alfie grunted, looking between you and Tommy with suspicion.

"It is," you said evenly, allowing him to spin you in front of the man like he was showing off a jewel in the light. 

"Your taste has always been rich, Tom," Alfie squinted. "No doubt about that."

"It's made from a very fine silk, I believe," Tommy went on, ignoring the comment, his eyes dancing between your figure and Alfie's confused face.

"The thing about it is the cut," he went on, leaning toward Alfie as if conspiring. "My beautiful wife can't wear undergarments with it. Low back, that slit up the side, how the dress flows over her more like water than fabric. Very unfortunate, don't you think?" 

Alfie's eyes widened as he eyed your body even closer. He reddened slightly as he finally made his way to your face to see your eyebrow cocked at him daringly, the smallest curl of your lips a mix of a snarl and a smile.

"Very unfortunate, indeed," Alfie mumbled. "Why are you telling me this, Tom?"

"Oh no reason at all," Tommy tilted his head and winked as he pulled you closer to him, his hand dropping yours to rest splayed on your hip.

"You're going to dance with my wife, Alfie, while I grab a smoke," Tommy said, the edge to his voice sharper than his locked jaw. "And you'll figure out the conditions for our joint alcohol smuggling effort during that dance."

Tommy's blue eyes burrowed into Alfie as he waited for an answer. Alfie nodded slowly and extended his hand toward you, a grimace on his face as you dipped your head and accepted his hand. His hand extended yours out as his other rested on your waist, flitting over your skin rather than holding. He was nervous like a clumsy child that was told to set the table with fine china tonight.

"Oh, and Alfie," Tommy called before Alfie could pull you too far away. You both looked back at him, but only you had a sparkle of mischief in your eye.

"She might cut you if your hands wander," Tommy said, his eyebrows raised as his chin and voice sank. "I'll shoot you in the fuckin' face."

You exhaled a sharp laugh as Alfie's hand on your waist all but hovered above you, his face white as a sheet as he pulled you away from your husband. Tommy gave a nod and moved within the crowd, finding a place next to Polly for a moment. You looked around the room for a moment before reading your eyes back to the uncomfortable man in front of you.

"I will, you know," you smiled as his mouth quirked. "Cut you."

"With what blade in that dress?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," you said.

Alfie grunted and looked over your shoulder, no doubt looking for the positions of the Shelbys.

"Stop being grumpy, it's lame," you laughed as you rubbed his shoulder. "We have business to agree upon."

"Easy for you to say, pet," he mumbled. "Didn't realize I would be holding a bomb to me chest tonight over business."

"Isn't that the only way to do business?" You frowned. "I even wore red to alert you. I thought you knew better."

"Fuckin' should've," he breathed. "Alright, now, let's get to it then."

----

As the song ended, you and Alfie had agreed on a preliminary run of a limited amount of his rum going in your next shipment to America. If the numbers and shipment went well, you would ramp up within a fortnight. 

"May I have this dance?" Tommy appeared, his hand outstretched and pushing the two of you away from each other. 

"I believe we have amenable terms for now," Alfie bowed his head as he kissed your hand, in much better spirits than when the dance began. "I will leave my favorite cutthroats to go forth and ruin someone else's night with their fuckery. I do believe I need to return home and wash the sin from my clothes before it stains."

"Goodnight, Alfie," you said warmly as he easily transferred you to Tommy's side. "Safe travels home."

"Goodnight," Tommy said, all edge of his voice gone as his attention was only on you, his mouth dipped to kiss your shoulder. 

Alfie looked between you two and exhaled a soft laugh before he turned away, shaking his head. 

"Are we going to dance before you leave me to Polly to be yelled at, or was that just a way to cut short my time with your ally?" You murmured as his hand tickled your back. 

"I can dance," he said as he kissed your neck and swept you into his arms. 

You giggled as his hot breath tickled your ear and he pulled you across the hall. 

"So Polly is unhappy with me," you laughed as you pulled back to look him in the eye. 

Tommy sighed. 

"You threatened to make a scene, love," he said as his eyes softened. "With Alfie of all people."

"I think she's more upset about the half a glass of whiskey I had than dealing with Alfie," you said, earning a confused look from Tommy. "Alfie was only trying to make me uncomfortable."

"You didn't flinch a bit," Tommy toned. 

"Oh! You're jealous," you gasped. "Did Alfie Solomons upset my dear husband, king Tommy?"

"No one's to touch my wife but me," he said, roughly tugging you to the other side of a pillar as he pressed you against it in the shadow. 

He lifted your chin with his finger as his knee pressed between your legs and his other hand found its way into the slit of your dress and squeezed your ass. 

"Will you take me right here, Mr. Politician," you taunted, grinding a little against his knee as his eyes caught flame. "Need to prove your claim that boldly? Not enough to dangle me in front of your colleagues?"

"You're bored of the parties," he said as his head tilted and his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you against the pillar. "You aren't made for the pleasantries of the light."

"I'd much rather us in the dark," you tipped your chin up, your hands roaming up his chest and neck to pull him close.

"I hear you," he panted as your foreheads touched. You teased, your breath on his lips as you kept just out of reach. "But tonight is about what's best for this family."

"I agree," you smirked. "Our little one deserves a good life."

Tommy's mouth slacked and his hand dropped from your throat as you chuckled. 

"S'why Polly's upset," you whispered into his open mouth. "The whiskey. She called it last week. John was in the kitchen. Why do you think your little brother had grown so protective over me again?"

You smiled, taunting as he stood frozen.

"Did you fear he was trying to claim me again?" Your hand traced his jaw before you closed his mouth. "I'm yours, Tommy Shelby, just like this child is."

"Well, Mrs. Shelby," his voice was hoarse as he pushed the words out, shoveling them like gravel. He cleared his throat as he licked his lips. "Perhaps we should retire for the night."

"And leave your fundraiser?" You asked, your brows raised. 

It was not like him not to be the last one in the ballroom, talking to every last person as if to stuff his pockets with every cent and favor he could. You bit your lip as you watched the gears turn behind his soft eyes. He had completely melted against you. 

"My poor pregnant wife must be exhausted from the stress of the night," he said evenly, his hand tickling your thigh. "And what sort of man would I be if not to take care of her?"

"What sort, indeed," you smiled as you kissed him softly.

[magnoliasinbloom]

Lie To Me - 9

AO3 :: Previously

Claire blinks, visibly baffled. For a moment, she doesn’t even know what to say, processing what Jamie’s revelation means for their own relationship. She shakes her head to clear it. “You say that having children is one way for your uncles to take the land. How do you manage to not… you know?” Claire blushes.

“Och, Sassenach, I’ve told them that the burns may have made me… unable to sire children. Nerve damage and such.” Jamie matches her reddening cheeks. They both know he is perfectly capable of performing.

“The other way they win is if you—you die. Does this mean that they’ve tried that?”

