#Fifteen Wild Decembers

[octaviasdread]

fifteen wild decembers except the audio is me screaming:

‘we would be left homeless, this house returning to the church governors as we’d always known it must’

because we know patrick brontë won’t die first! the sisters will never open a school!

they aren’t left homeless, he is left childless

[muiitoloko]

RICKMAS 2024: DAY 08. NEVER-ENDING CONSEQUENCES

Summary: Lionel, cursed to wake up every Christmas Eve with no memory of the year, finds his family slipping further away as his double's scandals destroy their trust.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader & OC

Warnings: Angst, mention of betrayal.

Also read on Ao3

Lionel groaned as his eyes fluttered open, that all-too-familiar ache in his head serving as a brutal reminder of his relentless, eternal curse. Blinking against the dim light spilling through the window, he cursed under his breath, a shiver of dread creeping up his spine as he registered the date on the clock beside his bed.

December 24th. Again.

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming his fists into the mattress. Another year lost, another year gone without him living even a single day of it. The memory of his accident haunted him—he’d tripped, hit his head hard, and since then, his life had been shattered into disjointed pieces, like a broken record stuck on the same loop.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw. Every Christmas Eve, he woke up, only to discover that twelve months had passed, and he knew nothing of what had happened. It was as if he’d been asleep, his body wandering through the world, animated by someone else, while his mind was locked in darkness, waiting for the light of December 24th to flicker on again.

Lionel sighed, rubbing his temples as a throbbing headache pulsed there. He’d tried everything to break the cycle. Staying awake all night, pounding energy drinks and coffee until his hands shook, beating himself up to stay alert—but eventually, the darkness claimed him, dragging him down into the abyss until he’d wake up… on Christmas Eve, like clockwork.

“What the hell did I do to deserve this?” he whispered, his voice thick with frustration. Lionel Shahbandar, the self-proclaimed lion, the tycoon with his cheeky grin and mischievous gaze—reduced to a mere spectator in his own life. It was maddening, terrifying, like being a ghost haunting his own body, unable to grasp any control over it.

Each time Lionel woke up to this nightmare of a Christmas Eve, he felt a painful sense of déjà vu that clawed at his insides. But it wasn’t only the passage of time that rattled him; it was the distance—visible, tangible—between him and the two people he loved most. You, his wife, and Liam, his son, once the anchors of his life, seemed like strangers now. The laughter, the warmth he once shared with you both, had faded, replaced by an impenetrable wall of silence and formality that left Lionel feeling as though he were an unwelcome visitor in his own home.

Liam had once looked up to him, always asking questions, curious about his work and his wild stories. But now, at fifteen, he barely looked his father in the eye, his conversations clipped, guarded, his face cold. Lionel saw how Liam held himself back, a resentment lurking beneath his polite nods and half-hearted responses. And you—Lionel could see it in your face, that guarded gaze, the way your smiles never quite reached your eyes anymore. He sensed that somewhere along this twisted path, he’d become someone you both could hardly stand.

The weight of this loss pressed down on him, tightening his throat until he could barely breathe. What had he done? What was this “other Lionel” doing that had pushed his family away? It was as if he were being punished, forced to watch helplessly as this other version of himself sabotaged everything he’d ever cared about.

Desperate, Lionel reached for his phone, the screen casting a faint blue glow as he typed his own name into the search bar. The results loaded slowly, the seconds dragging by with unbearable tension until finally, articles, photos, and headlines filled the screen. The headlines alone made his stomach drop, each one worse than the last:

“Lionel Shahbandar Spotted with Mystery Woman—Again!”

“Tycoon Lionel Shahbandar: A Trail of Affairs?”

“Shahbandar Caught Out—Billionaire Playboy’s Escapades Exposed”

He stared, horror twisting his expression as the realization dawned. He wasn’t just living on the sidelines—he was a stranger in his own skin, watching his life unravel as if his double were living a hedonistic fantasy. And he wasn’t hiding it either; the photographs showed him in broad daylight, strolling with women on his arm, his hands casually draped around them, his eyes sparkling with that same cheeky grin he used to reserve only for you.

Lionel scrolled, his mouth dry, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he took in the sordid details. There were photos of him laughing with one woman at a high-end restaurant, another of him holding yet another woman close on the steps of his private yacht. The accompanying article painted a picture of a man who seemed to thrive on infidelity, unabashedly enjoying himself with a parade of lovers, utterly unconcerned with discretion.

“Who the hell is this man?” he whispered, his voice thick with anguish. But he knew the answer, didn’t he? He saw it in every headline, in every scathing comment beneath the articles, condemning him as a heartless womanizer, a man incapable of loyalty. And the worst part was that this “other” Lionel bore his face, his name, his reputation—all of it tarnished beyond recognition. He’d always prided himself on being a lion, a powerful figure who roared for what he wanted, but now? Now he felt more like a ghost—a hollow shell of the man he’d once been.

Lionel’s hand trembled as he gripped the phone, the faces of these women staring back at him from the screen, mocking him, as though each was a reminder of his failures. He could barely remember what you looked like when you smiled at him last; that warmth, that trust—all of it seemed lost, replaced by a stranger who’d taken his place, who’d held you at arm’s length, crushing the love you once shared underfoot.

The pain was unbearable, a cold, piercing ache that gnawed at his insides. He felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he pictured you reading these articles, seeing the photos, each new scandal chipping away at the life you’d built together. He’d never imagined a future like this—one where you’d look at him with disappointment, where his son would view him with thinly veiled contempt.

It was almost too much to bear. Lionel dropped the phone onto the bed and buried his face in his hands, his mind racing with questions, with desperate pleas to a universe that had abandoned him to this relentless loop. He wanted to scream, to shatter every mirror that reflected this broken image of himself. And he wanted to find you, to beg for forgiveness for the things he hadn’t even done but was responsible for all the same.

“Why?” he choked out, his voice raw, thick with despair. He’d tried so hard to be a good man, a loving husband, a father his son could be proud of. But now, every December 24th, he woke to a fresh reminder of his failures, trapped in this cursed existence where he could do nothing but watch as his family slipped further away from him.

He had to find a way to stop this—had to break this cycle somehow, before the damage was irreversible. He could feel it, this looming, horrible certainty that if he didn’t, there’d come a day when you and Liam would leave for good, cutting ties with him, abandoning him to this miserable half-life he’d become trapped in.

And the thought of that—the thought of waking up one day to find himself completely alone—was a nightmare he couldn’t bear to face.

Lionel dressed with heavy movements, each piece of clothing feeling like a shackle as he prepared himself for what awaited downstairs. He descended the staircase slowly, his mind racing with desperation and disbelief. The memory of the headlines burned in his mind, taunting him with images of his own betrayal—a betrayal he was powerless to prevent, but one he had to make right.

When he reached the kitchen, he found you and Liam at the table, laughing softly over breakfast. The scene was so normal, so heartbreakingly familiar, and for a moment, Lionel allowed himself the faintest flicker of hope. But as soon as you saw him enter, the laughter stopped, replaced by an icy silence that left Lionel feeling like an intruder in his own home.

“Good morning,” he said, forcing himself to smile as he glanced at his son. “Liam… Merry Christmas.”

Liam barely looked up, mumbling a half-hearted “Hey” as he spooned his cereal, his eyes fixed on the bowl as though Lionel’s presence was nothing more than an inconvenience. The sight tore at Lionel’s heart; this was his son, his boy, and yet it felt like they were strangers, miles apart. He swallowed the ache, determined to make things right somehow.

Turning to you, he tried to keep his voice steady, though his nerves were frayed. “Could we… could we talk for a moment? Alone?”

You sighed, the weight of exasperation evident as you pushed your chair back. “Fine,” you replied, your tone clipped, clearly less than enthusiastic. You cast a quick glance at Liam, who didn’t even acknowledge you as he continued to eat. Following Lionel out of the kitchen, you closed the door behind you, arms crossed over your chest, waiting.

The silence was thick, and Lionel struggled to find the words, his heart pounding with fear and desperation. “I… I need to tell you something,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. He couldn’t bear to keep this secret any longer, not when it was tearing his family apart.

You raised an eyebrow, your expression skeptical, as if bracing yourself for yet another excuse. “Go on,” you said, your voice edged with impatience.

Lionel took a shaky breath. “Every year,” he said, his words slow, measured, as he tried to explain the nightmare that had become his life, “every Christmas Eve, I… I fall asleep. And then I wake up, and it’s Christmas Eve again, a whole year later. I don’t remember anything from the year that passed—nothing. It’s as if I’m… I don’t know, trapped in some kind of loop, unable to control myself or even know what I’ve done.”

You stared at him, your eyes narrowing as if you were hearing the world’s worst lie. “So you’re telling me you just ‘wake up’ every Christmas Eve, with no memory of what happened?” You laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that made Lionel’s heart twist. “Do you really think I’m that gullible, Lionel? Do you expect me to buy this nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Lionel insisted, his voice filled with urgency, but his words were met with nothing but scorn. “I swear, I would never… I’d never hurt you like that. It’s like I’m watching someone else live my life.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms tighter, your face hardening. “Oh, that’s convenient, isn’t it? The perfect excuse. I suppose the ‘other you’ is the one running around with all those women, then?” The accusation stung, and Lionel struggled to keep himself composed.

He shook his head, his voice cracking with the weight of his despair. “It’s not an excuse. I swear to you, I… I never wanted any of this. I love you. I love Liam. You both mean everything to me.”

But your face remained cold, unmoved. “If you want to live like a womanizer, fine,” you said, your tone biting, each word like a knife. “But don’t make me out to be a fool. Don’t insult me with this pathetic excuse. Do whatever you want, but at least have the decency to be discreet, for Liam’s sake. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Lionel’s heart broke at your words, the full weight of your disappointment hitting him like a physical blow. “You really think that little of me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the anguish in his tone unmistakable.

You looked away, your face filled with a weariness that cut deeper than any anger ever could. “If it weren’t for Liam, I’d have left a long time ago,” you said, your voice cold and resolute. “But he deserves a family, even if it’s one held together by the thinnest threads.”

The silence stretched between you, suffocating. Lionel felt himself shatter a little more, piece by piece, as the enormity of your words settled over him. He wanted to scream, to plead with you, but he could see it in your eyes—any attempt would be in vain. You no longer trusted him; whatever love you’d once shared had withered, leaving only fragments, barely enough to keep you under the same roof.

You took a steady breath, your gaze softening just slightly, though there was still an edge of irritation. “Liam’s hurt, Lionel,” you said, your tone quieter, though the accusation was clear. “He’s been hurt ever since you missed his birthday. He doesn’t understand why his father didn’t show up, why he got a phone call instead, telling him you had a ‘last-minute meeting.’”

Lionel’s heart sank further, each word a fresh wave of pain. “I didn’t know,” he murmured, his voice filled with remorse. “I… I don’t remember.”

You let out a hollow laugh, the sound filled with bitterness. “Well, maybe you can ask one of your… lady friends where you were that day, Lionel. Because that’s certainly what it looked like. Liam doesn’t know all the details, but he’s not stupid. He knows when his father doesn’t care enough to be there for him.”

The tears that Lionel had held back threatened to spill over, his throat tight with the weight of regret. “I… I never meant to miss his birthday. I never meant to hurt him.”

Your expression softened just slightly, but the coldness remained, a barrier he couldn’t break through. “Then show it, Lionel. Try to fix this with him. Because if you don’t, there’s nothing left holding us together.”

Without another word, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone, the silence pressing down on him like a crushing weight. Lionel wanted to call after you, to beg for forgiveness, but he knew it would be pointless. You were done listening to his words—now, only actions would matter.

He made his way back to the kitchen, his heart heavy as he approached Liam, who was still sitting at the table, finishing his cereal. Lionel hesitated, his gaze lingering on his son, searching for a trace of the bond they’d once shared.

“Liam,” he began softly, his voice thick with emotion, “I… I’m sorry for missing your birthday.”

Liam didn’t look up, his shoulders tense as he kept his gaze fixed on the table. “It’s fine,” he mumbled, the words empty, devoid of the warmth and trust that had once been there.

But Lionel couldn’t give up, not now. “It’s not fine,” he said, his voice shaking as he fought to keep his composure. “I know I’ve let you down. More than once. But I want to change that—I want to make things right.”

Liam finally looked up, his gaze cold, guarded, as though he were speaking to a stranger rather than his own father. “You always say that, Dad. Every year, you say the same thing. And every year, you disappear, only to come back and act like nothing happened. Do you even care?”

The words hit Lionel like a punch to the gut, the pain of his son’s accusation cutting deeper than any wound he’d ever known. He opened his mouth, searching for something, anything, that would make this right, but he found himself speechless, overwhelmed by the weight of his own failings.

“Liam,” he managed, his voice barely a whisper, “I do care. More than you’ll ever know.”

But his son only shook his head, his face a mask of quiet, unyielding hurt. “Then maybe you should start acting like it,” he said, his tone laced with disappointment, a final blow that left Lionel feeling hollow.

As he watched Liam turn away, leaving the table and disappearing down the hallway, Lionel felt a crushing sense of despair settle over him, a heavy, unrelenting ache that tore at his heart. He was losing them—losing everything he’d ever cared about—and the worst part was, he didn’t even know if he could stop it.

All he knew was that he couldn’t go on like this, trapped in this cycle, powerless to change the course of his life. If he didn’t find a way to break free, he would wake up next Christmas Eve, alone in every way that mattered, haunted by the shadows of the family he’d lost. And that was a future he couldn’t bear to face.

[isalisewrites]

hi, if it's not too much could you write the description of the main characters because i keep forgetting how they look and i can't find the exact paragraphs they were described 😭

No, sweetie, it's not too much to ask!

The reality is the current draft of Terrible, But Great does not have good descriptions of the main Slytherin boys, so it's not your fault at all. There are two reasons for this.

One, I didn't know them very well and created them out of necessity. They've really solidified their presence in the story since then.

And, two, I have aphantasia, which means I don't conjure images in my head at all. I know what an apple looks like, but I can't picture it in my head. So, I tend not to describe character appearances in enough detail because if I don't know them well enough, I can't vibe out what they look like.

I'm going through a comprehensive edit of Arc One and Arc Two to make up for this. There are a number of minor mistakes/inconsistencies that I want to fix. I've already updated chapter one with what I consider a final edit and am currently working on chapter two. I'll be adding better descriptions of the boys in the prose in my edits.

However, let me give you some of my resources that I've created and that my Archivist, Dede, has created. Dede created the outfit collages.

Hopefully, this will help!

Ages reflect chapter 53's date, which is February 28th, 1943.

-----

Terrible, But Great Profiles:

True Name: Harry James Potter Time Travel Name: (Harrison) Harry James Evans Height: 5’4”/163cm | 5’6”/168cm by September 1st, 1943 Appearance: wild chin length black hair, hooded emerald green eyes, amber brown tanned skin, square face shape with soft features Body type: Mesomorph/lean muscle (currently underweight) Ethnicity and Lineage: English | patrilineal lineage: Indian | matrilineal lineage: Welsh and French Weight: 85lbs/38.5kg | 110lbs/49.9kg by September 1st, 1943 Birthday: July 31st, 1925 (technically age 18, but time travel fuckary) Sign: Leo Wand 1: Holly, Phoenix Feather, nice and supple, eleven inches Wand 2 (not in possession, but is the acknowledged owner): Elder, Thestral Hair, unyielding, fifteen inches Sexuality: biromantic, bisexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 95% masculine, 5% feminine

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Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle  Height: 6’2”/188cm Appearance: curled brown hair, round dark brown eyes, pale white skin, rectangle shaped face with refined features Body type: Ectomorph/slender muscles Ethnicity and Lineage: English | French Norman Weight: 135lbs/61.2kg (should put on some weight) Birthday: December 31st, 1925 | 6th year/17 years old Sign: Capricorn Wand: Yew, Phoenix Feather, slightly yielding, thirteen and a half inches Sexuality: demiromantic, asexual/demisexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 80% masculine, 20% feminine

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Name: Alphard Black Height: 6’1”/186cm Appearance: wavy dark brown hair, almond shaped grey eyes, olive white skin, diamond shaped face with refined features Body type: Mesomorph/average muscles Ethnicity and Lineage: English | French and Anglo-Saxon Weight: 170lbs/70.1kg Birthday: April 21st, 1926 | 6th year/16 years old Sign: Taurus Wand: Poplar, Phoenix Feather, swishy, thirteen inches Traits: observant, sleeps wherever while aware of his surroundings, wise, has integrity, playful, DGAF attitude, protective of his brothers, skilled in the finer details, pushy, overbearing, charms speciality. Sexuality: homoromantic, pansexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 85% masculine, 15% feminine

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Name: Quintus Prince Height: 5’10”/178cm Appearance: straight and thick chin length true black hair, upturned shaped dark/almost black eyes, fair white skin, oval shaped face with delicate small features Body type: Ectomorph/slender muscles Ethnicity and Lineage: English | patrilineal lineage: Anglo-Saxon | matrilineal lineage: Zhuang Chinese Weight: 150lbs/68kg Birthday: May 19th, 1926 | 6th year/16 years old Sign: Taurus Wand: Beech, Unicorn Hair, solid, ten inches Traits: gentle, kind, playful, mischievous, sensitive, elegant, protective of Eileen (younger sister), cowardly, not the best with tact, impatient, potions specialty Sexuality: homoromantic, homosexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 65% masculine, 35% feminine

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Name: Roland Rosier Height: 5’11”/181cm Appearance: somewhat short light brown hair, tawny beige skin (darkens when sun tanned), hooded grey eyes, rectangle shaped face with handsome chiseled features Body type: Ectomorph/muscular Ethnicity and Lineage: English French | Celtic Weight: 175lbs/79.3kg Birthday: December 5th, 1925 | 6th year/17 years old Sign: Sagittarius Wand: Dogwood, Antipodean Opaleye Dragon Heartstring, Flexible, twelve inches Traits: loyal, crass, lady’s man, lustful, playful, jokester, care of magical creatures specialty Sexuality: heteroromantic, heterosexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 95% masculine, 5% feminine

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Name: Simon Avery Height: 6’5”/196cm Appearance: short black hair, round dark black eyes, deep rich dark black skin, heart shaped face with soft, yet chiseled features Body type: Mesomorph/very muscular Ethnicity and Lineage: Black English | Ugandan Weight: 210lbs/95.2kg Birthday: August 26th, 1926 | 6th year/16 years old Sign: Virgo Wand: Cedar, Swedish Short-Snout Dragon Heartstring, reasonably supple, twelve and a half inches Traits: athletic, smart, good memory, quiet, stoic, anxious around crowds and public speaking, straight laced, dry humor, protective, loyal, guard dog energy, passive, avoids conflict, Quidditch specialty Sexuality: demiromantic, heterosexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 100% masculine

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Name: Sebastian Lestrange Height: 6’0”/184cm Appearance: wild dark brown hair, downturned bright dark eyes, fawn white skin, rectangle shaped face with refined features Body type: Mesomorph/average muscle Ethnicity and Lineage: English Irish French | Celtic Weight: 172lbs/78kg Birthday: November 20th, 1925 | 6th year/17 years old Sign: Scorpio Wand: Red Oak, Hungarian Horntail Dragon Heartstring, Unyielding, ten and a half inches Traits: protective, intelligent, possessive, vengeful, an asshole, impatient, complaining 24/7, smart mouth, transfiguration specialty. Sexuality: grayromantic, bisexual Gender Spectrum Expression: male, 100% masculine

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Birth Name: Marcus Mulciber True Name: Maia Mulciber Height: 5’9”/176cm Appearance: short black hair, round hazel grey eyes, pale white skin, round shaped face with soft features Body type: Ectomorph/slender muscle Ethnicity and Lineage: English | Roman Weight: 125lbs/56.6kg Birthday: June 25th, 1926 | 6th year/16 years old Sign: Cancer Wand (pre-transition): Black Walnut, Peruvian Vipertooth Dragon Heartstring, Brittle, eight and a half inches (stops working altogether) Wand (post-transition): Hawthorn, Unicorn Hair, pliant, nine and a half inches Traits: hard worker, dedicated, attentive, an asshole, doesn’t like much of anything, depressed, pessimistic, moody, healing specialty. Sexuality: biromantic, heterosexual Gender Spectrum Expression: trans female, 25% masculine, 75% feminine

[doledition]

OUROBOROS

A necklace, a girl, and the feeling of vengeance beneath your rotted flesh- this is all you are, now.

( a IWx PC fic i did way back when for @dolmimi for the dolgl halloween event! be warned this version of Ivory Wraith is not meant to be canon compliant-I take artistic liberties in regards to the canon of the game, so do no expect this fic to be extremely in line with canon. TW for descriptions of decaying flesh, depictions of assault, unreality, etc)

kɨnthaβ̃

There was a woman smoking by the beach. She’d been there for fifteen minutes so far, pacing up and down the strip of corpse gray sand, heeled boots squishing with each step. Every few minutes, she’d stop, face the water, and take a long, slow drag of her cigarette. Deep breath in, and she’d hold the smoke for a bit, as though tasting it. Deep breath out a moment later, and the gray vapor would swirl in the cold fog, twirl and twist into the mush colored sky before fading into condensation. 

She’d gone through five cigarettes so far like this, simply by pacing the length of the beach. It was a cold day, deep in the heart of winter. The sun’s rays had disappeared, replaced by clouds that rumbled and roiled far above. Heading into December, it usually snowed, a downpour of white covering the town proper. It usually turned into a wet slurry by the end of the day, trampled over by hundreds of boots covered in slick and grime, sludge and piss. No fret though; by the next day, a new fleet of fresh snow had replaced the old, pristine and untouched, glimmering in the dawn. 

The beach was one of the only parts of town spared the constant barrage of snow. This was around the time when the fog would roll in from the ocean, thick and heavy, bringing with it the scent of brine and salt. It covered the beach like a thick coat-it felt sluggish to move through in human skin, sticking to flesh with greedy fingers. The air prick, prick, pricked at one’s skin with clumsy, cruel fingers, eager to undo the weak bindings of flesh. You couldn’t see past your own two feet in the fog, so thick was it. It was a perfect cover for all things unseemly, ghastly, with bodies hard and cruel. 

No one in town thought of the beach during the winter as a pleasant experience. Of course, there were still parties held there, deep into the freezing night. The occasional dog walker would pass through, dogpeople lapping at their nervous heels, one second away from breaking free of their leashes. The beach wasn’t deserted during the winter (no area in the town was ever truly deserted) but it certainly wasn’t frequented. 

The woman, though, had been coming to this one spot on the beach for a week at this point. It was fairly easy to trace her path: first, she’d emerge from the thicket behind the orphanage, the ruined one with dead trees and burned grass from bonfires. Sometimes, her pockets would be laced with arrowheads, foraged berries, roots- she’d look positively medieval, an ardent of a nomadic lifestyle long since lost to Britons. Other times, her fingers would be laced red with blood, and her maw would be wild, white splattered about and a bit of something dried and ugly laced around her neck, glimmering in the sun. 

From there, it was one of two options: on the weekdays, she’d walk down a particular formation of alleyways and crosswalks until she came across Connudatus Street. The day market would be forming starting from eight that morning, and she’d always choose the stall at the very back of the formation, facing the intersection between High Street and the Temple. It would always be stocked with fresh produce by the time she got there, farmed from her own hands. Daisies, roses, cabbages and onions, all separated into neat little rows and set out underneath the peppermint striped canopy. Sometimes, she’d bring bottles of baby milk with her, and the bottles would clatter together in the roiling winter wind. 

On the weekends, she’d instead walk to the bus station down the road from the orphanage. It had a rust colored awning and glass that held imprints from watery angels, cold to the couch. She’d lean on them, face pressed and turned into the pane, hand shoved tight into her pocket. The bus would rumble in five minutes later and she’d be the first to hop on. 

Twenty minutes later, it would stop at Oxford Street, and the woman would get off. Her body would be tiny, curled in as she walked past the ornate iron fence walling off the school and into the adjacent museum. As she walked, her left foot would meet the pavement first, then the right, and then the left, until she’d climbed inside and had slammed the doors behind her shut. 

The innards of the museum were scarce, and had been scarce for years now. You didn’t go to the museum to see the three arrowheads locked behind glass cases, or the cabinets that sat undisturbed and filled with dust. You went there for the exhibitions: for the waterboarding, the Spanish Horse, to see a woman writhe and scream, to see a sinner punished for her misdeeds, to see a thief get her due diligence.

Each day at 1pm, she’d take a lunch break. The town was a small town: it didn’t take more than 30 minutes to get from one end to the other. The walk from Connudatus to the beach was 10 minutes, and the walk from Oxford was similarly short. She’d go along a side alleyway, stopping at Sam’s Cafe first to get some sort of lunch before continuing her walk to the beach. It was almost always a fruit salad, except for when she had cash to spare. Then, she’d get a stack of pancakes, laden with pats of butter and syrup. She had a particular spot she liked to sit in: the dark corner near the employee loo, covered in shadows and as far from the shop window as possible. Her eating was quick, sparse. She ate not to enjoy it, but to feed her animal body as fast as she could, before she could poison her lungs with smoke. 

Then, it was to the beach. She always smoked the same brand of cigarettes: Lucky Strike Red, and once she’d finished a pack, she’d fiddle with the packaging before launching it into the ocean. The white box would hit the water with a wet smack and would float upon the waves before sinking, and the woman would watch. Her eyes would be dazed and uncaring, fingers fiddling with the dying cigarette clutched in her hand, before sighing and walking away. That box would turn into mush and melt into the water, to be later swallowed by some poor creature and then regurgitated up. 

Be it to thieves to not care about such small, superfluous details.

From there, she’d make her way back to work. She didn’t take the bus back in either scenario- instead, she simply walked back, eyes trained on the ground. She’d stay at the market, or the museum, until six. Then, it was to the orphanage, room 4B on the ground floor near the back door which rattled in the wind despite being bolted shut, and with windows that lay cracked in their frames. 

The woman would rob others on the way back. It was an indisputable fact of her miserable existence- her fingers would pass over opened pockets, filching at bare wallets and stealing pennies from paupers. When night struck, she’d slip out of the poorhouse and into the houses of Domus, fingers scrabbling against loose change and the last of some struggling mother’s paychecks, all to save her own skin. 

Thief, filcher, burglar, grave-robber, cut from a cruel cloth sewn by greed. She had lungs that sucked the air from the sky and left birds to plummet to the ground; eyes that fixated on glimmering, shimmering things, with a burning desire to rip it away; and hands made for deception, for ripping off a strand of silver once placed there lovingly, never to be seen again. 

Her wrists were fragile. Thin and weak, like a baby bird's neck. They danced upon the air, twisted against restraints and brusquely knocked back against rushing arms. Her wrists were small enough to fit into the smallest of alcoves, such as the ones buried beneath the Lake surface. The home of the Wraith, defiled and destroyed by wrists and hands such as those, her jewelry box raided and memories snatched away with each stroke up to the surface. 

She would pay. Her wrists would shatter, and her body would rip, and she would pay. 

Soon. 

Ėl 

The Ivory Wraith’s body had laid upon the Lake’s ground for millenia. 

At first, it had simply laid there in a perfect fullness that spoke neither of rot or decay. To the untrained observer- if they were able to get down to where her body lay- she looked almost as though in a deep sleep, eyelids fluttering and hair floating against the water's currents. The sea creatures were not at all taken by her beauty, however: the fish dared not swim near her, and the seaweed would grow around her body. The water would churn her body around, as though contemplating her taste. In the darkness of the lake ground, she illuminated like a torch, with the wany paleness of the moon. 

Now though, the skin had sloughed off into the ground, leaving behind a canvass of frail, brittle bones. The creatures played amongst its burrows, hiding behind the bones made rock. Algae clung among the spires, the green bright against the dirty calcium. The skeleton had been half eaten by the rocks in subsequent years, until only a skull jutted out. Deep inside the tunnels of the lake, the Ivory Wraith’s skeleton had become simply just another rock of the ecosystem, another footnote to grab onto for swimmers to haul themselves up. 

The Ivory Wraith couldn’t quite remember what she looked like in life- she remembered long, moon pale hair, that twirled and twisted along the breeze. The Initiate would run her fingers along the strands, twirl them around her fingers into pretty braids, plaits, whatever her heart desired. The Wraith remembered pale skin and freckles emblazoned upon her cheeks, ones the Initiate would count when the two lay in the fields outside the town proper. They’d sit there for so long the Wraith’s skin would burn crimson, and the Initiate would dip her long fingers into pots of salve to smear across her skin. It had stung cold and harsh against the rashes, and after that was done and the Wraith had her fill of complaining, the Initiate would laugh and press her lips against each portion of sun–burnt skin. Her lips would be cracked and each kiss left behind a faint tinge of vermillion on her flesh, stark even against the irritated skin. 

The Wraith didn’t remember the smaller details though. She didn’t remember her nose, the shape of the bridge or the way her nostrils would flare out. The Initiate would say that when she was mad her nostrils turned red and fanned like a rooster, and that it was perhaps the cutest part of her. The Wraith had a birthmark on her knee back when she lived- it was gone now in her ghostly form. Any imperfection was gone, burned by Virgo’s feathers off of her skin. It had been  shaped like a star, and the Initiate would wish upon it. 

The Initiate. She’d had a name. It started with an H- or maybe an A? D? W? Aine, or Fiona? Bronagh? Maeve? None of them invaded her mind, bought her face to face with the Initiate. After all these years, she still remembered her: the way her nose scrunched up in disgust whenever almond milk would be had during the midday meal- she’d hated it, said it tasted like  dirt water- or the way her eyes would shine in the dawn, as though absorbing the light around her. 