“Not yet. I agreed to marry as well because Jenny has bairns of her own, including boys. They can inherit too, but I dinna wish my uncles to harm them in their pursuit of wealth and power.” Jamie’s voice is hard. “There was the fire, but that was merely a happy accident that didna turn out as well as they would have hoped.”

“The fire? Your scars?” Claire asks, and Jamie and Murtagh exchange glances.

“Start at the beginning, a bhalaich. Dinna confuse the puir lassie.” Murtagh pours them another tumblerful. Claire is still nursing the first drink, her mind reeling with the information regarding Jamie’s marriage.

“A few years ago, I was working late at night at the Leoch office building. I was still inexperienced, tryin’ to prove meself at the job. I had a colleague; his name was Alexander McGregor.” Jamie’s eyes are full of shame, but his voice is steady. “He had stayed that night too. When I was finally leaving, I noticed he was in a private conference room, with the blinds drawn. That was smart, for Alex knew there were cameras in there. I thought it might be something serious, for their talk grew so heated I could hear the argument coming from the room. I thought I’d knock and defuse the situation.” Jamie paused to take a deep draught. Claire is tempted to reach for his hand and comfort him, but senses this is a story he has to tell for himself.

“Before I could turn the doorknob, I heard a muffled gunshot and I broke into the room. I could only see Alex for a second, slumped in a chair, blood pouring from a hole in his stomach. The man struck me in the heid wi’ the gun, and I dropped like a stone.” Claire gasps softly.

Jamie plows ahead resolutely. “I woke up a few minutes later when I smelled the smoke, the gun in my own hand, and it was already too late. Alex was dead, and the room was up in flames. The man had rigged the wiring on the overhead lights when he left and caused the fire, disabling the sprinklers too. Wi’ the closed door, it was an inferno. My back was seared and blistered, the skin peeling off as I tried to get Alex’s body out. Or so the doctors told me.  ‘Twas a miracle I survived at all.”

Murtagh clears his throat. “He was in the hospital for a month. Jenny and I were terribly worried, thinking he might not pull through.”

“But why?” Claire bursts out, bewildered. “Why kill Alex?”

“Alex discovered internal documents that implicated men in power, links to bank accounts of several police officers, judges, and politicians on Leoch Holdings’ payroll. My uncles were—are—trading money for favors, overturning convictions, and legislating in the company’s interests.”

“During the investigations, we found no trace of any document in the room, most everything had burned up,” Murtagh says. “There was also no CCTV footage available. Someone had tampered with the video.” With this, the old man stood up, and unlocked a metal filing cabinet next to his desk. Claire watched in fascination as he manipulated a false bottom and extracted a fat manila envelope. “But then we got these.”

“Murtagh took care of my dingy flat while I was in hospital. Alex had messengered over copies of the documents in secret—wise of him, to leave no digital trace. There was a letter explaining what it all meant, and who the man was—Stephen Bonnet, he’s a commander in the force. Murtagh saw it, and could verify that my name was not on the records. Therefore, I was unlikely to be involved in my uncles’ dirty business.”

“Why did he not tell you from the start?” Dread was settling into Claire’s very bones, as she grasped the magnitude of the situation.

“He didna trust me, I imagine. Upon his discovery, he assumed I was in cahoots with my uncles, bein’ family and all. But I made certain comments to him that probably convinced him I was unaware of their dealings.”

“What did you tell him?”

“At the time, when I started at Leoch, my uncles were pressuring me to date and marry Laoghaire. I told Alex this, and said that it was wrong and I plain didna want to, and if they fired me for it, they could go fuck themselves and I’d work bagging groceries at Tesco before I’d let them bully me like that.” Claire almost smiles at this vehement outburst. “I lost on that account.”

“And Bonnet?”

“He was listed under an assumed name on the documents. That’s why Alex, poor lad, didna think he might be involved either. Bonnet fixed it so Alex’s body was not autopsied, so no one could ken of the gunshot wound that killed him. The McGregors were told there were no real remains, and they had only ashes to mourn. My uncles—”

“Threatened your life if you exposed them and forced you to marry,” Claire finishes for him. “But there is no proof of you doing any wrong!”

Murtagh sighed. “We thought so as weel. But Colum and Dougal’s reach is much longer than ye ken.”

“They had tech experts alter images and deep fake a video that pin Alexander’s death on me,” Jamie says. Claire shakes her head.

“But surely anyone—”

“’Tis my word against theirs. With their endless resources and contacts in law enforcement and the courts, who would believe me?” Jamie’s tone is final and resigned.

Silence weighs heavy in the air; Murtagh collects their empty glasses and sets them on his desk. “I’ve used my position in the force to continue to gather evidence, more papers, whatever I can use to help bring Colum and Dougal MacKenzie to justice, and absolve Jamie from any blame. I’ve involved Chief John Grey from the SCD, Specialist Crime Division, who works with organized crime, and it’s taken us years to be able to discern who to trust and who is in Leoch’s pockets.”

Claire is stunned at this turn of events. She had expected a godfather who at best, might cajole her into believing that Jamie’s marriage was a lie, an economic convenience of sorts, and that had been true after a fashion. But she had not predicted that this was an issue involving crime, illegal activities, and the death of an innocent man. Jamie appears to read her thoughts.

“That is the truth, Sassenach, and I trust ye enough that I ken well ye willna expose the ongoing investigation, or speak to anyone about what happens at Leoch. I’ve endangered yer very life by making ye privy to my story, and for that I am truly sorry.”

“Jamie, I—” Claire’s voice breaks. She casts about for what she wants to say. “Thank you for trusting me. I won’t say anything, not even to Geillis,”—at this she remembers G is still waiting in the lobby— “and… and I want you to understand, we are what we make ourselves, we use what we have, and we decide what we are. You, James Fraser, are an honorable man.”

X-x-X

Jamie remains behind to spend time going over new evidence with Murtagh. Claire assures him Geillis and she will head straight to their flat, and he asks if she would call him tomorrow. He doesn’t want to assume, he doesn’t want to lie anymore; he will give her time to think, to decide if this is something she also wants, if she feels as he does, their short acquaintance be damned. Can Claire risk her heart?

There is an unbearable weight of sorrow pressing upon Claire’s spirit; as she rides the elevator, descending numbers flashing in the display, she racks her brain trying to figure out if there is anything, anything at all she can do to ease his burden.

When she spots Geillis waiting for her, she realizes how lucky she is to have a friend like her—unconditional, constant, a forever kind of friend. G had been there for her in her darkest times, even when…

Suddenly it hits Claire. Without a word, Geillis follows her out into the rainy Glasgow night.

“What’s happened? Are ye convinced? Was he telling the truth?”

“Oh, G. I can’t even tell you. He’s for real, and he’s just been so unlucky in life… I have to help him.”

“What do you mean? Help him how?”

“I’m going to call Frank.”

[naviculariis]

ㅤ⠀❝Cannae say tha’ I’m the biggest fan o’ mirrors.❞ Killer murmurs, amusement still there, along with a hidden form of threat: Don’t bring the mirrors back up. Even so, his smile didn’t vanish behind the mask, nor did he stiffen or straighten. No, it would take more than a small slip up from someone who simply didn’t know any better to throw things off. His gaze shifted, studying Shachi’s smaller hand in comparison to his own. 

ㅤ⠀Smile turned to grin; fingers easily closed over Shachi’s own, covering his hand with relative ease. 

ㅤ⠀❝Nor would I dare tae compare meself tae the Gods,❞ he continued, tone dripping with teasing as he shifted his weight, leaning his hip against the edge of the table. He could hear Kidd’s laughter from clear across the tavern; his Captain was happy, Killer was happy. ❝But I won’t argue with ye.❞ Not when that cute orca tail was swaying with such a pleased motion. 

ㅤ⠀Like a big cat. 

ㅤ⠀❝I think you’re the one the greats of old would be wooing over; look at ye. Hair like the sunset on a clear summer mornin’, skin so soft,❞ fingers stroked over the back of Shachi’s hand as he spoke. ❝Could see ye portrait hangin’ in one of those fancy galleries that the rich flock to. Hells, if I had my supplies, I’d ask ye tae be a model for me.❞

@naviculariis x

Now this was a dance the shorter was familiar with, made all the more fun by his newest partner playing along rather easily. Killer leaned into his space, and Shachi hardly even flinched, not one to back down from a challenege. The game was on, and judging by the blond's response, he had the slight advantage of surprise.

The tug on his hat pulled an amused huff from the hybrid, reaching up as if to bat the man's hand away, but twisting to catch his fingers between his own instead.

'An’ how, exactly, is it unfair? Tell me more, M'eudail.'

Seas, with a voice like that, the red head would do just about anything he was told. "You serious? I know you have a mirror babe, there's no way you don't notice how you're practically built like a God. Sculptures could be made of you." The words fall from his lips with ease, eyes peeking over the top of his sunglasses. The tail behind him sways, much like a pleased cat.

"Your hair is beautiful, hands nice and big, warm too. I'd be surprised if you weren't having to chase people off with a stick."

[thebrownssociety]

Across The Serververse, Chapter 7

Back on the spaceship a debate was brewing. 

“-But all I’m saying is that it makes sense to get Sam!” Penelope said, for about the 5th time. “Then we know we’ve got everyone who was connected with the cartoon network universe!”

“But that’s completely illogical.” Marvin said, bluntly. “Sam, as we know, can take care of himself and is unlikely to cause great harm to himself or others. Sam is also in the ‘Wacky Racers’ universe, which is not unlike our own. Wile.E and Roady however are in the ‘Mad Max’ universe. That’s a completely different ballgame, so to speak, and we should retrieve them first so they can’t cause damage to other people, each other and themselves in that order.”

Bugs sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why, WHY did he think this would be simple? Just go round the universes and get everyone back. A hard conversation may be needed here and there [he was anticipating one with Daffy, for instance] but on the whole he was certain the others would come back. After all, why wouldn’t they? The entire family was here after all, would they really want to be left behind?

Just as Tweety was yelling that actuawwy GRANNY would be a good idea as she was - and direct quote - ‘owd and fwail’ [which Bugs personally found hilarious as he’d seen frailer cement mixers] the decision was taken out of there hands. 

“Stop!” Pepe yelled at the top of his lungs, seeing he now had everyone’s attention he said, calmly. “Why do we not see what planet we are closest to and retrieve the toons on there, yes? Make it simple, no?”

A thought flashed across Bugs’s mind that if they carried on down that route it meant Fudd would be last, but he shook the thought away like it was an irritating insect. Fudd would be fine, Bugs reasoned, he was more quick-witted and intelligent than people gave him credit for. He would be fine. Fine! Absolutely fine...

Marvin smiled [or at least the others assumed he was smiling. It was a bit hard to tell] and ‘full-speeded ahead’ to Mad Max Universe.

“Be careful!” Pepe yelled as Penelope crashed into him. “You are not on the racing track now, non?”

Marvin - somewhat uncharacteristically - ignored him and just landed the spaceship with a small ‘thud!’ “Well.” The Martian said, as he zeroed in on Wile.E’s and the Roadrunners trackers. “Here we are. The Mad Max universe. There was a pause before Marvin said, with faux brightness. “So, who’s going to volunteer to get our two brothers then?”

It soon transpired that it was Bugs himself who was going to ‘volunteer’ for this no doubt arduous task, what with the rabbit being the fastest amongst them. 

“How do I get meself into dese situations?” Bugs wondered aloud, as he stood in the middle of a dust road looking for any sign of either the road runner or the coyote. Then he saw it. The familiar dust trail of the roadrunner which Bugs knew from previous experience meant he was about five-

-zoom!-

...make that two seconds away. And if the roadrunner was here, that meant the coyote wasn’t that far behind-

-zoom!-

Aaaaaannnnnnnnddddddddddd there he went! Bugs turned tail and ran after him. 

Wile.E, Bugs could hardly fail to notice, looked like an advertisement for leather. Leather coat, leather gloves and a weird looking mask tied across his eyes, making him look like a robber. In one hand he wielded what looked like a extended litter-picker with the end significantly modified so it was [in theory] capable of catching roadrunners. The other hand was clutching the steering wheel of the motorbike he’d presumably ‘borrowed’ from somewhere. 

Bugs ran flat out as he did his best to get level with the coyote, and it was a testament to his abilities and pig-headed determination that he actually managed it. “Wile.E!” Bugs called, loudly in order to ensure he was heard over the noise. “Wile E! It’s me Bugs!”

The coyote looked at him in startled surprise, taking his eyes of the road for literally about two seconds, but that two seconds was all the universe needed for Wile.E to fall flat on his face and go skidding into a rock, which caused a boulder to fall from above onto him, just for good measure.

Bugs winced and slowly sidled up to the rock where the coyotes arm was sticking out from under it. The rabbit waited for his younger brother to come crawling out from under it, probably glaring daggers, but nothing happened. After a few more seconds he got concerned and tried to move the boulder himself. 

Back in Tune World this wouldn’t be a problem. As long as Bugs timed it at either a funny moment, or a moment that made sense within the narration, he’d have been able to do it. But, Bugs realised as he pushed, shoved and yelled curses at the rock, this wasn’t Toon World.

“Beap, beap!”

Bugs let out a shout of surprise and jumped about ten metres in the air, before landing with a thud. He sighed, got up and turned to see the road runner examining the rock critically. Seeing Bugs looking at him, Roadie held up a sign which said. ‘You get one side, I’ll get the other.’

Really, Bugs thought, this might be a good time to get Marvin’s disintegration ray, or maybe the other toons, but he didn’t really have time to argue so he just grabbed the other end of the rock [which was thankfully quite jagged, so easy enough to get a grip onto as opposed to the smooth round boulders that usually fell on Wile.E.] and together he and Roadie lifted the boulder of off the coyote and looked at the crushed noodle-like body beneath it.

Bugs stared silently, trying to digest what had just happened, while the roadrunner donned a black suit and tie and threw a random wreath at the coyote’s still body.