The hill the two used to herd goats on was gone now. With the schism, it had sunk down deep into the lake. The Ivory Wraith couldn’t remember what formation it was now, whether it had become one of the alcove’s many caves or fused with the lake floor. Any identifiable landmark that could be used to discern where it had gone had faded into the coldness of the pond, into the winter sky with each flap of Virgo’s wings. 

The Ivory Wraith used to head into town. In the days after their death, when the town was more of a village, they’d stand on what would become the Temple proper for hours. In those days, the Temple was a formation of trees- Sycamore Trees, the ones the acolytes would tend to. It was only later, during the arrival of St. Augustine, were the trees cleared to make way for the Temple. The Ivory Wraith had watched the landscapers tear at the trees and replace them with Apple trees. Soon, they became heavy with pink fruit, and the Ivory Wraith spent days cursing each tree so when the monks would awake the next day to collect the fallen fruit, they found only charred bark and maggot ridden cores. 

The Jeweler had been long dead by the time the Wraith had managed to find him. The old man had sought refuge in one of the nearby villages after the Schism, and was moaning weakly in his bed when the Ivory Wraith arrived at his hovel. He had corroded over the years, weak and trembling in his yellow cot. Maggots and flies had overtaken the village, leaking out of each and every house along the way. Above Head, the cloud of volcanic ash that had plagued the world for years, which the Ivory Wraith would later learn hailed from Indonesia, covered the sun like a brutal fist. The crops had all been dead by then, and it was only a matter of time before the people would die too. 

The Wraith had used to keep post over the Mausoleum. It had been evacuated sometime in the 19th century, and the creatures inside laid to waste. The Wraith had not found out until the 1930’s, when the streets were filled with wastes and men turned into nomads, booze in one hand and a clenched suitcase in the other.

In their youthful optimism, the Ivory Wraith had appeared at the Mausoleum everyday, praying- to whom she knew not- for another spirit. Another soul, another vagabond such as she. She didn’t know where any of her friends had gone: whether they had survived the Schism, or if they had turned into food for Auriga. Half of the village had fled for greener lands, but the Wraith had stayed. 

All they could do was stay, and sit outside the Mausoleum. 

One hot Tuesday, a woman had crawled out of the Mausoleum. Flies were eating the crops, and the Wraith’s children were disappearing, one by one, stolen by wandering hands and pushed into the rumbling black beetles that clogged the roads. Her fingers had turned into bloodied messes, and her clothes were half gone, webs entrapping her thighs. Black streaks- mascara, perhaps- cascaded down her cheeks, and her nose was scrunched up, in the same dizzying way the Wraith had remembered of the Initiate. The sun hit her eyes and the rays were consumed by her irises, and the Wraith felt whatever remained of her heart drop into her stomach. 

The same woman who had stolen her necklace was crawling out of the Mausoleum, pockets weighed down with riches stolen from the dead corpses of all the Wraith had known and loved long ago, with the face of the Initiate. 

The Wraith had dug her bioluminescent nails into the ghoulish wind of her palm and screamed. The wind crashed into the trees and the pond had foamed over, crashing over the shore bed and bursting out of alcoves that had once held mementos of days long gone. 

The Wraith didn’t know how long she’d stood there for, just that when they fully came to, the woman was gone and rain was beating the land. The thief, the murderer, the defiler- she was gone. 

She had the Initiate's face. And she was gone. 

The Blood Moon was at the end of the month. It would bathe the town in its crimson embrace and the Wraith would feel air fill sunken lungs, and her eyes would gain an almost supernatural clarity back to them. And that day, the Ivory Wraith would have her revenge. 

It was only a matter of time. 

Trɨdɨð

The woman hadn’t slept in two days. 

It was the Blood Moon tonight. A wave of crimson had descended upon the town, the stain of blood upon the air. The town at night looked almost like the vip section of Briar’s brothel, with the red filtering through black smoke clouds in rivets. The town looked as suspect from the outside as it was on the inside, finally. 

Some out of towners had arrived. For once, they weren’t interested in the town’s ‘trade’, but in the natural phenomena surrounding it. Telescopes, binoculars, sonar technology, the whole nine yards had been installed in the park for them. The revelers that met in the park hadn’t been there the whole past week, and the streets had been swept of their filth just for the occasion. 

The woman didn’t give a shit. She’d only seen the outsiders twice- once when their van had pulled into town, clanking up the rubble road, and once in the town proper buying supplies for their stay, towed by a retinue of Remy’s farmherds. Their equipment was worth a pretty penny, more than enough for Bailey’s rent that week. She’d entertained the notion of stealing it- all she’d needed to do was slip off her shirt, show them a bit of skin- but she’d looked into the eyes of one of the women, and her face had been turned into something grotesque, pale with blood red eyes and hydra tentacles and an empty chest where once lay a gem-

Suffice to say, the woman dared not steal from them. In fact, the woman had dared not leave her room. It was locked shut, and a chair had been propped up against the knob. Robin had asked her to open the door, but it had stayed shut, and at some point, Robin had sighed and stopped asking. 

There was a tree right outside the woman’s window. The wind had been strong lately, and whistled through the trees' barren branches. Each gust of wind caused a branch to scratch against her window, like nails on chalkboard. They came in three second intervals, long enough for her to pull in a breath and hold it. The air tasted like iron, as though the sky had begun to bleed, and the air was the sticky remains within. 

The world always seemed to shift during the Blood Moon. It wasn’t anything perceptible to the naked eye; more of a gut feeling than anything else. The shadows seemed to drag along the walls, turning into slathering beasts with claws that scraped the ground. Food was meatier, juicier, the fats and juices trailing down your chin and to the earth below. The harvest was always better during the blood moon- turnips were ripped out of the ground with gusto, about as heavy as a pumpkin and with shuddering flesh. Berries were succulent, fat, ripe- they popped in your mouth, with a freshness that spoke of spring. 

It only lasted a day though, sometimes three. The Blood Moon rushed into town and just as quickly rushed out, gone with a flick of The Head Priests robes. The world would return to normal, and almost shrink, shrivel up like a prune. The woman would sit by her bedside and watch with melancholy as the pale moonlight returned, and pop a berry between her teeth. 

Sometimes, she’d go on a walk in the forest during the Blood Moon. Usually, the woman would be inside her room during the late hours of the night, windows locked and buried in between her sheets. The forest during Blood Moon, though, was silent. The creatures of the forest lay in their abodes, hidden from the red reys. The writhing trees and vines lay asleep, their figs ripe and heavy. The babbling brook, the laughing lake, the shivering shore, all lay in a quiet domesticity, a peacefulness that spoke of peaceful mornings and brewed coffee. 

The woman liked to sit on the shore and dip her legs into the water below. It was cold, ice cold, and raised goosebumps against her flesh. There was a certain stillness that prevailed in the area, a calm that made the woman flutter her eyes close and untense her shoulders. A faint buzzing could be heard in the air, and when the woman would open her eyes, lightning bugs would be dancing on the blades of grass, and she’d wonder if this was what peace felt like. 

She hadn’t left her room in two days. Not for anything: not to use the bathroom, not to get food, nothing. Her nose had gone numb a while ago, but she was sure the stink was overwhelming, overpowering. The water bottles and snacks she’d stashed in her room had all gone to waste, wrappers and cans rolling around the room floor. She hadn’t moved from her bed in hours, and her body felt almost grafted to the sheets. 

There was something stalking her. Kylar always stalked her, would always gaze upon her flesh with the look of a hungered dog. The townspeople would follow her sometimes, heckle her and grab at her skin with mirth. Everything in this town seemed to follow her, as though stuck to her like miasma. At some point, she’d become numb to it. 

This following was different. It stalked in dark corners, rotated with each phase of the moon. It whispered in the wind, and had arms that sprung from walls. It had faces, thousands of them, and voices to match. Whatever was following her now was far from mortal…far, far from mortal. 

She didn’t know when she’d started looking in the mirror. Was she looking in the mirror the whole time? Her reflection had turned dark in the reflective glass, backlit by the stream of red coming from the window. The mirror was dirty, always had been, always will be- she saw no use in wiping it everyday. Maybe twice a week she’d wipe it down, but that was the extent of it. The mirror was clear now, shining and cool, almost wet looking. 

There was a woman staring back at her from inside the glass. Her eyes glowed red, and her skin glimmered pale. A long braid of white flickered behind her- no seven braids. Seven braids of white danced behind her head, flicking against the confines of the mirror and slithering against the frame. The scent of salt and brine followed each twitch of the braids, and the woman could swear she saw a barnacle underneath one. 

There was a knock at the door. The woman startled, and the reflection in the mirror was gone. Of course it would be gone; it wasn’t real. Just a trick of the light. A sleep addled hallucination, caused by stress and paranoia. She needed sleep. She needed to rest. 

But first, the door. It was Robin, or Bailey there to collect money. Maybe another one of the orphans yelling at her about missing her chores. Something normal, expected. Despite how odd the town was, nothing unexpected ever actually happened. 

She opened the door. No one. She looked down the hallway, left and right. No one. The hallway lay dim and empty, dismal, the only sound the scratching of the trees upon the window. Some red light seeped into the hallway from beyond her door, casting long, writhing shadows, tentacles sprouting from her back and licking at the door frame. The scent of sulfur filled her room, and distantly, the woman could hear the faint scream of Thief flying upon the wind.

When the woman woke up, she was floating inside a cage. Something pale had grabbed her, slimy and thick upon the water like an oil slick. The reflection from her mirror stared at her like she was a betrayal, a destroyed secret. Her braids were tentacles, whipping against the woman’s skin. Seaweed clung to her arms, and the currents beat down against her chest. Sea Otters, mollusks, fish, krill, barnacles, surrounded her, as though the whole lake ecosystem had come to see her drown. They glowed with a red glow, the glow of the blood moon. Amongst their chattering voices, a whisper of Burglar bit against the salty gloom. 

The woman screamed. 

Her face felt wet. It might have been tears, or it might have been the water suffocating her- there was no way to tell. The pale figure’s hands burned against her skin, and her tentacles swirled against the woman’s fear stricken flesh. Hard, gripping, as though trying to break into the sinew beneath, to stain the water red with shark feed. The woman felt her chest constrict and she choked back a sob. Her arms beat against the figures frame, but to no avail. She would drown tonight. 

The pale figure hissed. Her prodding grew more brusque, sharp, invasive. The figure’s thick arms pried open the woman’s mouth, and saliva streamed past her lips. The pale figure’s fingers were like ice, pale as the moon and slightly freckled. They looked like they’d been crafted years before, from stardust and moonlight. 

She was on a hill. It was lush and green, and there was a bushel of Sycamore Trees growing in the distance. A small group of people congregated on the base of the hill, donned in dark brown robes and golden clover necklaces. The sun was bright, and the air smelled of roast duck. Someone was cooking, far below. 

Goats pranced below. Gray goats, one, two, three, hightailing over knolls and rocks. Each jump in the air was a sudden spike, and their hoofs made a clack sound against the gray rock. A woman ran down below, chasing after them with the speed of a wild cart. Her robes were the same drab brown as the group below, tied at the waist with a brown cord of felt. Her hair was blinding in the sun; her body was the color of stardust, freckles staining her body like brown paint; her feet, when emerging from behind the hem of her frock, became a blur as she ran across the green expanse. A necklace of solid blue and silver bashed against her chest, and the woman felt a phantom shiver go through her arm. 

The pale figure down below glanced up at her. There was a grin on her face, teeth glimmering white in the spring day, and her forehead was slick with pale sweat. Her eyes met the figure’s, and an awareness gleamed inside, a sharp pinprick of knowledge that appeared in a flash and made her red eyes shine all the brighter. The woman’s hand flew up to touch her face as the red ate up the world around them, as smoke hissed into the air and orange flames licked at the braying goats. The ashes floated upon the air, thick and cloying, and the clouds ate her up. 

She woke up. 

Her bed was wet. The woman lay there, entrapped in her blankets, smelling of slime and rot and wet. The detail she was most cognizant of, besides her numb face and aching torso, was the wetness of her bed. Something inside her felt empty, drained, as though it had been torn open from her chest and consumed. A growing abyss, shaped like an alcove worn into rock, ached inside her. A name resonated from within, a voice from eons before. A spire grew from her spine, and saltwater rioted in her lungs. 

The woman didn’t remember if she had a name or not. It felt as though it had washed upon the ocean, buried with one of her cigarette cases into the thrashing waves. The name inside her swelled up, as though eager to answer the query, before sinking back down. 

Up- the hallway door began to shake, cave in, transform. Barnacles bloomed upon the coral wall, pink and purple, as a redness began to seep into the room. The wallpaper began to stink, and bruise-like stains appeared on the white cracks. Dirty water began to leak up from the floor,  and the woman's face in the dark water had turned into sludge. 

Down- the moon outside began to wane. As the water rose, inch by inch, the moon’s reys began to flicker. The red turned into a light pink instead, the color of salmon and pink eye. There was a churning outside, as though the earth was changing course. A humming floated on the breeze, the sound of machinery and weaponry, as pink bled onto trees and roofs. 

Up- The water below her rioted. It sprang up high, high as a building, blasting against the roof and splattering on the walls. The dark brown liquid sprayed the woman in the face, and seeped into her mouth. It tasted foul, like sewage, and as she doubled over trying to choke it out, she could swear she heard a laugh, sharp and cruel, ring out into the night. 

The walls shook. They began to shrink in on themselves, collapse. She was a doll in a dollhouse, too large for this space. The photo of Robin on her bed stand cracked as the wall rammed into the bed, and her closet fell down onto its side, clothes spilling out onto the filth water below. 

The sun peeked outside. Golden reys spiked the town. It rolled over the snow banks outside, awoke the animals from their slumber, and singed the lake shore with its brightness. All the things that thrived in the night had been banished, and the water hissed and dried as the sun touched it. Her eyes glowed, dizzyingly, and she blinked furiously. When her vision cleared up, the water was gone, the laughter had ended, and red eyes flickered in the mirror before receding into the glass, as though it was never there at all. 

The next week, the necklace would disappear from the Museum. Winter mourned it, of course- the woman would see Winter’s glaze turn longing, sometimes, and she’d run a finger across the dust ridden case slowly. The woman didn’t know why Quinn had wanted it, and truthfully, she didn’t care. Whenever she looked at the case, a measure of guilt would bury itself in her chest and she’d hurry away, trying not to think of a pale girl with long, white hair. 

The red eyes were everywhere now. Sometimes, the woman would squeeze her eyes shut, and the red eyes would be there. Watching, always just watching. They’d appear behind the reception desk of the Museum, staring down at her from the high ceiling and melting into her soul. Other times, it would be in the eyes of all she crossed on the street, large, encroaching, unnatural. She’d walk away in a hurry, now, and head into her room, making sure the door was triple locked. 