As soon as that wreath made contact with Wile.E’s stomach the coyote ‘rose from the dead’ ala Mushu style saying dramatically. “IIIIII LLLLLLIIIIIIIVVVVVVVEEEEEE!”

He was rewarded for this Oscar-worthy spot of acting by tomatoes being thrown at him by Roadie and Bugs. “Dat’s for quotin’ Disney!” Bugs told him sternly.

Wile.E shrugged. “Don’t blame me, inferior creature, I didn’t write the script.”

They glared at each other and then, going a 180, hugged and laughed joyously. “Oh!” Wile.E exclaimed, as he swung Bugs around. “I’m so glad you’re alive! I would like to say we never gave up hope, but I’m afraid that would be a lie as we’ve thought you were dead for the past few months now.”

Wile.E popped Bugs back on the ground and the rabbit wasted no time shaking himself to get all of the dust and rocks and like out his fur. “Oi’m gonna be hearin’ that for de next few chapters, ain’t I?” He reflected.

In response Wile.E simply pointed. Bugs followed the point and saw Roadie holding up a sign that said. ‘Well, the last time we saw you you were left alone with an angry psycho. So, you know, assumptions were made.”

Bugs grinned and flapped his arms. “Ah, never mind all dat! C’mon, Oi’ve managed to get some of the gang already, we’re all on Marvin’s spaceship! C’mon, follow me brothers!” And with that he dramatically turned heal and started in the direction of the spaceship. [Which wasn’t actually visible from where they were, Bugs having had to go on something of a hunt for his younger brothers.]

He got about ten steps in before realising he was Coyote-and-Roadrunner-less and turned back to see Wile.E standing in the middle of the dust track with his arms folded and his nose in the air, while Roadrunner looked confused and kept looking between the two like he was a spectator at a volleyball match.

Bugs approached his coyote brother carefully and asked. “Eh...what’s up, Wile.E?”

Wile.E scoffed and holding his nose up even higher [if that was possible] said; “I find it interesting, Mr Bunny, that you assume I shall just go with you?”

The rabbit frowned. confused by this question. “...Why wouldn’t ya?” He asked, eventually.

Wile.E scoffed again, as if to say ‘if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you’ and turned his back on the rabbit.

Bugs was now very confused and started pulling apart the conversation they’d just had in his mind to see if there was anything he’d said that would explain the coyote’s behaviour. About ten seconds into this thinking Bugs was gently pushed aside by Roadrunner who held up a sign that said: ‘Leave this to me.’

[Note from Author: The following conversation has been translated into English for ease of reading. Within the universe of the fic, on the other hand, the below conversation was said in roadrunner style beaps from both parties concerned. The author has also tried to keep Roadie’s rhyming style of speech. Whether she’s succeeded or not is a different matter.]

Roadrunner stepped closer to his brother and said, in a kindly tone. 

“Wile.E, my brother,

From one twin to another

Would you be so kind?

Tell me what is on your mind?”

Wile.E took a moment to think about exactly what was bothering him, before saying in a measured manner. “I’m thinking Roadie that...I’m old.”

Roadie’s eyes went wide and Wile.E hurriedly clarified. “Oh, I know what you’re going to say, I’m in my early 70′s, early 70′s is no longer considered ‘old’. Except, factually, it is. Even if you take into consideration the fact that I’m a toon and therefore immortal, I just can’t help wondering...how much longer can I do this?”

His brother looked at him in a manner that suggested he was unsure of what he meant. Clicking his tongue impatiently Wile.E snapped. “For Newton’s sake, do I have to spell it out!? How much longer can I keep throwing myself off of cliffs and under boulders and the like without damage? Even with gadgets like these...” Here he looked down at the custom-made grabber and chuckled. “...Not that we’ve got anything like this back on Tune Town. I mean, look at this!” Here he went into a half-mad description of what exactly the grabber was made of, what it could do and why exactly it was the best thing since sliced bread. Roadrunner waited patiently the whole time this lecture went on, nodding at what he felt were appropriate intervals until, finally, Wile.E finished with: “But what’s the use? I’ll never be able to invent another one.”

Roadrunner frowned and said, rapidly. “But Wile.E, why ever not?

Seeing as you’re a total swot*

Would it not be so very easy,

to build something just as great?

From an engineers point of view,

it should be easy to recreate

And with me by your side

You’ll be sure to hit your stride.” At the end of his little rhyme, Roadie smiled brightly at his twin and waited for the verdict. 

“Because, my fraternal twin brother, I made THIS one via the materials on this planet and seeing as when I step on Marvin’s ship I’m presumably not coming back here then that means I’m somewhat sunk, aren't I? More than usual, I mean.” Wile.E looked at the grabber and lovingly stroked it.  

While he was doing that Roadie thought.  Truth be told he had heard this more than a few times before. Wile.E periodically went through periods where he thought he was reaching the end of his genius, but he usually pulled through. This time he sounded different though. More wistful and melancholy. It concerned Roadie, but he was unsure of what to say and went quiet for a bit trying to think of the right words.

While he was doing that Wile.E’s ginormous brain was ticking, slotting the pieces together as he looked down at the grabber. Really, now he was actually thinking about it instead of running on emotion, the materials the grabber was made with weren't that different to similar materials that could be found on Tune Town. Melt an anvil down, for instance, and simply reshape it...

Wile.E smiled. Oh yes, that would work alright. He was an idiot to have not thought of it before!

Roadrunner saw the familiar smile and, immediately perking up, said rapidly to Bugs. “I think you will be happy to know, we are finally ready to go.”

Bugs made a celebrationary air-grab and grabbing his brothers by the arm and wing respectably pulled them in the direction of the spaceship. Luckily Roadrunners brain was ahead of Bugs’s on this occasional and he had also see where the spaceship was earlier on in the chapter when he’d speeded ahead; so, with his usual catchphrase, he ran under Bugs so the rabbit was forced to cling to him and sped of at about 1000 miles an hour, not wanting to waste any time.

Behind them Wile.E smiled wickedly and activated the grabber which enabled him to swing between boulders [how he managed not to crush himself the author only knows] essentially becoming the coyote version of Tarzan and together they speeded towards the ship

[elysiashelby]

In Another World - T. Shelby Imagine Ch. 2

Paring: (Eventual) Thomas Shelby x Aliena Welsh (OC)

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Word Count: 2, 522

WARNINGS: Cursing

Summary: Aliena Welsh has been living in the universe of the show Peaky Blinders for 2 months now. She’s beginning to make a life and a home for herself, but she’s been avoiding calling Thomas by his name. And he wants to know why.

MASTERLIST  CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER THREE

A/N: So, I forgot to add something very important. I am not from Liverpool. I do not know the proper way scousers talk. I’ve done some research and watched movies, but I will not advocate that it’s perfect. I’d love to get my readers’ opinions on it, and if enough responses come back saying that I shouldn’t show her accent in the writing- it will be gone! Also, this is the pronunciation of Aliena ( A Lee ay nah ). Thanks for reading!

So, I've been with the Shelby's for two months now! It has definitely been something! I mean Polly is very strict and for the first couple of days I was taking care of John's kids, she was watching over me like a hawk. I mean I didn't mind and I totally appreciated it. I dealt with me own family members, meaning I could've dealt with them however I wanted but these weren't me kids to punish. So, that's where Polly helped me out. She set me boundaries. 

With the cooking, I learned a lot of things. Like how to make eggs and bacon and sausage for breakfast. I can basically make anything Polly has taught me for the past 2 months. I also clean the house regularly. I do the sweeping, moping, the trash, and the laundry. I honestly don't mind. What's fun is that Polly found out that I didn't know UK currency and how it worked and she taught me it along with Finn. But, Finn actually already knew how to count money. He was 10, of course he did! He was there so that Polly could keep an eye on ‘em. 

I'm currently working on buying our weekly groceries for the main house, and for John. For the main house, Polly helps me out, but for John's house, I have to figure it out on me own.   

I was doing the kids' laundry as I watched over them. Katie, the eldest at 7, was helping me along with her sister Ilsa, who was 6. Robert, who was 4, was playing with his younger brother John, who was 3. I found out that John had knocked up Martha when they were 16, resulting in little Katie. They had Ilsa a year later, waited 2 years and had little Robert, and then baby John Jr. was a result of John Sr.’s vacation days during the war. 

I was scrubbing harshly against a stain when I noticed things had gotten out of hand. "Robbie, don't hit your brother so hard! You'll regret it when you're older. Katie, dear, you need to space out the clothes more! Ilsa, you need to scrub that spot harder." I shouted at them. 

Ilsa huffed. "Aliena, I want to go play! Why can't I?" 

"It's not that you can't, sweetheart. It's just- I need your help. I have to take care of all of your clothes along with your father's, along with your uncles’ and aunt's clothes. I would have your brothers do the same if they were any older, but they aren't. They would just mess the clothes up or not wash them right. So, as much as it pains me to prevent you from playing, I need your help, alright?" 

She groaned loudly. "Fine! But only because you need me." She muttered while sporting a big pout. 

I chuckled at her and reached over to pinch her pout. She flinched at it. 

"Aliena, why would I regret it?" Robbie shouted. 

"What?" I asked with my eyes squinting as I tried to get a good look at him. 

He ran towards me, which made Johnny follow. "Why would I regret hitting this annoying bugger?" He repeated while pushing his brother's head. 

I tsked at his antics. "You'll regret it because he'll grow bigger one day and give you a beating back. Mark my words, he'll learn to get you when you're weak!"

"No, he wouldn't!"

"Oh, but he would! It's what siblings do you see. I'm not telling you to never hit 'em because I know that's how you both play, but just don't make each other cry. Okay?"

Robbie tilted his head as if in deep thought before agreeing and running off with his brother. 

I sighed knowing that he probably told me a blag. 

Speaking of blags, you know that story I fed Thomas when I first arrived here was total bullshit, right? The truth is me whole family, nieces and all, are back in California in one house. Me da and ma aren't dead. Me sister doesn't have a husband, but does have a daughter. Me brother doesn't have a wife, but actually has 4 kids. Me da's brother is not mental, but lives with me gran. I forgot the reason why. And me mum still talks to her family all while maintaining the mentality that they are jealous of her because she's a stay-at-home mum. Also, I was dead-on about me body being younger. I had to have been 16, at most, because when I was 18 me features began to be more defined, and now I was stuck with this baby face again. 

When we were all done with the laundry, it was late afternoon. I made us all lunch, and then let them all run abar with their friends with the expectation of little Johnny. Him and I were going back over to Polly's. He once asked me about this decision, and I told him it was because he was too young. He pouted and groaned, but accepted it nonetheless. 

I opened the door to the house and he bolted right in. I laughed at the sight. I went straight away to the kitchen and put on an apron. I had to, ironically, make sandwiches for the boys. Finn probably found something to eat or Polly made him something, but it was my responsibility to feed the older Shelby brothers. 

"Finn, take care of your cousin while I go 'n feed your brothers!" I shouted as I finished making the last sandwich. 

I put a plate on top of the other holding two sandwiches and I had the third one set on its own plate, ready to be served. I opened the door by hitting it with me bum. I was instantly overwhelmed by the yelling and shouting of countless men that were in the betting shop. I had to weave me way through clumps of men as well as maintaining awareness of all their movements, so that they don't bump into me! 

John was closest even though he was actually the farthest. But he was the only one out of his office. Always near the blackboard that one.  

"John, I have your lunch!" 

He smiled at me while taking the plate. "Thanks, love!"

I nodded in return. Then, I went for Arthur's office. I knocked, he saw me, and told me to come in. 

"Here's your lunch, Arthur." I separated the plates and got one of the two sandwiches to place on the plate. 

"Ah! Finally, some fuckin' food! I swear Aliena, you make a mean sandwich. Thanks, doll." Arthur said before taking a huge bite. 

I said "you're welcome" with a rather embarrassed smile and left. I walked out of the room and closed the door behind me. Now, I was holding one plate in my hand. I inhaled largely and puffed my cheeks as I exhaled. 

'I swear I'll never get used to 'em.' I thought.  

I walked over to Thomas' office, knocked, and was allowed to come in. I turned the knob and took in the sight. Thomas Shelby kept his head down, inspecting his documents while nursing a ciggie that was in-between his two fingers resting there with his arm bent on the desk. 

"Your lunch, Mr. Shelby." I whispered as I set his plate down. 

He didn't even lift his head as he muttered "thank you." So, I just left. 

I wiped my hands on me apron, walked back into the main house, and closed the doors behind me. I walked back into the kitchen and tossed me apron on a chair. 

"Finn, is your cousin still alive?"

"Yeah!"

"Good! Keep him that way for the next two to three hours!"

"Okay!"

After serving lunch to the boys, I had to start cleaning the house. I beat the dirt out of rugs, I swept away dirt, and moped the floors afterward. When I was done with that I was taking down clothes that I've just washed yesterday. Then, I got ready to start ironing them, but mid through it was around 4 o'clock. 

I had to stop and go find the rest of John's kids. I got little Johnny and walked back to the flat, but when I got there, I found all three of them waiting outside of the door. I was able to start dinner with ease that night. Katie helped me make chicken soup. She was always so adorable. It took little over an hour. I ate with them, and then told Ilsa it was her night to wash the dishes. 

She’s so stubborn, reminds me of meself. I bet she’ll be a boss feminist when she gets older. I can imagine her now, marching for Women’s Rights. 

Anyway, I ran over back to the main house and helped Polly finish making their dinner. It was basically chopping and peeling. When she didn't need me anymore, I had to go back to the kids. I was up with them 'till 8:30 and then I had to tuck them into bed. I got done by 9, but little Johnny came out abar three times before settling down. When I was confident they were all asleep, I tidied up the house a little more. I just put away a toy or two that they'd missed. 