She wondered about the name. Maybe once or twice she’d think about the group clothed in brown at the bottom of the hill. Her mind would often drift to the white tentacles foaming in the waves, and a gnawing chasm would bite at her. But mostly, she thought about the name. She thought about its echo, its imprint in her mind, and would rub at her chest as though her heart were on fire. 

She heard it on the wind, on occasion. When she’d smoke by the sea, she’d hear it whispered to her on a salty breeze as she wound her arm back to discard her cigarette case. She would focus on it, ears straining to hear. It was too faint though, always, always too faint, always just out of reach. And so, she’d throw the case out into the water (aiming further than the day prior, for extra measure) and walk back to town, red eyes staring at her all the way.

[strange-little-spy]

Chapter Fifteen - Army recruitment office, 2:21 pm, December 6th, 1941

Warnings: panic attack ~ heavy angst ~ rather long chapter

Word count: 3265 words

Progress was slow. Agonizingly slow. 

Ghost was coming around, but it took wild horses to pull it out of her in a sense. Steve sat for hours with her, telling her ream upon ream of stories of what they did, where they went, what she had told him.

Nothing. Not a spark from the empty gazed girl. She would occasionally pipe in the conversaion but it was normally one word or maybe a phrase she heard Bucky or Steve use. Nothing more.

"Are you kidding me??" The doctor took one look at Steve and immediately stamped the red 4-F mark on his form. 

"Hell no!" 

Steve was nearly pushed over when the man shoved the form into his hands. He glared at the man before folding his form, grabbing his shirt and jacket and stormed out of the place. His nostrils flaring when the other, younger, men taunted and teased as he took the walk of shame out the door. He knew he couldn't pull the same idea twice, he'd have to do some tricking..

"Steve." Addie's voice startled him, making him turn around when her stronger hand snagged his sleeve. 

"Addie, what are you doing out??" He stared, her still empty gaze watched him. 

"You were gone." She retreated, her hands falling to her sides in shame. 

"Look, doll, I'm not mad," he reassured at her movements. "You just scared me, thats all."

"Am sorry." She mumbled.

"Were you scared alone?"

She nodded, her hands playing with the hem of her jacket. 

"Okay, lets go home then." Steve took her hand in his, relieved at her warmth compared to his cold digits, but he didn't say anything. 

"Whats in there?" She looked to the building where Steve had just left. 

"Oh, soldiers. Army guys." He tried to hide his bitterness. He wanted to get out there and fight, not just run his little red wagon up and down the street collecting scrap metal. Not him. 

"Like Soldat?”

“Bucky’s not in the army, doll. Remember?”

“Oh…yeah.”

“Not yet, at least.”

“What day is it?” She looked to him, her brows tightly knit together.

“It’s the 6th, why?”

“What month?”

“December.”

“1941…” She breathed, her distant gaze traveling to the sidewalk at their feet. “The war..”

“The war’s in Europe right now, Adds. We’re not part of it.”

“But we will be!” She paused, turning to him, her fists clenched; but not in anger. “Look- som-something’s going to happen. The 7th, -tom-tomorrow, we’ve got to d-do something!”

“Whoa, whoa, Addie, slow down,” Steve looked at her, his hand touching her arm. “What’s going to happen tomorrow??’

“Th-the islands…-“ She was almost panting, now gaining the attention of the others around them. “In the ocean, what the name? S-starts with an H-?” 

“Hawaii?”

“That!- I-I mean, those! Yes!”

“What about them?”

“Th-the war..its going to be there..!”

“Is there something wrong here?” A police officer approached through the growing crowd around them. “Is this young lady alright??’

“The-..the war.” She breathed, her arms hugging her middle. 

“I-I’m not sure, sir.” Steve looked to the officer. “She’s said things like this before, and…well, she’s never been wrong..”

“She’s a gypsy!” Someone shouted from around them.

“She should be locked up!”

“Wipe her.”

“Lock her away.”

“Get her out of here.”

“Discipline her.” They were back, they were coming to get her. She was in danger. Run. Fight. Protect yourself. Something was wrong��

She didn’t realize it, but she was running through the crowd, nearly knocking a few over as she bolted through the swarm of people. 

Going to hurt her- They were mean—where was Soldat—

“Stop that girl!!” The officer barked, catching the attention of the men around them. They tried to grab Ghost, but her retaliations were vicious, her nails scoring marks across their faces and hands as they tried to hold her down.

“Addie!” Steve shouted, struggling to push through the crowd, but his small stature prevented him from succeeding. “Don’t do that! She’ll fight back!” He tried to warn them, but his voice didn’t carry beyond the small circle that had formed around the fighting girl as she hissed and literally bit and clawed at anyone who tried to get close to her. If she was any normal woman, they’d be on her at once, but with the super-soldier serum pumping through her veins and HYDRA training thrown into the mix, she was a hard opponent for the unprepared. 

“Addison!!” Steve wheezed, catching the young woman’s attention. Her eyes fell on him, her frame relaxed and her frame turned to him, almost waiting for something. As if she expected him to give her the orders. 

“Please don’t fight them,” He begged. “Just don’t hurt them, please.”

“Look, you-“ The officer snatched at Steve’s jacket, igniting a flash in Ghost’s eyes. “What are you trying to pull here?? No lady can fight like that!”

“Get James Barnes! He’s at the drug store a few blocks from the apartment building on 2nd,” Steve waved at Ghost to stand down before she could attack the officer. “He can explain if you’ll let us talk to him.”

“Mac, you go get him,” The officer nodded at another officer who bolted through the crowd and toward the street. “Now, fella, will you be so kind as to tell your little friend to come with us so we can keep an eye on you both??”

“Sure, sure,” Steve wriggled from the man’s grip, visually agitated. “C’mon, Adds, lets go.” 

She approached him, sending the death glares toward anyone around them. “They’re going to hurt me, Steve—don’t let them take me away.”

“No, Addie, I’m coming with you.” He reassured. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

The officer snorted before taking the smaller by the arm, but Ghost’s hand found his arm and wrenched it away. 

“Now listen, missy—“ He turned on her. “One more move like that and I’ll arrest ya for assaulting an officer!”

Ghost growled before relenting, allowing herself and Steve to be taken away.

“Boy, is Bucky gonna have a cow…”

NYPD, 02:45 pm 

“So let me get this straight—“ The lieutenant paced between the wall and the desk where Bucky, Steve and Addison were sitting in front of. “You two claim this girl’s been transported from the future, got hyped up on some serum, came back and is now a fighting machine??”

“In…different words and in a way, yes.” Bucky sighed.

“So what do you have to say for yourself, miss?” The lieutenant dropped into the swivel chair on the other side of the desk. 

Ghost said nothing, her empty gaze fixed on the floor at her feet. 

“She doesn’t talk much anymore.” Steve was quick to state. “She was tortured.”

“In the future.” The lieutenant wasn’t convinced. 

“Do you have a way to get in touch with a Major Kellings?” Bucky suddenly asked, his brows knit together in surety. “I’m sure he can explain most of this.”

“So this is a government matter?? Why didn’t you say so??”

“I didn’t say that, sir,” Bucky responded, almost exasperated. “Can you get in touch with him?”

“Sure, I’ll call ‘im right now.”

“Thank you, sir.” Steve looked at the lieutenant. 

The officer waited for the operator and was soon connected with the Major.

“Look, we have a slight problem with your test subject, Major.”

“She’s not a test subject!” Steve rose to his feet, making Ghost jump and the lieutenant to grow more agitated. 

“Sit down, or I’m hanging up.”

Steve glared but sat down.

“As I was saying, major—we’ve got a girl by the name of Addison Rogers-Barnes. Ring any bells?”

The lieutenant’s face chanced instantly as he leaned forward on his desk, looking at Ghost. “Y-yes, sir! We’ll be waiting.”

Then he set the phone back down, staring dumbfounded at the girl. 

“Believe us now?” Bucky prodded.

“That’s one hell of a story.” He shook his head. “The major’s on his way, says he needs to see this for himself.”

Steve and Ghost exchanged a short glance before she looked back to the floor, her hair hiding her face. 

“So you two are sweethearts??” The lieutenant asked the blond man, earning a strange look in reply. 

“Used to be. Before she went away.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A little over a year, she came back around two weeks ago.”

“And she wasn’t like this..you know, before that?”

Steve just shook his head. 

“What day is it?” Ghost asked softly, her voice startling the lieutenant.

“It’s the 6th.” Steve offered, confused that she had asked him only ten minutes ago. Had she forgotten already??

“What month?”

“December. Remember the snow outside?”

“December 6th…1941..”

“Is something wrong?” Bucky looked to her.

“1941… something’s wrong,” Her hand came to her temple, as if it pained her to think about whatever it was. 

“Can you tell us?” Steve put his smaller hand on hers. 

“The..the war-“ She breathed, her voice almost breaking as she fought through the programming. “I-it’s tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” The lieutenant stood up, practically shouting. 

Ghost flinched, her fingers curling as she tried to remember.

“The islands, ocean, Ha-.haho—“

“Hawaii??” 

“Yes!” She nodded. “It-s tomorrow..!”

“What is she talking about?? The war’s in Europe!”

“She’s done this before, sir,” Steve looked to the lieutenant. “She’s from the future, meaning she knows whats going to happen in this war.”

“Pe-pearl Harbor..”

“Pearl Harbor??” 

“Alright, everyone just be quiet!” Bucky snapped, glaring at the officer before crouching in front of Ghost.

“Hey, hey, its just me, doll,” He spoke softly. “Whats going to happen at Pearl Harbor? Do you know?”

“Attack,” She tried, the throb in her head getting worse as she wrestled to try to remember. She knew there was something important about that date, but the facts wouldn’t come. “The empire-“

“Japan.” Bucky looked to Steve then back to Ghost. “Are the Japanese going to attack?”

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “December 7th. I-in the morning.”

“Get me Captain Steele’s office,” The lieutenant barked into the phone.But Bucky snatched the receiver from his hand and slammed it back on the hook. “You can’t do that!”

“You heard her! The Japanese are attacking tomorrow and our entire fricking Navy is in that harbor and you tell me I can’t tell anyone!!?”

“If we change the course of the war, something could go terribly wrong!” Steve countered. 

“Hundreds of boys are gonna die in the morning if we don’t do anything now!”

“And hundreds more will die if we don’t deal with the people who made her like this!”

“You’re putting her above Hawaii??!”

“I didn’t say that-“ Bucky argued. Just then the door opened to Major Kellings, sending the room into silence as Ghost turned around in her chair to face the door.

“What’s all the commotion??” The major asked curiously.

“Hello, sir,” Bucky came around and shook Kellings hand. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m James Barnes from that night when you came to the apartment building looking for Addison. I was with her.”

“Yes, I remember you.” Kellings nodded, glancing at Ghost. “Who’s this?”

“Yo-“ Bucky looked at the Major as if he had another hand. “You don- this is Addison.”

The Major looked again at Ghost, his eyes registering her face from the year ago he had approached her. “You- you’re..what happened??”

“We really don’t know,” Bucky sighed, resting his hands on the desk and leaning forward. “But we do know she was abused and tortured.”

“Sounds like something to look into.” The major took off his cap and coat before stashing them on the stand next to the door. 

“Ho-hold on,” Steve started, looking around. “Lets start over, see if we can piece this thing together.”

“Agreed,” The lieutenant nodded, his hands on his sides before he turned a switch on his intercom. “Miss Cahill, get in here, please.” 

The group waited until the secretary quietly came into the office, shut the door and sat down with her pen and paper.

“Now,” Steve began, marching back and forth between Ghost and the door. “Addison came to us around—what, two years ago?”

“1939, yes.” Bucky nodded. 

“Two years.” Steve continued. “And she was normal, so to speak. Bubbly, cheerful, you know, how every other young lady is. Granted, she was a little confused when we met her, but she caught on quickly.”

“Confused how?” Kellings questioned. 

“She would be surprised about something like the cars, the shift lever.” Bucky explained, moving his hands like he was shifting the column lever next to the large steering wheel. “Or when we would take a cab, she liked the bells.”

“So almost as if she’d never seen a newer car?”

“Well, not just cars. Others items, like the phones, she says in the future, they’re cordless.”

“Cordless??” The major looked intrigued. 

“And they’ll be able to fit in your pocket.”

“We can barely fit a radio in your pocket now.” Bucky observed. 

“Anyway, I think the first incident was around..May of 1939. She just—well, she vanished. No trace of her. Then one night, she’s back screaming in her bed with wounds that we have no idea where they came from.”

“What kinds of wounds?”

“Kick to the gut, multiple cuts and bruises.” Bucky recited grimly, his voice low and his glare set on the window. “Like she’d been attacked.”

“And was she?”

“We don’t know.”

“I see.” Kellings nodded as Steve sat back down. “And has there been any more instances where she had disappeared and came back with wounds?”

“Once,” Steve nodded. “But she did come back the second time, and she was taller, more honed, almost as if she was an Olympic athlete.”

“But she’s stronger than me, in some ways.” Bucky added. “She beat me at running and arm wrestling for weeks on end, there was no way she just got lucky.”

Kellings nodded again, looking at Ghost, who hadn’t said a word for an hour. “Have any of you fella’s ever heard of Abraham Erkstine?”

“No, sir.” Bucky and Steve shook their head. 

“He’s a scientist, and he’s developed an intensely enhancing serum. Very fascinating. But it can change the average person into a perfect body, no health issues, stronger than even the weightlifters, and high endurance. Much like your friend.”

“You mean- Addie’s been shoved with a serum and not know it by this Erkstine guy??” Steve looked appalled. 

“No, but it appears to be the same serum. If I may ask permission to let her see Doctor Erkstine, I believe we can manage this problem better.”

“She’s not a problem.” Bucky growled under his breath, turning his glare to the major. 

“I never said so, young man. All I’m saying is maybe the Professor can assess this situation and possibly offer council in this matter. All with your’s and Mr. Rogers’ approval, of course.”

Steve and Bucky exchanged a glance before the former crouched in front of Ghost, her empty gaze barely recognizing him.

“Addie? We’ve found a man who can help you, we can figure out how to make you remember.”

Ghost locked eyes with Steve, her mouth opening just a bit before she looked to the major with an untrusting expression.

“We’ll go with you. Bucky and me, we’ll come.”

“Don’t make me hurt people.” She quietly begged, staring at Steve.

“Of course not, doll. I promise you, it will be safe. For all of us.”

“Uh, hang on—“ The lieutenant spoke up, earning a well deserved death stare from Steve, Bucky and Ghost at the same time. But he continued. “Are we going to just ignore the fact that she just predicted the start of a literal war two minutes ago??”

“She is from the future, sir.” Steve still maintained his composure, his hand resting on the girl’s arm. “She knows what’s going to happen and when.”