It was 11:37 in the night when John got home. He thanked me and gave me a pound before sending me on me way. With a pep in my step, I trod over back to the main house. 

I got me key to unlock the door, stepped in, and then locked it. With a key still in me hand, I rested against the door. Me hand with the key was clutching on the doorknob for dear life, me body thudded softly as it collided with the door. I closed me eyes and let out a heavy sigh. I rested there for what seemed like an eternity. But I got meself back up. I took the pins out of me hair that finally managed to form and maintain a proper bun. Me cheeks puffed as I exhaled and I shook out me hair. I put me pins in me coat pocket as I made me way to the couch. Me body just plopped down and I just relaxed. 

Me feet and back soon started to ache. So, I took off me shoes and socks, and started massaging me feet and rolling my ankles. I followed up by cracking me back, and then going upstairs to me room. I started placing everything nicely and where they were supposed to be. I changed into pajamas, which was just a dress. I attempted to fall asleep in bed, but ended up failing. Instead, I went downstairs, grabbed the tub, heated up some water, and drew meself a bath in me own room. 

The only way we could cleanse ourselves here was in a tub. It wasn't installed into the house, oh no! It was quite literally a grey tub, and I have to use another tub for me hair. When I was done, I poured me hair water down the kitchen drain, and then worked me way with the water I used for me body. Afterward, I settled down in front of the fire that was in the living room. I sat in front of it while wringing the water out of me hair. The crackling of the fire as well as its heat was comforting. So much so that I found meself dozing off. 

It was during that allotted time that a hand suddenly shook me. Frightened, I gasped, rolled on to my knees from leaning on me thighs, and tried to focus on the person who jolted me awake. 

"You know, you'll end up catching a cold if you go to sleep with wet hair right away?" Thomas said while kneeling down beside me. "And your hair will be a pain to deal with if you don't brush it soon." 

I nodded while looking at him with hooded, unfocused eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Shelby." My voice sounded hoarse like I actually had been just awoken from a nap when in reality all I did was close me eyes for a second. Me eyes kept wanting to close. I chose to rub me arms to keep me awake. 

"Do I make you uncomfortable, Ms. Welsh?" He asked while properly sitting down next to me. 

I squeezed me eyes shut, silently cringing. I knew I was making it obvious, but I figured that he was used to it. Hell, even Arthur and John don't talk to him without minding themselves. 

With a tight grip on me arms and an equally tight smile I said, "No, not uncomfortable, Mr. Shelby. But I am intimidated by you." 

He nodded silently. "Intimidation is often used as another word for fear."

I giggled at his words. "It's actually a synonym for frighten or terrify, but also overawe. Which means to be impressed by someone to like the point of speechlessness." Me hands were now an active part in our small conversation.

Only reason I knew that was from searching up the word so much! 

"So, am I correct to assume you're telling me you're impressed by me, Ms. Welsh?"

I pursed me lips while leaning me head to the side, resting on me arms that had been crossed on top of me bent knee. "I guess. What I'm really trying to say is that… I don't know actually. I just don't want to cross a line with you, in all honesty. If I were to say something wrong- like a mispronunciation! Arthur and John would 'ave a laugh and a joke, but my expected reaction from you is silence. Silence can be the most daunting thing."

Thomas hummed while looking at me silently. 

I couldn't stop a giggle and pointed at him. "See! Like that! Are you just being understanding, or are you judging me?" I laughed even more afterward, and then I yawned. 

Through squinted eyes, I saw Thomas smirk. It was small. I'm sure it was really a half-assed smile. 

 "I see that you call my brothers by their names. Even though I insisted from the moment we met for you to call me by my name, you don't. Is this the reason why?"

I hummed. "I guess. I mean, well, you're my boss. I figure you have to use, you know, the proper terms. It's my first job 'n all! I didn't want to do anything to mess up." I said while tracing over the patterns in the carpet. 

"Well, from the way I see it, I am your boss and your boss is giving you an order." 

I tried to stifle my giggle and hide me smile, but it didn't do much since he had eyes and ears. "Fine. Thomas."

"Aliena."

After that, he went up to his room. Me fatigue was oddly gone yet at its worst at the same time. It took me another hour before I managed to drag meself up and sleep on the couch.

TAG LIST: @amirahiddleston @nemesis729​

[second-chance-stray]

RP Log: Dorn and Cravs talk over a campfire.

Cravendy Hound - Weather and the coming of night would interrupt Dornn and Crav’s training session, though by the time they stopped, they had already been beating each other up for several bells. With rain at their backs, they would find shelter underneath a rocky alcove and watch as the sky steadily went from blue to black.

Cravendy Hound had kept an eye out for firewood and, by the time they settled, she had gathered a sizable pile. For now, she simply dumps the wood onto the ground and takes a seat next to it, exhausted.

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn had just about finished the wrapping of his old bandages--his ivory bicep now surrounded with a pristine, new layer of cloth coddling it warmly. Once the lass found her footing back, the male planted himself on his knees, dipping his chin approvingly of her yield. The brittle clink and brutish thud of the wood, as it piled together, prompted him to wind his palm lower, diving it into the confines of his pocket... And withdrawing a moderate pouch from within. Fishing thereonafter inside, he finally plucked out a diminutive, crimson crystal, before chucking it haphazardly into the midst of the wood, and gripping each piece of lumber readily, assembling a proper pyre upon a circle of stones. His runic palm danced alight anew, as he bore it before the hearth--and with the ignition of the runes, so too did the crystal within the wood grow saturated with fiery aether... Until a spark came to life, rupturing from its breast. Clapping his palms together, he drew back, exhaling profoundly. "...Aye, there we are."

Cravendy Hound takes half of her hair in hand and wrings it out like a washcloth. A line of water drips down between her fingers and falls from her wrist. It seemed every outing she went on resulted in her becoming absolutely drenched - perhaps it was Llymlaen? It certainly seemed that the gods had some beef with her. With a sigh of relief, she sidled up to the fire and warmed her palms.

Cravendy Hound: “I’m gonna be feelin’ this for days, ugh...” She gives her arm a painful stretch, sure of the bruises that were hidden underneath her glove. “Guess I should’ve expected as much, given that ye’ve been trainin’ on rocks for who knows ‘ow long.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn gripped the loose end of his bandage betwixt his fangs, straightening it firmly, as he tied the remnant around his arm until the runic light was snuffed out from beneath. A wholly entertained rumble stirred within his breast, hinting at his approval of her predicament. Shuffling on all the closer, he'd rip the bandage's end off with a jerk of his burly neck, before planting both of his paws atop his thighs, wistfully exhaling. "...Mm, not too long. Should be 'round two moons now, dependin' on what day it be t'day..." Admittedly, the lattermost part infused his voice with a lasting confusion, only to be broken by a raise of his palm behind his head, idly scratching away at his pelt. "...Eh, apologies fer the sudden downpour earlier. Seems I let loose on me control a tad too much, so do try to dry up now, aye?"