“What did she say?”

“Ask her yourself, for once.” Bucky snapped, his temper threatening to rush over. 

Kellings motioned to the lieutenant before sitting down in front of Ghost.

“Hello there,” He leaned forward that his hands were laced in front of him and his elbows rested on the armrests. “I’m Major Kellings, I came to you around a year ago. You may not remember me, though. But that’s alright.”

She actually looked up at him, her head cocking to the side, her expression curious. 

“What is important about December 7th, 1941?” He questioned smoothly, his tone firm but not harsh. “Something to do with the war?”

“Hawaii.” She quickly responded, her eyes wider. “Th-the Japanese.”

“The Japanese in Hawaii?”

“No, the Japanese to Hawaii.”

“They’re going to Hawaii?”

“Y-yes.” She nodded. 

“On the 7th?”

She nodded again, her lips pressed in a firm line. 

“Are you absolutely sure? How do you know this?” He gently pressed. 

“Class.” Was all she said. 

“Class?” Kellings parroted, his brows knit together. 

She fidgeted, her fingers playing with her jacket sleeves. Her gaze flicking to Bucky and Steve before going back to the man in front of her.

“Have you taken a special class?” He tried, but this only worsened her anxiety as her ankles crossed, her gaze now falling to her hands. 

“I think she’s had enough.” Steve was quick to interject. 

“Alright,” Kellings stood up, gave Ghost a soft pat on the shoulder as he passed, and tugged his jacket over his shoulders. “I’ll contact Doctor Erkstine, and see if we can figure this out.”

“Thanks.” Bucky gave his a sharp nod as he exited. “We should go home.”

“Agreed.”

That night…

Steve was just about to fall asleep as he was finally warm, but when he rolled over to tug the blanket over his feet, he felt his heart leap to his chest when he spotted Ghost’s lithe frame in the doorway. She hadn’t made any noise as she walked, making it hard to anticipate her coming.

“Adds?” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to make out if she was alright in the dim light. “Whats wrong?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” She picked at the wood with her healed nails, no longer the split and peeled ones they were before. 

“I’m sorry, doll.” He offered. “Would you like to sleep in here? It might be warmer than the living room.”

It was hard to tell if her gaze flicked from him to the floor, but she nodded all the same. He hide his smile and tugged a blanket off the bed and held it out to her. “There, all nice and warm for you.”

She looked like she tried to smile as she gingerly took the warm blanket and wound it around herself, and to Steve surprise, she lowered herself to the floor, nudging herself practically under his bed with her blanket. 

“Hey, what are you doing down there? You can sleep up here with me, you know.”

She looked up at him before curling into a ball, her arms coming up to her middle as she confided her warmth to her center.

Steve shook his head and swore at the dirty rats who mistreated her like an animal. Nobody deserved this. Not even the bullies on the streets he had encountered. 

So he rolled over, tried to ignore her and feebly attempted to go back to sleep.

It was long before he felt a warmth and a dip in the bed as he assumed Ghost was slowly and cautiously climbing into the bed with him, her back to his as she pressed herself to him. He smiled, tugged the blanket further over them and felt himself fall asleep, finally warm.

End notes: my word this was longer than needed-

Anyway, more period angst incoming so be mindful. I did finally work out a legit plot for this fic, so expect a lot more chapters to come

Thank you for reading! Dividers by @strangergraphics

Original prompt by @the-superoriginal ~ written by yours truly, all relation to actual people are purely coincidental

Tag list: @fictionalmenjusthitdifferent ~ @oh-to-be-a-murderer ~ @thebestmerc-1 ~ @itzzkaylaaa ~ @twoarrsandonesea ~ @natt-romanoff - @proud-owner-0f-americas-ass - @the-good-redhead-witch

[fruitkingfrog]

[ID: A full page drawing of Orion holding Lightray, Orion’s hands are under his legs and Lightray is playing with Orion’s hair, they are looking into eachothers eyes and smiling. Behind them is a rainbow Mother box inspired circuit pattern, with seventeen alternate universe versions of them in the various borders and fifteen much smaller alternate universe versions of them over the borders. The word "Multiverse" is framed in dots on the frame on the left. End ID]

late 2021 Lightrion week day 6 - Alternate Universe! &

New Gods November 2023 - Week 4, Day 4: Alternate Realities!

once upon a time it was said that only one version of the New Gods exist across all Earths, but its rarely reflected after that. Most of these AUs are canon, some after 1/2 canon (featuring only one of the duo), and some are my own ideas :D This december is going on three years since I got into New Gods!

 commission info & ko-fi links available on my pinned post♥! 

♥ reblogs appreciated! do not repost/edit/etc

Closeups, detailed IDs under cut:

[ID: Box one: Orion and Lightray from DC, depicted as anthro cartoon dogs from the neck up. There is a purple background with black kirby krackle behind them.

Box two: Thorion and Bald’r with their foreheads pressed together, smiling and looking into eachothers eyes. Their hands are clasped in front of Bald’rs shoulder. Thorion has shoulderlength blond hair and wing-like ears on his helmet, which exposes his face. Bald’r has black hair, and wears a blue cape over his armour.

Box three: Lightray as a Blue Lantern holding off an attack from Orion as a Red Lantern. Orion is snarling, striking at Lightray with claws and spitting red acid. Lightray is smiling at him, reaching out one arm and holding Orion’s wrist in the other. Blue and Red kirby krackle surround each of them.

Box four: Two anthropomorphic dinosaurs, one is red, blue, and yellow with a spiky back and saber-teeth, he is wearing a helmet. The second is a white and yellow pterodactyl with a red and black symbol painted on his chest.

Box five: Two mech suits, Orion’s slightly in front of Lightray’s. Orion’s has his helmet, a pink face, blue collar, and red shoulders. Lightray’s behind him has his gold headpiece and flames coming from the top. Orion and Lightray sit side by side on the shoulder of Orion’s mech, faced away from viewer. Lightray is reaching over to Orion’s thigh and they are watching a sunset together.

Box six: Hunter and Neon Black, two men closely resembling Orion and Lightray, but with thicker armour and darker clothes. Hunter is turned away but looking over his shoulder, while Neon Black is pressed into his chest and smiling.

Box seven: Orion and Lightray based on the style of Mike Mignola, Lightray is thin and wearing a white top with a gold V mark, and long gold gloves that reach up his arms. Orion has a low cut red shirt and blue shoulderpads. He and Lightray are smiling at eachother.

Box eight: Future State Orion with a matching Lightray, their heads are pressed together and they're holding eachother's faces and smiling. Orion has pink skin and flaming hair, Lightray is similar, both have gold headpieces resembling their usual counterparts.

Box nine: The top of two mock-Simpsons style figures, one with a red/black bowlcut and one with orange hair and a silver headpiece with a "v" on it, meant to be Obrian and Flightrisk from Radioactive Man.

Box ten: Lightray faced away from the viewer, glaring at Orion, who is lacking a helmet and has long, wild hair. Orion has a darker outfit based on his Gods and Monsters uniform, with a silver harness. Barda is next to him in an outfit similar to her regular one, she looks concerned and is reaching to pull Orion back. Behind them are buildings from New Genesis.

Box eleven: Orion's death scene from Gods and Monsters, Lightray is holding Orion back while Highfather's staff kills him.

Box twelve: Orion standing with his hand by his hip, Lightray is flying by his side and smiling with his hands raised, drawn in a Jack Kirby inspired style.

Box thirteen: Young Justice Orion looking back at Lightray, who is smiling at him.

Box fourteen: A sketchy drawing of Lightray and Orion, using unused New 52 designs. Lightay has goggles and red gloves, Orion's helmet has more pieces to it and his top is sleeveless.

Box fifteen: Highfather Orion from The Dark Side leaning into a kiss from Lightray, who is playing with his hair.

Box sixteen: Batman Beyond Lightray looking worried at Orion, who is faced away from the camera. Lightray has his eye injury and bandage, Orion is maskless.

Box seventeen: New 52 Orion and Lightray relaxing on the grass. Lightray is pressed into Orion's side with a knee over his stomach. They're smiling at eachother.

Final image: Several small figures, showing Lightray and Orion together as they appear in Scribblenauts, New 52, Source of Freedom, The Dark Side, Mike Mignola, Lantern corps, DC Mech, and Dark Multiverse. Lightray from Superman/Batman: Generations and Earth-51, and Orion as his 80's costume, Kenner Super Powers, two Lego forms, and his clone from The Great Darkness saga.

END ID]

1: Orihound and Lightstray from the New Dogs (Earth C-Minus). Inspired by the art in their first/only appearance Captain Carrot and the Final Ark #3, by Scott Shaw, Scott Koblish, Tom Luth, and Drew Moore.

2: Thorion and Bald’r the Lightbringer of the New Asgods (Amalgam Earth). Inspired by the art . 

3: Lightray and Orion as members of the Lantern corps, designed by me. In this universe, an Apokolips-raised Orion loses all sense of control when given the red ring and decimates the population of Apokolips, then turns on Atrocitus for manipulating his mind. Seeing a threat to all Lantern Corps, Lightray of New Genesis volunteers to defeat Orion and retrieve his ring. Lightray’s design is based on his formal wear from volume 3, Orion’s is based on his rebirth uniform. OK i dont know if they can work out in this one honestly i just thought it’d be cool, theoretically 

4. Lightraydactyl and Orionodon, designed by me. The JL fighting Darkseid instead of Orion is a pet peeve of mine, but Jurassic League didnt even leave room for the New Gods to exist. i love the dinosaurs comic though Lightray was pretty straightforward, Orion’s design took inspiration from Darklyoseid’s canon design by Juan Gedeon, a sabertooth tiger (for Tigra), and Orion’s main universe costume for the colours.

5. Orion and Lightray Mechs. DC Mech killed Orion off in issue one boooooo! but it did mean i didnt have to design my own for his (Lightray's is mine though). This was inspired by one of the covers for Pacific Rim, because I will be thinking about a pacrim AU for them forever now.

6. Hunter and Neon Black. These guys aren’t actually LR and Orion, just two random inmates disguised as evil versions of them iirc, but I liked Neon Black’s design.

7. Orion and Lightray, Mike Mignola’s scrapped 1990′s New Gods animated film designs.

8: Orion and Lightray from Future State: Green Lantern, Lightray was designed by me.

9: O’Brian and Flightrisk of the New Guards from Radioactive Man.

10. Orion and Lightray (and Barda) from a personal AU of mine, using designs inspired by the Gods and Monsters film.

11. Just the Gods and Monsters death scene, to break things up.

12. Orion and Lightray inspired by Jack Kirby’s art.

13. Young Justice.

14. Scrapped New 52 Lightray and Jim Lee’s unused Orion design.

15. DCAU/Batman Beyond

16. Superman: The Dark Side. I was going to make Lightray transparent at first, like ambiguously a hallucination or a ghost or something but i didnt like how it looked all that much.

17. New 52 - I sometimes like to imagine these guys are from like a Pocket dimension modeled after the Fourth World, where everyone is shallow and awful like n52 canon/fandom perception.

18. Minis - Scribblenauts, Lightray's older appearance in Superman/Batman: Generations (he has an earlier appearance similar to his main universe suit, but with a yellow tone), New 52, Source of Freedom Orion plus the miscoloured Lightray that appears twice, The Dark Side, Earth-51 Lightray, 1977 Orion, Mignola again, Kenner Super Powers Orion, Lantern Corps AU, Orion effigy from The Great Darkness Saga, both Lego Orions, original illustration colours, DC mech, and Dark Multiverse: Flashpoint.

a few months ago i got to finish with this very long term project :D thank you to everyone who encouraged me with kind words while working on this :D The final Lightrion week pic is finished and ready to post whenever i get around to it.

[pinturas-sgm-aviacion]

1941 01 13 Wellington over Venice - Graham Turner

Wellingtons over Venice, 12/13 January 1941 Eyewitness accounts that describe Bomber Command's operations to Italy often speak of the long duration (some 9 hours) of the trip, and a boredom that was only punctuated by the joy in seeing the snow-covered Alpine peaks and the short-lived drama of bombing the target. Yet the earlier attacks on Italy, in 1940 and 1941, often proved to be much more wild adventures. Individual aircraft selected their own way of getting to the target and, once there, they would not just drop their bomb load but often engaged in 'further activities', such as the low-level shooting-up of flak positions, airfields, road convoys, moving trains or - in this case - ocean liners. In early December 1940, 4 Group had been taken off Italian operations owing to the need to conserve its Whitley Mk Vs for large fire-raising operations against German cities, and the 'Italy assignment' was transferred to 3 Group, which operated the Vickers Wellington MxIc.

The operational instructions issued by HQ Bomber Command stated they were to attack Italian targets, but only with a maximum number of 15 aircraft; they were given a fixed list of German targets from which to choose alternatives if weather precluded attack upon Italian objectives, but clearly the latter was the priority.

On 4 December, 3 Group undertook its first Italian operation, when 15 aircraft were detailed to bomb the Royal Arsenal in Turin, and Wellingtons were also sent to italy on 18 and 21 December, and on 11/12 January 1941. The following night, seven Wellingtons were ordered to attack the oil refineries at Porto Marghera, near Venice, and the progress of this operation is depicted in this battle scene. The bombers scored direct hits on the target area: one 1, 000lb boob dropped from 700ft scored a direct hit on large buildings at the oil refinery, causing a massive explosion with reddish/white smoke and flames to 400ft, whilst further bombs caused oil storage tanks to explode and a large building to collapse and disintegrate. Fifteen minutes into the attack, the target area was described by aircrews as being a mass of flames. Yet 3 Group's aircraft had not travelled that far (a round trip of 1,500 miles) just to drop their modest bomb loads (at that range about 1,500lb).

With little chance of being intercepted - in early 1941 the Regia Aeronautica had yet to train for the night-fighter role - the Wellingtons used their machine guns to strafe the oil refinery and flak positions. Two aircraft got down very low - to about 300ft and 390ft respectively - to attack the Italian liners Rex and Conte di Savoia, which were being used as troop ships to North Africa. The raid report stated that another Wellington on its return journey attacked Padua aerodrome from an incredible 20ft. Such activity encapsulates the brave - if at times reckless - endeavour of the early bomber attacks on Italy. Operations did become a lot more organised, more controlled and, ultimately, more devastating from autumn 1942 onwards, though a final 'wild ride' would be the daylight operation to Milan by 5 Group's Lancasters on 24 October 1942, which culminated in some low-level flying and strafing by machine guns (...). As for the two Italian liners, the next time the Rex was attacked by the RAF, in conjunction with Beaufighters of the South African Air Force, was on 8 September

[nuwho20zine]

“Donna Noble is descending.”