Cravendy Hound shifts forward, arms wrapped carefully around her knees. Now that her body had time to relax, it was like all her soreness could now be at the forefront. Cravs lets out a hiss as she moves in just the wrong way for a split second. “Well, when did ye start? And don’t tell me ye’ve been out in the wilds this entire time. Don’t ye come back to town for supplies?”

Cravendy Hound - Dornn’s second claim goes unnoticed at first - she’s too busy warming up by the fire and licking her wounds to notice his odd statement immediately. She makes a sound of agreement but, after a delay, tired contentment twists into confusion. “Whuh? Are ye claimin’ control over the weather? It did get stormy back there but...”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn appeared all too befuddled by the erstwhile sentiment, prompting his furred noggin to turn sideways in a quizzical tilt. "Nay, I... Hunt fer my supplies? Y'can find just about all you need in the wild, from berries t' meat an' lumber alike. The Shroud is known fer its rich game, 'fter all." The Aerslaentean tint to his voice swelled with pride, as his Northerner accent grew all the bolder. "Not that the Lohengarde will tell ye aught different. Twelve know me life's condemned t' their company more oft than not, as it seems..." A fond smile washed those words down, before his palm swatted the idle recollections away. "Bah! I claim no mastery o'er the elements, nay. 'Tis one of the highest staples of our people to possess such skills to command the weather... Yet it comes with some ease, with a clear plateau at yer disposal... As well as the teeny-tiny presence of the Red Moon's vast aetherial reserves amplifyin' me command o'er the weather. Blame me uncle fer puttin' me on this path." With a somber shrug of his bulky shoulderblades, he peered up at her, inspecting her thoroughly. "So, a vaunted... Drunkard an' ne'er-do-well, then? Strange track record ye've claimed so far, accordin' to that runt from afore."

Cravendy Hound mouth curves into a smile. “The Shroud is also known fer, what’re they called...the Elementals? So ye best be careful, unless ye want a swarm of bees to be sent yer way for takin’ too much honey. That, and I’ve never found a good bottle of drink in the wilds.” With that, she pulls out a metal flask half full of liquor and unscrews the top. After taking a hearty sip herself, she offers it to him over the fire. “‘’Ere ye go, weather boy.”

Cravendy Hound: “Seems...dangerous to be tappin’ into that aether. Ye must ‘ave a good reason for seekin’ such power,” Cravs muses, gaze shifting over towards Dalamud’s general direction. “Ye best be careful to not let it taint and control ye.” She raises a brow.

Cravendy Hound then stares back into the fire, red refractions dancing in the pit of her sea blue eyes. A somber mood takes hold. “That’s a good way of puttin' it. A lotta folk get riled up by the way I live, or the fact that I’m still livin’. Or both.” She lets out a prolonged breath. “And it’s fair, most of the time.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn hoisted an index digit aloft knowingly so, waving it up and down as he spoke. "Somethin' akin to that. The Elements 'ave yet to catch me, alas an' alack. All you hafta do is know how to conceal yer aetherial print with that of earth, wind and stone." Though, the mention of honey /did/ make his ears perk up at attention. "Kind of ye t' remind me, I could go fer fetchin' a comb or two right 'bout now..." Regardless, the offered flask made him rumble with even more curiosity, yet his customs compelled him to accept the offering, gingerly grabbing it out of her palm's domain. "Many thanks, yet I be 'ardly a -boy,- tsch." Peering over his shoulder as he pressed the drink to his lips, his concealed hues scoped out the outline of the lesser Moon. A generous chug or two, and he'd take abandon of the lid, handing it over with a hearty sigh. "...Aye, I ain't got plans t' mingle meself with whate'er that abomination behind me be. As fer ye, lil' munchkin..." His keen hues refocused upon her form, pondering over her own aetherial stream. "All the more of a reason t' piss 'em off with spite, I'd say."

Cravendy Hound takes back her flask. Without hesitation, she finishes off whatever’s left and shoves the thing back into her pocket, not bothering to cap the now emptied container. “Oy, if yer gonna be callin’ me shite like munchkin, then I can call ye whatever I want, -weather boy-.” She chuckles to herself. Both names fitted terribly, like a baby’s glove on a hulking beast. But that just gave her more reason to use them.

Cravendy Hound: “I’m done bein’ like that....or at least, I’m tryin’. Only so far ye can go til ye find the ‘ole ye’ve dug is too deep to get out.” She shakes her head. “Maybe it’s already too deep, but one can try to make things better anyway.”

Cravendy Hound: “‘Aven’t figured out the logistics, though, of ‘ow to make up to someone who wants ye dead without givin’ up my ‘ead as an peace offerin’.” Cravs shrugs.

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn kept a valiant vigil over her form as she spoke her case, his lips twisting into a half-smirk as she insisted on the nicknames. His barreled breast soon slumped thinner, as he exhaled a generous gale... Though her story had him issue no sentiment until it was fully told. At length, he'd plant his palms back onto his thighs, a timid growl rumbling in his chest. "Mm... Matters are e'er as simple or as complex as we think 'em to be. The truth is always somewhere inbetween." Nodding sagely, his digits patted against the plate of his legs, ere her resumed. "Northerners value deeds o'er empty words and silvery tongues. It has proved a grand solution t' solvin' disputes--either by trials by combat, or by feats o' heroism t' redeem one's name. Sometimes, all ye hafta do is look back to tradition, an' a simple solution may present itself, lass."

Cravendy Hound cranes her neck downwards and places her hand above her neck, each finger balanced on a boney ridge. Face hidden by untamed locks of hair, she lets out an even longer sigh. “But we’re not in the North, brother. We’re ‘ere. And specifically, we’re where Ul’dahn influence can reach, and the games they play in court are far beyond me.”

Cravendy Hound lifts back up and pulls her hair back behind her shoulders. Her eyes remain downcast, haunted. But the moment passes. “So, son of Hyrtfyr, ye claim to be a captain but I don’t see any crew. It seems clear to me yer in some kind of trouble. What ghosts do ye ‘ave locked in the closet?”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn balled up a fist proper with the might of his right hand, his pale, bare thumb stroking over the index digit next to it. "Ul'dahn courts, huh..." He mused to himself, seemingly drowned in a deeper well of thought. "We be not in the North, aye--but peoples' hearts dance the same, even if a few scores more cowardly they be. Though, I be curious as to who 'zactly ye've stepped on, now..." On the subject of his own ghosts and mates, he momentarily fell quiet, only to wave a dismissive paw away. At length, he'd raise it to his breast, pressing the fist against his collarbone. "Eh, I'm 'ardly worth talkin' 'bout, as are me... Ghosts. Still, if ye've a mind to visit me crew, they live in no mountains, I promise ye--fancy a lil' hideout in the Mists, even. Can show ye 'round one day, if ye'd like."

Cravendy Hound is taken by a bout of incredulous snickering. “What? Ye claim to be hardly worth talkin’ bout, but then ye go around introducin’ yerself as Captain and throwin’ around some oldblood names. Yer an odd one.”