STORIES OF THE WEEK: The Star Beast, Wild Blue Yonder & The Giggle

Release date: 25 november - 09 december 2023 Main characters: Fourteenth Doctor, Donna Noble Main villain: The Meep, Not-things, The Toymaker

A year ago today, the last of the three special episodes celebrating the 60 years of Doctor Who aired. These episodes, which featured David Tennant in a new incarnation of the Doctor, along with Catherine Tate reprising her role as Donna Noble, represented a soft reboot of the Doctor Who and NuWho universe, as well as the return of fan-favorite showrunner Russell T. Davies.

I’ll be honest with you: when it was first announced that David would be returning, I wasn’t all that keen on it, even though I am big, big David fan. However, the hype around the specials and the celebrations absolutely got to me, and I there, watching along, as the episode premiered. And the moment it started, I was sold: I adored David’s new spin on the character, I loved seeing Donna again, and the characters’ reunion was everything I could want it to be. Yasmin Finney, who I knew and loved from Heartstopper, was also a wonderful addition to this brilliant cast; and every time I think of Bernard Cribbins small cameo in Wild Blue Yonder, I still feel a little emotional (“Oh, Doctor, that lovely face! It's like springtime,” might be one of my favorite lines ever).

Weirdly enough, I also love how these episodes, though lovely, are still far from perfect: the funky special effects at the beginning of The Star Beast are hilarious; the “Something a male-presenting Time Lord will never understand” feels icky and weird; the plot with Donna remembering her time with the Doctor and surviving it, as well as the Doctor choosing to retire with Donna, though adored by many (me included), is something that many are not a fan of - which I totally get.

Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how The Giggle also served as an introduction to our current Doctor, portrayed so wonderfully by Ncuti Gatwa. Though the episode felt a bit convoluted as it tried to fit both a satisfying plot arc for what was the come-back of a major villain, The Toymkaer, as well as deal with the Fourteen’s regeneration and the end of his arc, I did like how they sacrificed plot for a satisfying character arc (something I know doesn’t still well with many, but I’ll always choose character over plot haha). And the bigeneration, though a bit fan-service-y, felt so good: Fourteen’s and Fifteen’s interactions are everything to me, and I felt it was a nice balance between saying goodbye to a beloved character and actor, whilst still making it clear that this is now Ncuti’s time to shine - which he’s been doing so wonderfully.

I’d love to know: what is your favorite of the specials? I’m partial to The Star Beast for the tension between Fourteen and Donna (and also because Wild Blue Yonder, though wonderful, was a bit traumatizing, whilst The Giggle simply didn’t leave as much of a mark as the first specials). I would love to hear your thoughts!

(PS: You can also find us on instagram, if that's your thing!)

[taylorswiftandx]

Taylor Swift and Family Members

‘Taylor Swift’

Picture To Burn: My daddy’s gonna show you how sorry you’ll be

Mary’s Song (Oh My My My): And our daddies used to joke about the two of us

Mary’s Song (Oh My My My): And our mamas smiled and rolled their eyes and said “Oh my my my”

Mary’s Song (Oh My My My): Our whole town came and our mamas cried

Mary's Song (Oh My My My): We'll rock our babies on that very front porch

Our Song: When we’re on the phone and you talk real slow ‘cause it’s late and your mama don’t know

'Fearless (Taylor’s Version)’

Fifteen: And your mama’s waiting up and you’re thinking he’s the one

Love Story: And my daddy said, “Stay away from Juliet”

Love Story: I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

The Way I Loved You: He’s close to my mother, talks business with my father

The Best Day: I have an excellent father, his strength is making me stronger

The Best Day: God smiles on my little brother, inside and out he’s better than I am

The Best Day: And Daddy’s smart and you’re the prettiest lady in the whole wide world

We Were Happy: Talking about your daddy’s farm we were gonna buy someday

We Were Happy: Talking about your daddy’s farm and you were gonna marry me

'Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)’

Mine: You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter

Mine: You say we’ll never make my parents’ mistakes

Mine: I fell in love with a careless man's careful daughter

Back To December: How’s life? Tell me, how’s your family?

Speak Now: And her snotty little family all dressed in pastel

Dear John: And my mother accused me of losing my mind but I swore I was fine

Never Grow Up: You’re in the car on your way to the movies and you’re mortified your mom’s dropping you off

Never Grow Up: Memorize what it sounded like when your dad gets home

Never Grow Up: Remember the footsteps, remember the words said, and all your little brother’s favorite songs

Last Kiss: Because I love your handshake, meeting my father

Long Live: If you have children some day, when they point to the pictures, please tell them my name

Ours: And any snide remarks from my father about your tattoos will be ignored

Superman: He’s got his mother’s eyes, his father’s ambition

When Emma Falls In Love: When Emma falls in love, she calls up her mom

'Red (Taylor’s Version)’

All Too Well: And I left my scarf there at your sister’s house and you’ve still got it in your drawer even now

All Too Well: And your mother’s telling stories about you on the tee ball team

Starlight: Ooh, ooh, we could get married, have ten kids, and teach them how to dream

Begin Again: But you start to talk about the movies that your family watches

All Too Well (10 Minute Version): You who charmed my dad with self-effacing jokes

'1989 (Taylor’s Version)’

Now That We Don’t Talk: I call my mom, she said that it was for the best

Now That We Don’t Talk: I call my mom, she said to get it off my chest

'reputation’

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things: And here’s to my mama, had to listen to all this drama

Call It What You Want: I’m laughing with my lover, making forts under covers, trust him like a brother, yeah, you know I did one thing right

'Lover’

Paper Rings: Which takes me back to the color that we painted your brother’s wall

'folklore’

the 1: Rosé flowing with your chosen family

cardigan: Leaving like a father, running like water

seven: Your dad is always mad and that must by why

invisible string: Now I send their babies presents

mad woman: Good wives always know

epiphany: Keep your helmet, keep your life, son

epiphany: Something med school did not cover, someone’s daughter, someone’s mother

peace: Give you my wild, give you a child

peace: Family that I chose now that I see your brother as my brother

'evermore’

champagne problems: Your mom’s ring in your pocket

champagne problems: You told your family for a reason, you couldn’t keep it in

champagne problems: Your sister splashed out on the bottle

'tis the damn season: I’m staying at my parents’ house and the road not taken looks real good now

no body, no crime: Este’s been losing sleep, her husband’s acting different and it smells like infidelity

no body, no crime: He reports his missing wife

no body, no crime: Good thing my daddy made me get a boating license when I was fifteen

no body, no crime: Good thing Este’s sister’s gonna swear she was with me

dorothea: Skipping the prom just to piss off your mom and her pageant schemes

ivy: So tell me to run or dare to sit and watch what we’ll become and drink my husband’s wine

right where you left me: I'm sure that you got a wife out there, kids, and Christmas, but I'm unaware

it's time to go: When the words of a sister come back in whispers

it's time to go: 20 years at your job, then the son of the boss gets the job that was yours

it's time to go: Or trying to stay for the kids when keeping it how it is will only break their hearts worse

'Midnights’

Lavender Haze: The only kind of girl they see is a one-night or a wife

Anti-Hero: I have this dream my daughter-in-law kills me for the money

Anti-Hero: The family gathers around and reads it and then someone screams out, “She’s laughing up at us from hell”

Midnight Rain: It came like a postcard, picture perfect shiny family

Vigilante Shit: Now she gets the house, gets the kids, gets the pride

Vigilante Shit: Picture me thick as thieves with your ex-wife

Paris: Your ex-friend’s sister met someone at a club and he kissed her

High Infidelity: Storm coming, good husband, bad omen, dragged my feet right down the aisle

'The Tortured Poets Department’

Fortnight: Your wife waters flowers, I wanna kill him

Fortnight: My husband is cheating, I wanna kill him

But Daddy I Love Him: Now I’m running with my dress unbuttoned, screaming, “But, daddy, I love him”

But Daddy I Love Him: I'm having his baby, no I'm not, but you should see your faces

But Daddy I Love Him: Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid

But Daddy I Love Him: All the wine moms are still holding out, but fuck them, it’s over

But Daddy I Love Him: Now I’m dancing in my dress in the sun and even my daddy just loves him

But Daddy I Love Him: Screaming, “But, daddy, I love him, I’m having his baby”

Florida!!!: And my friends all smell like weed or little babies

Florida!!!: And your cheating husband disappeared

imgonnagetyouback: Whether I'm gonna be your wife or gonna smash up your bike

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus: And you have some kids with an Internet starlet

How Did It End?: Soon they'll go home to their husbands, smug 'cause they know they can trust him, then feverishly calling their cousins

So High School: I feel like laughing in the middle of practice to that impression you did of your dad again

thanK you aIMee: Everyone knows that my mother is a saintly woman but she used to say she wished that you were dead

thanK you aIMee: And one day, your kid comes home singing a song that only us two is gonna know is about you, 'cause

The Bolter: And I can confirm she made a curious child, ever reviled by everyone escept her own father

The Manuscript: Afterwards she only ate kids’ cereal and couldn’t sleep unless it was in her mother’s bed

Other Songs written by Taylor

All Of The Girls You Loved Before: Your mother brought you up loyal and kind

Best Days Of Your Life: I heard you’re gonna get married, have a nice little family

Christmases When You Were Mine: My mama’s in the kitchen, worrying about me

Christmases When You Were Mine: I’ll bet you got your mom another sweater, and were your cousins late again?

Official Alternate Releases

But Daddy I Love Him (Clean Version): All the wine moms are still holding out, but it’s over

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

New SpaceTime out Friday

SpaceTime 20241115 Series 27 Episode 138

Discovery of the outer solar system’s magnetic field

Scientists have discovered an ancient magnetic field at the outer edge of the solar system.

Southern Launch gets the green light for orbital missions from South Australia

Southern Launch has finally been granted Federal and State government approval for its Whalers Way Orbital Launch Complex.

Axiom unveils new lunar spacesuits for NASA

Axiom Space has revealed the new lunar space suits NASA’s Artemis three crew will be using when they walk on the Moon in September 2026.

The Science Report

Weather systems driving much of southern Australia's rainfall have declined over recent decades.

Scientists find genetic links to Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Parkinson’s Disease.

Taming wild elephant calves increases their stress which has implications for their physical health.

SpaceTime covers the latest news in astronomy & space sciences.

The show is available every Monday, Wednesday and Friday through Apple Podcasts (itunes), Stitcher, Google Podcast, Pocketcasts, SoundCloud, Bitez.com, YouTube, your favourite podcast download provider, and from www.spacetimewithstuartgary.com

SpaceTime is also broadcast through the National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio and on both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

SpaceTime daily news blog: http://spacetimewithstuartgary.tumblr.com/

SpaceTime facebook: www.facebook.com/spacetimewithstuartgary

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SpaceTime twitter feed @stuartgary

SpaceTime YouTube: @SpaceTimewithStuartGary

SpaceTime -- A brief history

SpaceTime is Australia’s most popular and respected astronomy and space science news program – averaging over two million downloads every year. We’re also number five in the United States.  The show reports on the latest stories and discoveries making news in astronomy, space flight, and science.  SpaceTime features weekly interviews with leading Australian scientists about their research.  The show began life in 1995 as ‘StarStuff’ on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s (ABC) NewsRadio network.  Award winning investigative reporter Stuart Gary created the program during more than fifteen years as NewsRadio’s evening anchor and Science Editor.  Gary’s always loved science. He studied astronomy at university and was invited to undertake a PHD in astrophysics, but instead focused on his career in journalism and radio broadcasting. Gary’s radio career stretches back some 34 years including 26 at the ABC. He worked as an announcer and music DJ in commercial radio, before becoming a journalist and eventually joining ABC News and Current Affairs. He was part of the team that set up ABC NewsRadio and became one of its first on air presenters. When asked to put his science background to use, Gary developed StarStuff which he wrote, produced and hosted, consistently achieving 9 per cent of the national Australian radio audience based on the ABC’s Nielsen ratings survey figures for the five major Australian metro markets: Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide, and Perth.  The StarStuff podcast was published on line by ABC Science -- achieving over 1.3 million downloads annually.  However, after some 20 years, the show finally wrapped up in December 2015 following ABC funding cuts, and a redirection of available finances to increase sports and horse racing coverage.  Rather than continue with the ABC, Gary resigned so that he could keep the show going independently.  StarStuff was rebranded as “SpaceTime”, with the first episode being broadcast in February 2016.  Over the years, SpaceTime has grown, more than doubling its former ABC audience numbers and expanding to include new segments such as the Science Report -- which provides a wrap of general science news, weekly skeptical science features, special reports looking at the latest computer and technology news, and Skywatch – which provides a monthly guide to the night skies. The show is published three times weekly (every Monday, Wednesday and Friday) and available from the United States National Science Foundation on Science Zone Radio, and through both i-heart Radio and Tune-In Radio.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Rereading The Fellowship of the Ring for the First Time in Fifteen Years

The more of this book I read, the less reasonable it seems to call this a reread. I definitely internalized almost nothing of this book the first time around. This time around though, we have fun things like Gandalf army crawling around Rivendell to troll Pippin, Boromir being the single person of the big folk to actually be practically concerned about the hobbits in the wild, and a personified and deeply pissed off mountain. So let's talk chapter three, "The Ring Goes South."

Literally the majority of the time we spend with the hobbits in Rivendell is in meetings. We JUST got out of the council meeting--which was a hell of an infodump chapter and frankly my head is STILL spinning over it--and now the hobbits are in Bilbo's room having their own little meeting. This is also kind of where I'm really starting to see the big folk totally disregard Merry and Frodo's relationship and lump Merry in with Pippin, because it's not even a QUESTION at first that Merry and Pippin will go along with Frodo and Sam. Which like...again...MERRY IS SOLIDLY 95% OF THE REASON THEY MADE IT OUT OF THE SHIRE AND TO BREE SAFELY. GIVE THE HOBBIT THE DAMN CREDIT HE DESERVES!!!

I can't say I'm not enjoying the Gandalf trolling Pippin dynamic, but it's wildly unfair to lump Merry into that, and frankly I cannot wait until our hobbit gets to Rohan and gets his own little adventure, because he deserves it.

In the meantime, however, all points to Sam for gently calling out that they'll "just wait long enough for winter to come" before leaving Rivendell to start their quest. I grew up in Alaska, and I am EXTREMELY with Sam on this one. A bigass quest in the winter is doable, if you're prepared and know how not to die of stupid or exposure or cold, but it is going to SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

I also deeply approve of Bilbo pinning the blame for THAT precisely where it belongs:

"That can't be helped," said Bilbo. "It's your fault partly, Frodo my lad: insisting on waiting for my birthday. A funny way of honoring it, I can't help thinking. Not the day I would have chosen for letting the S.-B.s into Bag End. But there it is: you can't wait now till spring; and you can't go till the reports come back."

The SHAAAAAAAAAAAAADE on Frodo giving Lobelia Sackville-Baggins Bag End on Bilbo's birthday there is amazing, and honestly this is an excellent point. That said though, it's also just a biiiiiiiiiiit harsh on Bilbo's part to blame Frodo for making a plan without full information. We do the best we can with the information we have at any given point, and I rather think that given his druthers--a a lack of Black Riders on the road--Frodo might have spent longer in Crickhollow and Bree, which could have meant that they would have been off on this trip in the spring. That would also have been entirely too late to do anything useful, but there you go.

We do just casually spend two months in Rivendell though, so it's literally the end of December before they get word that eight of the nine Black Riders were successfully de-horsed and de-cloaked by the rushing waters at the ford, which clears the party to officially form up and leave Rivendell.

I am not gonna lie, having largely grown up on the movies, I find it absofuckingloutely hilarious that Peter Jackson just kind of went, "Let's do 'I am Spartacus' during the council of Elrond to put the party together" and Elrond is basically like, "Nine companions...Cool beans!" And I have now discovered that the actual way this went down was a lot more "I am Elf Daddy, Hear Me Roar":

"And I will choose you companions to go with you, as far as they will or fortune allows. The number must be few, since your hope is speed and secrecy. [...] The Company of the Ring shall be Nine; and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil."

Ok, cool; they're an explicit parallel to the Black Riders. And thank you Tolkien for trying to subvert the dreaded movie title mention, even if Peter Jackson didn't take the hint and got cute with it (affectionately). I will say though, Elrond might have...ASKED FRODO if there was anyone in particular he wanted with him while he walked to hell. Like, this should have been a conversation, not a declaration. I grant, Frodo wouldn't have known all of what he'd need, but damn Elrond, way to not even bother to ASK.

Which is also why I am grateful Gandalf pipes up when Pippin insists that he and Merry are going. Because not only does Gandalf make up for the trolling a bit here, he also is willing to respect hobbits' desires more than LITERALLY ANYONE ELSE UP TO THIS POINT. Here's how this bit goes down:

"We don't want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo." "That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead," said Elrond. "Neither does Frodo," said Gandalf, unexpectedly supporting Pippin. "Nor do any of us see clearly. It is true that if these hobbits understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still wish to, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I think, Elrond. that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom."

THEY ARE NOT CHILDREN JUST BECAUSE THEY'RE SHORT, ELROND. Frodo is like fully in his hobbit 30s, and everyone else is a legal hobbit adult. They get to make their own choices, even if your ass doesn't like them. And THANK YOU GANDALF for supporting hobbit agency at this time. Honest to christ, it's like big folk see small folk and go "child" and as a short woman (five foot one on a good day) this is deeply irritating to me. Height isn't some indicator of adulthood and intelligence. It's an indicator of HEIGHT.

And sure, even if the hobbits have no fucking clue what they're in for, that's not like...wildly unusual for newly adulted adults. We make all sorts of decisions in our early twenties (or have them made for us *glares in military drafts and student loans*) that we absolutely would not have made given more life experience. Like...welcome to adulthood, sit the fuck down Elrond.

Which he eventually does, we sort out the company roster, and everyone fucks off to go get kitted up.

Anduril just gets casually reforged so Aragorn can have a sword that is actually USEFUL on this leg of the trip. My favorite thing though? Absolutely has to be Bilbo's CASUAL DISREGARD FOR RIVENDELL'S ARCHITECURE:

"Here is your sword," he said. "But it was broken, you know. I took it to keep it safe but I've forgotten to ask if the smiths could mend it. No time now. So I thought, perhaps, you would care to have this, don't you know?" He took from the box a small sword in an old shabby leather scabbard. Then he drew it, and its polished and well-tended blade glittered suddenly, cold and bright. "This is Sting," he said, and thrust it with little effort deep into a wooden beam.

The absolute HELL I would have caught from literally everyone if I ever casually plunged a sword into someone else's house doesn't even bear thinking about. I also appreciate the casual hobbity disregard for Frodo's own sword. Like, it was broken, and Bilbo just...forgot to get it fixed? Part of me is like, "Well, he IS a hobbit," and the rest of me is like "THE FUCK YOU FORGOT, SIR. THIS IS A PLOY TO SET YOUR NEPHEW AND HEIR OFF WITH A SWORD YOU TRUST." Which is deeply relatable and honestly super adorably parental, especially since it is ABSOLUTELY Bilbo's fault that Frodo ended up in this position. (Yeah that might be harsh and it might ignore the Ring's own agency, but I stand by "magic rings shouldn't be passed down to unsuspecting nephews" thing.)

I do appreciate that Frodo gets Sting though, because that sword served Bilbo well in The Hobbit, and even I can appreciate the value of the inheritance that Sting brings to the quest in general and Bilbo in particular. Same with the Mithril shirt--although the word Mithril is not used in this chapter!!! Bilbo refers to it as dwarf-mail, and I would need to go back and look at The Hobbit to see if he knows it's Mithril there and I cannot currently be bothered.

What is really adorable is that Frodo takes one look at this thing--and its matching pearl and crystal belt--and goes "I should look - well, I don't think I should look right in it." And Bilbo AGREES!!! But it's darling, really, because he does the hobbitiest thing imaginable to get the protective gear on the nephew:

"Just what I said myself," said Bilbo. "But never mind about looks. You can wear it under your outer clothes. Come on! You must share this secret with me. Don't tell anybody else! But I should feel happier if I knew you were wearing it. I have a fancy it would turn even the knives of the Black Riders," he ended in a low voice.

The masterful parenting skills on display here. First, we validate the kid's feelings that yeah, it looks pretty stupid. But hey, nobody has to see, and it can be our cool little secret! And it would make me, your beloved, frail, old Uncle Bilbo feel better if you did. Do you WANT to get stabbed again? Because not wearing this is how you get stabbed again. This is literally just Bilbo running through the parenting manual at warp speed, and I kind of love it. Because ultimately, the Mithril goes on, and it will end up saving Frodo's ass.

Although admittedly it's not going to do much on Caradhras.

It then takes three and a half pages to get everyone out the goddamn gate, but a third of the way into this chapter, we do FINALLY get the fellowship setting forth. Before they can get out the door though, Elrond spends a weird amount of time going "EVERYONE IS A VOLUNTEER. THEY CAN LEAVE WHENEVER THEY WANT." It has very "Covering my ass to not get sued" vibes, and frankly while I appreciate the clarity--and yes, I get it, the choice to stay together is what makes the bonds strong more than some oath--CAN WE PLEASE GET THE HELL ON THE ROAD ALREADY???

It is getting toward January, so walking to the mountains is cold and windy and miserable but probably also deeply boring, so Tolkien kind of glosses over that until we get to the Misty Mountains and we get like fifteen names for each peak that I'm not spending time on because I don't care. The important thing is that we have to go up the Redhorn Gate on Caradhras and head for the Dimrill Dale, where we will descend the Dimrill Stair toward the Mirrormere and River Silverlode. Got it.

It does not take long for Aragorn to get anxious because the patterns of the land are disrupted, and I love that as per usual, when something important happens, it's Sam who is there. When the crebain pull their little flyover, it's Sam whose watch Aragorn shares, SAM who actually first sees the dark patch that heralds the spy birds, and Sam whose eyes we see them through. Sam is the keeper of knowledge for our hobbits, and I adore that this pattern is still standing strong, even if it means that these people can't stay secret or hidden for longer than a few days if their damn lives depend on it. Literally at no point have the forces of Mordor not known that the ring is moving, and they've generally had a rough sense of where it is too. Even Gandalf is over here going, "and I have no freaking clue how we're getting over the Redhorn Gate unseen, but we will burn that bridge when we get to it."

Unfortunately, by the time they actually do get to Caradhras, weather seems to be moving in, and Wizard Daddy and King of Gondor Daddy are fighting about the route and refusing to ask for directions:

"Winter deepens behind us, [...] the weather may prove a more deadly enemy than any. What do you think of your course now, Aragorn?" [...] "I think no good of our course from beginning to end, as you well know, Gandalf," answered Aragorn. [...] "But there is another way, and not by the pass of Caradhras: the dark and secret way that we have spoken of." "But let us not speak of it again! Not yet." [...] "We must decide before we go further," answered Gandalf.

But ultimately, they opt to go over the mountain, with Boromir super wisely piping up as the expert on traveling in deadly winter that hey, MAYBE THEY SHOULD BRING SOME FIREWOOD, because "it will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death."

Like, Aragorn is a ranger, but he isn't used to these altitudes. Gandalf and Legolas aren't bothered by snow. Gimli is...a dwarf. But Boromir has probably seen people die in snow and cold, and I'd bet he knows that thanks to the weird thing where people who are smaller have higher surface-area-to-volume ratios and lose body heat faster. Boromir and Aragorn are big dudes, but the hobbits are literally child-sized. They're going to be in more danger from cold faster. So YEAH, bring the extra fire wood.

Oh, and hey, Gimli? THIS MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE MOMENT TO MENTION THAT CARADHRAS HATES ELVES AND WIZARDS. I PERHAPS WOULD NOT HAVE WAITED UNTIL YOU WERE EYEBALL DEEP IN AN UNNATURAL SNOWSTORM TO MENTION THIS.

Seriously, they get partway up this mountain, and Gandalf and Aragorn are still having a pissing contest about the route they're now actively on, Boromir is hypothesizing that Sauron is yeeting a blizzard at them, AND NOT A GODDAMN WORD FROM GIMLI until the next day when Boromir is hearing fell voices in the air and BIGASS STONES ARE FALLING ON THEIR HEADS. And even then, it's not the full explanation we'll get in another couple pages, it's:

"Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name," said Gimli, "long years gao, when rumour of Sauron had not been heard in these lands."

Like, sure, ok. It's a mean, grouchy mountain. BUT AGAIN, MAYBE WE COULD HAVE PICKED A DIFFERENT ROUTE IF WE KNEW IT SPECIFICALLY HATED ELVES AND WIZARDS.

This heralds probably the worst night that the company spends on this mountain. They have almost no cover, the snow nearly buries the hobbits, and had Boromir not been watching, they'd have fallen asleep and suffocated to death under snow or frozen to death. And it is SUPER clear that Gandalf doesn't understand how biology works, because in response to Boromir's "This will be the death of the halflings" (which, YEAH, no kidding!!!), Gandalf pulls out the Elven liquor. Specifically miruvor, or the cordial of Imladris, but that means jack to me at this point other than IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO KEEP THE HOBBITS ALIVE IN A MOUNTAIN BLIZZARD IN JANUARY.

Ultimately it's Boromir's foresight to bring some goddamn fuel and light a fire that keeps the hobbits alive, and frankly as someone who grew up where it could hit minus 50 Fahrenheit, Gandalf is no longer allowed to lead on mountains. If Boromir hadn't been there, they would have had four dead hobbits on their hands. Like, yes, eyes on the prize, but PERHAPS NOT AT THE EXPENSE OF THE LIFE OF THE RINGBEARER LESS THAN A MONTH INTO THE JOURNEY???

At this point, Gimli calls for, and is granted, a retreat, because the mountain is absolutely going to kill all their asses. Boromir again gets MEGA points for being the beefiest of beefy warrior men and breaking a trail to get everyone else down--WHILE CARRYING MERRY AND PIPPIN. Like, quite literally this bear of a man has one hobbit piggyback, one clinging to his front like a monkey, and STILL manages to keep clearing and widening the path for everyone behind him. And this goes on for like another day or two as they get off murder mountain.

Quite literally I am gonna need everyone to stop what they're doing and acknowledge that Boromir pulled everyone's asses out of the fire that Aragorn and Gandalf bickered them into. Like, I'm not gonna say this man was done completely dirty by the movie, because he gets little "protector of the hobbits' physical well-being" moments throughout, but HOLY TITS WAS THAT SCALED DOWN.

I think I'll leave it here, with Caradhras having quite handily handed the fellowship their asses, and Boromir being the only reason that the hobbits survived that little foray into mountain passes. Like, they gave it the old college try, and I'm sure that probably seemed like the least bad of all the shitty options for travel in front of them, but if anything was DESIGNED to murder the hobbits in their little hairy tracks, it was the angry, Elf and Wizard hating mountain that can yeet stones and whip up killer blizzards...

[daweyt]

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave? Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart forever, ever more? Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Brontë, “Remembrance”

[mel-berii]

'cause my love is mine, all mine

ranpoe new year's fluff; 2.9k this is very rushed I'm sorry!

Sometimes, Edgar wonders what the critical moment was that led him onto this path.

He could easily pin it on his battle of wits with Ranpo six years prior–but it of course would have to be the event that eventually led him to that. But in reality, even if he thought about it for hours and hours, he’d find that there were so many tiny decisions that led to this precise moment: the things that led him to going to Japan in the first place, the things that led him to joining the Guild, the things that led him to meeting Fitzgerald (although, that really was pure chance. He could probably chalk it all up to chance, really).

But whatever the reason, he supposes that winter in Yokohama beats winter in Boston. Those six years prior, he only spent a very short time in Japan, and that was in the spring, when the sakura trees were blooming and he was sneezing every fifteen seconds or so (which he did not enjoy in the slightest, thank you very much).

But now, he’s spent the past summer, autumn, and now winter in Yokohama. Yokohama, with its proximity to the ocean, isn’t prone to snow and ice, but there’s a definite chill in the air. It’s milder than back home, but Edgar is prone to chills regardless of the weather, so it makes little difference to him–but it gives Ranpo the perfect excuse to curl up against him as his own personal heater.

Such as right now.

“Ranpo, my dear,” Edgar says, twirling around locks of Ranpo’s hair in his slender fingers. “We really should get up. We have things to do.”

Edgar can only hope to God Ranpo hasn’t figured out his plans with Ultra Deduction just yet. He’d sworn Yosano to secrecy about it, but Yosano could probably be pried open with just the right amount of prodding–which is definitely not convenient, given the party Ranpo is expected to attend this afternoon.

Ranpo whines, not unlike a child. “It’s too warm. Don’t wanna get up.”

“Dearest, I’m afraid we must. Yosano-san is hosting a New Year’s party, is she not?”

“Ugh, she’s gonna be hammered by the time we get there,” Ranpo groans, burying his face in Poe’s chest. “She’s a wild ride when she’s drunk.”

“I think you are exaggerating. I doubt Yosano would day-drink.” (Despite his claim, he shudders at the thought.) “And it would upset her greatly if you didn’t make an appearance.”

“But I wanna stay with you.” Ranpo looks up at Edgar, pouting. “Y’know it gets loud in there.”

Edgar frowns a bit. He does know that very well, unfortunately–he too is often a victim of noises too loud and lights too bright. 

“I know, my dear.” He strokes Ranpo’s hair a bit. “We could bring your headphones, if you wish.”

“They make me look weird.”

“They most certainly don’t.”

“Yes, they do. They’re bulky.”

“Then I could bring earbuds for you. Would that be alright?”

Ranpo is quiet for a moment, before he presses his face back against Edgar’s chest. Edgar can feel his breath against his skin.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “What about you, though? You’ll start panicking the second we walk in there.”