Cravendy Hound: “W-who I stepped on isn’t yer concern. All ye need to know, is that while wounds are things that’ll ‘eal, a man’s pride is ‘arder to put back together. And I may as well ground my victim’s into mincemeat,” Cravs waffles, arms crossed and lips lifted in a pout. She dips her head in thought. “Crew in the Mists? Guess I wouldn’t mind meetin’ them but do they know yer out ‘ere?”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn rebutted with a simple, affirming nod of his chin. "Aye, I'm but a simple Sea Wolf man, no more, no less." He took vast pride in his heritage, that much was certain--yet he also did his best to shy away from her further prodding. Still, he managed to pursue the subject until she would yield no more answers. "Aye, pride is a bloody fickle mistress t' please. I'd know, 'tis me prime vice." A slight smile crowned his lips, as he confirmed her suspicions. "They be used t' me fleein' out an' about unannounced, worry ye not. I make sure t' leave them in proper care an' situated ere I sod off t' train me runic brawlin', 'fter all... An' apparently that entails bumpin' into fledglin' lil' she-Wolves in the wilds. Not e'en the Styrm whispered any o' that, aye."

Cravendy Hound: “What an introduction that’d be...oy, crew. ‘ere’s some random, wanted lady I found in the wilderness while I was out wagin’ war against rocks.” Cravs smirks somewhat, though it’s quickly brought back down into a snarl upon hearing his next few words. “F-fledglin’?! Oh, think yer a smart one, don’t ye? Call me somethin’ like that again and I’ll give ye a new ‘ole right between the eyes, ye oversized snowman."

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn presented both of his palms before himself, raising them in a surrendering fashion near-like. "Now, now, fair's fair... Those mean rocks had it a-comin'. Standin' 'round there, all... Menacingly... An' gray..." He hissed under his breath; the mere thought of rocks sent his blood to near-boil. Or so. Regardless, her reaction elicited a far more amused one from his end. "Somethin' like what, an itty-bitty she-Wolf that be by the fire sitty?"

(Cravendy Hound) the mere thought of rocks sent his blood to near boil.............. (Cravendy Hound) I am living (Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn) Heph. Heph. Heph.

Cravendy Hound hates this. SO MUCH. But as much as she wanted to grab her gun and turn her smug companion into swiss cheese, she had -just- spoke on not wanting to dig herself deeper into holes. And murder over sassy remarks, while something she had done in the past, was no longer acceptable. Think happy thoughts, Cravs. Think. Happy. Thoughts.

Cravendy Hound can’t. She instead gets up and menacingly steps (for the second time today) into Dornn’s space. If there was scruff to grab him by, she would’ve tried to lift him onto his feet and over the fire. However, his size and armor made such a gesture impossible. Frustrated, she simply puts her hand over his hat and pulls it down.

(Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn) Down as in off or down as in one of those comfy ear-warming caps that you just grab by their dangly things and pull over your eyes-- (Cravendy Hound) the second for sure (Cravendy Hound) bonus if this messes up his hair too xD

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn || The pale giant stood--or sat, rather--oddly calm in his perch, even as she abandoned her own lodge to assault his. Watching her near-boil over, then attempt to pacify her own thoughts, then inevitably fail and fall flat on her proverbial rear seemed of great amusement for the lad. Yet, as the rather fluffy, warm pelt of his head was tugged lower, he squinted momentarily up at her, only to grunt something fierce. Without a second thought, his ivory paws latched onto her wrists, commanding her to stay her movement in an instant. "Grh. Now'en, ye've had yer fun--don't make me make roasted cinnamon rolls from the cinnamon roll o'er this fire, 'ere."

Cravendy Hound winces from his grip, her body still tender from the training that had happened less than an hour prior. But like a wild animal caught in a trap, she didn’t know what to make of the situation. When you can’t bite anymore, the only thing left to do was bark. “Tch. ‘Hope ye like yer rolls with salt instead of sugar.”

Cravendy Hound - As Cravs rages on, tendrils of fire sputter from campfire, pulled thin from its source by an unknown magic. Like swirling threads, they reach towards the small of Crav’s back, eliciting a surprised yelp from her. “Bloody ‘ell! Dornn, I didn’t think ye were serious about roastin’ me, gods! Pull me out afore I melt!”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn knocking his helm back into place with a stern jerk of his noggin, the man's lips, ever-confident, now equally proud, bent upwards in his trademarked, half-smirk. At once, his feet collected beneath him, elevating him to his natural, imposing height. At eight full fulms he stood, towering and proud--but still, he clutched onto her wrists, this time invading -her- personal space--snout to snout, nearly. "Lass... I'm a Sea Wolf. Salt runs in me veins." He appeared wholly entertained by her antics, going as far as to smirk right into her own face. Regardless, the proud brawler only tantalized her by the fire for a spell longer, intent on the innocent torture for just a few more moments.

Cravendy Hound: “When ye finally croak, I ‘ope ye dry into a piece of jerky, saltblood, and get eaten by the gulls,” Cravs tells Dornn off, the fire behind feeling like blazing flowers blooming along her spine. She sweats under the collar and then finally shoves herself free of his grasp. When she turns, the campfire has gone back to normal, and despite the sensation, her armor remains unscorched.

Cravendy Hound brushes herself off. “I don’t know if I should ‘ate ye or like ye. But, by the goddamn twelve, does bein’ around ye wind me up like a pissed off cog. Bah, I’m too sober for this.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn seemed in higher spirits from the ordeal indeed--as she wrung free of his grasp, he gestured with a free palm before him, while its twin saddled his hip in earnest. "Would ye -really- prefer t' see me in such a state?" He inquired with an innocent smile donned upon his lips, and a puppy-like tilt of his noggin to boot. "Sounds t' me like ye welcome someone bein' straight with ye... Even at the cost of it bein' infuriatin', eh lass?"

Cravendy Hound narrows her eyes at him, and if looks could kill, this one could’ve sent a primal whimpering back home. But despite that, he had hit the nail on the head. A small part of her enjoyed his company. “I’d pay a premium to get front row seats. But unluckily for me, ye seem the type to cling onto life like a bloody determined tick.” She slouches over, wrung out by his sass. In a much smaller voice, she speaks to no one in particular. “Lucky for ye though...and. For me. I guess.”

Rhotdornn Hyrtfyrsyn maintained his good posturing and hearty attitude to the extent of planting his large paw upon her shoulderblade, issuing no small amount of comrot through a tap upon her shoulderblade. "A premium, aye? Ye honour me, lil' she-Wolf. Though ye don't stray far from the truth o' the matter--ain't allowed the Sea t' swallow me up yet, despite its efforts. Yer tongue, while a fierce contender fer it, shan't avail ye either, am 'fraid." Giving off a tender squeeze, he'd mull over her previous sentiment, his own shoulders now rumbling with a baleful storm--that not of thunder, but of bones crackling, as he stretched prim and proper. "Mmh... That be 'nough trainin' fer the moon, methinks. Parched o' throat, are ye? Care t' join me on the road back? Y'seem like ye bear a good tale or two on yer breast."