“You need not worry about me.”

“I kinda have to. You’re like a rubber ball of anxiety.”

Well. Edgar can’t really refute that. If it were up to him, he would stay home with Karl for the duration of the event, and read quietly until Ranpo’s return.

But Ranpo, damn him, has been trying to get him to go out more often–something about getting him some sun (despite the general cloudiness and gloom of December). Although, deep down, Edgar does appreciate the effort Ranpo puts in to look out for his health.

“I know,” he says after a moment. “But I did promise to accompany you if you went.” 

Ranpo hums. He can’t argue with the possibility of Edgar actually getting some Vitamin D.

“Alright, alright, fine,” Ranpo groans. He rolls off of  Edgar and sits upright, running a hand through his hair and blinking the sleep away from his eyes. Edgar follows suit and sits up as well.

God, Ranpo is so beautiful.

Ranpo hopes out of bed and reaches for a shirt that was thrown onto a chair the night prior. Edgar, like a sensible man, stands on the other side of the bed and pulls open his dresser (it still baffles him a bit that Ranpo let him have one of the drawers in his dresser, although he’s certain it’s only so Ranpo has an ample supply of clothes of Poe’s to steal). He pulls out a still-ironed dress shirt and pulls it over his head.

Ranpo’s room is the cleanest it's ever been, Edgar notes–Ranpo is not someone who cleans up after his messes very well. But the night before, it barely even looked like his apartment, with no full sinks or dusty corners to be found. Ranpo said something about it, but Edgar was a bit too tired to remember–“bad luck” or something along those lines.

A hand suddenly touches the top of his head, patting it. “You should brush your hair a bit,” Ranpo comments.

Edgar’s cheeks flush a tad. “Ah. Um–thank you, dear. You’re probably right.”

“I’m always right.” Ranpo beams. “I’ll feed Karl and we’ll be on our way!”

The sun is less blinding than Ranpo’s smile, but Edgar can’t find it in himself to look away. He nods in acknowledgement, and sets to get himself ready as well.

...

It’s… better than Edgar thought it would be.

There’s music playing quite loudly from a speaker in the corner, yes, but it’s on the other side of the room from where Edgar stands, lingering awkwardly around the entrance.

At least, he lingers until Edgar grabs him by the arm and yanks him forward, a big grin on his face.

“C’mon! They all missed you!”

Edgar looks around the room, confused. How could Ranpo’s coworkers have possibly missed him? He’s a bit surprised they remember his existence, in all honesty–but the Armed Detective Agency has surprised him more than once.

Yosano grabs his other hand. She’s beaming, and there’s a glass of wine in her free hand.

“It’s been forever! Ranpo talks about you non-stop, it’s insane.”

Edgar blinks. His eyes gravitate towards Ranpo, who has let go of his hand and moved towards Fukuzawa. They’re talking about something in Japanese too fast for him to understand very well.

He looks back at Yosano. “He… he does?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Yosano lets go of his hand and takes a sip of her wine. “He’s always like, Poe-kun this, Poe-kun that, yada yada yada.” She laughs. “I can’t believe you don’t come up here more often!”

“Well… I felt as though it was inappropriate…”

“Inappropriate?” Yosano waves her hand, dismissing the notion. “Nah. That Port Mafia executive comes up here all the time because of Dazai-san–we’ve all kinda just accepted it. I doubt even Kunikida would bat an eye at your presence.”

“The… Port Mafia executive? The one with the red hair?”

“Yes, yes, that one–Chuuya, I think his name is.” Yosano takes another sip. “If I’m gonna be honest–I’m a tad tipsy and I don’t entirely remember.”

“...ah.”

Edgar looks around the room again. He can see Atsushi and Kyouka sipping what is either champagne or some sort of sparkling water or juice, and Dazai speaking on his phone; whoever he’s talking to is so loud that he can hear them from where he stands.

“...going to your shitty banquet! I got enough on my plate already!” the person on the phone screams.

Edgar tries to filter any more of that conversation out of his mind, and looks back to Yosano. He swallows.

“You… are not mad about when I trapped you in my novel, are you?”

“Oh, please, that was months ago,” Yosano answers. “Ranpo forgives you and I honestly can’t care that much.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, I did die, technically, but it’s no big deal.” Yosano smiles. “Now–” she takes Edgar’s hand, “you’re probably starving. We got plenty of good food.”

She’s right. There’s seafood and baked goods on a cleared-off desk, organized in neat little plates. It would be appetizing if Edgar ever really had an appetite at all. (That’s a strange difference between himself and Ranpo that he’s noticed–but he tries to pay no mind to it. Ranpo, thankfully, isn’t the type of person to force food down his throat, unlike… other people.)

“I’m afraid I’m not all that hungry,” Edgar answers, trying his best to sound polite. “I think I will eat later, if I do find myself so.”

“Huh. Okay, then. Suit yourself. Stuff’s good, though; it’s worth a try.” Yosano shrugs and takes another sip from her wine, before walking off, probably to gossip with another coworker.

Edgar doesn’t talk to Ranpo’s coworkers all that much in the next hour or so. He does get a few greetings–the first coming from Atsushi.

“Hope you have a good year, Poe-san,” he says with a soft smile. Kyouka, who is next to him, nods in agreement with him.

Poe, who was in the middle of feeding Karl some crumbs of a cookie, jumps a bit, not hearing them come. He looks at them and nods in return. “A-ah. Yes. I hope you do as well, Atsushi. And…?”

“Kyouka,” Kyouka answers in a soft voice.

“Kyouka.” Edgar smiles, hoping it looks genuine and not weirdly forced. “I wish the best for you both.”

They walk off talking together, leaving Edgar be, which he is highly grateful for. The sinking feeling that often accompanies him is surprisingly gone today. It’s strange. Of course, he is still quite anxious, but the sense of impending doom is quite different in his mind–and for now, it’s gone.

At least, until he senses a presence behind him. He doesn’t hear any footsteps, but he can feel a pair of eyes staring down at him, and he has to force himself to turn around.

It’s Fukuzawa.

Fuck.

Edgar dumps the remnants of his cookie into a trash can, and looks up at him, his back straightening. “Mister Fukuzawa?”

“Poe-san.” Fukuzawa exhales through his nose. “I am aware of your… connection with Ranpo.”

Oh, no. Edgar can only assume the worst. He disapproves, he despites Edgar and wants him to leave the Agency building immedia–

“And I would like you to be aware that I am alright with that.”

Edgar has to keep his mouth from falling open. Huh?

“Ranpo doesn’t get along with people very often,” Fukuzawa continues. His voice is a bit soft, as if hoping to not attract the attention of the others. “He has good relationships with the Agency, but you are… different.”

Edgar’s shoulders scrunch up a bit. “Y-yes,” he affirms.

“And I am glad that Ranpo has found somebody to open up to.” Fukuzawa reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder, and Edgar tenses up. But can see the hint of a smile–or maybe that’s just his imagination. “Take care, Poe-san.”

Edgar nods, almost frantically. “Y-yes, sir. I will.”

Fukuzawa nods to him, and pulls his hand away. He walks away, and even though Edgar is concentrating on him now, he still can’t hear his feet. It’s almost creepy.

A few moments pass and Ranpo comes bounding up to him. He’s holding two plastic bags, with images of penguins and snowmen on them, stuffed full with baked goods.

“Haruno made cookies for everyone to take home!”

Edgar stares at the bags. “You… took two?”

“Yeah.” Ranpo frowns a bit. He shoves one of the bags into Edgar’s hands. “She made enough for everyone. That includes you.”

“...oh.”

“Now, we’ve been here a while, so I think we can slip out unnoticed, if ya want. Dazai-san managed to get Chuuya to come here, so that’s more than enough of a distraction.”

“Do you wish to leave?” Edgar asked. “You seemed unbothered by the…” He tries to think of the word in Japanese. “Sensory input.”

“Honestly? I’m fine.” Ranpo shrugs. “I figured you’d wanna leave, though.”

“Well…” Edgar looks at the bag in his hands. That anxiety still nags at him–but something has changed. He can’t put his finger on it or a name to it, but something has shifted.

But maybe he shouldn’t push his luck.

“I suppose now is as good of a time as any.” He looks up at Ranpo. “But please, give Haruno-san my thanks.”

“Will do.” Ranpo takes his hand. “When I come back to work.”

He pulls Edgar back towards the entrance, and waves goodbye to Yosano. Edgar glances back at the scene before him–he can see Dazai and Chuuya bickering in a corner, and Kunikida with a little girl surely no older than eleven, happily chatting. Fukuzawa is sneaking another cookie from the table of food.

He looks back at Ranpo and follows him out.

As soon as they reach the elevator, Ranpo turns to him with an all-knowing smile. “So… you wanna do anything?”

Ah. Ranpo’s got him figured out.

“Well…” Edgar trails off. “I was hoping we could… go out tonight? I heard there would be fireworks–if you’d be alright with that, of course.”

“Fireworks, huh?” Ranpo steps into the elevator, and Edgar follows. “Didn’t think you’d be into that.”

“Well, I thought it would be… nice. Something we could do together.”

“Aww, you’re acting all romantic! It’s adorable.”

Edgar’s eyes widen and he begins to stutter. “I–well–”

Ranpo breaks into laughter. “Yes, Ed, we can go see the fireworks. I’d love to.”

Edgar lets out a slightly shaky sigh. “T-thank you, dear.”

Ranpo takes his hand as the elevator dings, signaling they’ve reached the ground floor. “You know what? I know just the place to go.”

...

It’s night. It’s been night for a while.

The stars are invisible underneath the light pollution of the city–which is a shame. Edgar wouldn’t mind stargazing with Ranpo, although it doesn’t seem like either of them to be particularly interested in that.

It’s also cold. 

Edgar breathes on his hands–he, like an idiot, neglected to bring gloves. But Ranpo takes one of his hands.

“God, you’re always so cold!” Ranpo comments. “Your hands are freezing!”

“I suppose it’s my fault for forgetting my gloves,” Edgar says, sighing.

Ranpo shuffles closer to him, and grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers. For a second, Edgar freezes up, but then he relaxes once again.

Ranpo huffs. “What time is it?”

“That’s the third time you’ve asked in the last ten minutes, Ranpo,” Edgar answers, but he pulls out his phone anyways and turns on the screen. “11:57.”

“Ugh, time always moves so slowly when you don’t want it to.” Ranpo leans against Edgar, staring up at the sky. “I just want the fireworks to start already.”

“I know.” Edgar’s head tilts to the side, resting against Ranpo’s. “But there’s only two minutes left.”

It goes quiet for a moment. There are other people on the pier, talking amongst themselves, but to Edgar it’s all white noise. The seconds slowly tick by, and he can feel Ranpo growing antsy with the way he squeezes Edgar’s hand.

“Why… do you like me?” Edgar asks in a quiet voice.

He can almost hear Ranpo roll his eyes. “God, you are so stupid sometimes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Ranpo pulls away from him. “I like you because you’re you. You, with all your social awkwardness and low-key obsessiveness. You’re devoted to what you want.” He grabs Edgar’s hand again, and stands on the tips of his toes so that they’re eye-level. “I like that in a man.”

“...ten, nine…!”

“But–you are you,” Edgar retorts. “I am me.”

“...six, five!”

“Exactly.” Ranpo leans in. “I love you, Ed.”

“two, one!”

It’s like a scene out of a corny American romance movie. Ranpo closes the gap and wraps his arms around Edgar’s shoulders, pulling him down a bit as his feet flatten. Ranpo’s lips are soft and taste like the cotton candy chapstick he carries around (which to a normal person would probably be disgusting, but it’s so wonderfully Ranpo that Edgar couldn’t possibly care less about that strange artificial flavor).

Ranpo pulls away. Edgar’s cheeks are a light shade of pink.

“I…” Edgar swallows, although his mouth is a bit dry. “I love you too, Ranpo.”

“Then kiss me like you mean it, dummy!” Ranpo grabs him by the collar and pulls him in for a second kiss. Edgar’s hand holds Ranpo’s face, and his free hand takes Ranpo’s.

The firework display goes completely ignored.

...

Dawn comes and Ranpo and Edgar are eating mochi. They’re sitting on the roof of the Agency building, having sneaked up there via the fire escape.

“So,” Ranpo asks with his mouth full of mochi, “when are you going back to America?”

Edgar is quiet for a moment. He looks down at the plastic container of food sitting between them, seemingly lost in thought. His visa expires in two weeks.

But… he could probably ask Francis to pull a few strings.

“I can stay for longer,” he finally answers. “If you’d have me.”

Ranpo’s eyes widen a bit, and Edgar can see the beginnings of a smile on his face. “For how long?”

“As long as you want, my dear Ranpo.”

Ranpo launches forward and wraps himself around Edgar in a tight embrace, forcing Edgar to fall backwards onto the pavement. Ranpo is almost vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, yes, as long as you can!” he says gleefully.

Edgar lets out a breath of relief. He stares up at the cloudless sky, a dark slate to orange gradient. It’s beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as Ranpo.

His hand rests on Ranpo’s back. “Then I shall see that it’s done.”

[taylor-swift-bracket]

🎇Please reblog!🎇

Notable Bridges

(Under the cut)

Fearless (Taylor’s Version)

You Belong With Me

Oh, I remember you driving to my house

In the middle of the night

I'm the one who makes you laugh

When you know you're 'bout to cry

And I know your favorite songs

And you tell me 'bout your dreams

Think I know where you belong

Think I know it's with me

Love Story

But I got tired of waiting

Wondering if you were ever coming around

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town and I

Fearless

Well, you stood there with me in the doorway

My hands shake, I'm not usually this way but

You pull me in and I'm a little more brave

It's the first kiss, it's flawless, really something

It's fearless

Oh, yeah

Fifteen

When all you wanted was to be wanted

Wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now

Back then, I swore I was gonna marry him someday

But I realized some bigger dreams of mine

And Abigail gave everything she had

To a boy who changed his mind

And we both cried

Mr. Perfectly Fine

So dignified in your well-pressed suit

So strategized, all the eyes on you

Sashay your way to your seat

It's the best seat in the best room

Oh, he's so smug, Mr. "Always wins"

So far above me in every sense

So far above feelin' anything

And it's really such a shame

It's such a shame

'Cause I was Miss "Here to stay"

Now I'm Miss "Gonna be alright someday"

And someday, maybe you'll miss me

But by then, you'll be Mr. "Too late"

Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)

Dear John

You are an expert at sorry and keeping lines blurry

Never impressed by me acing your tests

All the girls that you've run dry have tired lifeless eyes

'Cause you burned them out

But I took your matches before fire could catch me

So don't look now

I'm shining like fireworks over your sad empty town

Oh, oh

Enchanted

This is me praying that

This was the very first page

Not where the storyline ends

My thoughts will echo your name

Until I see you again

These are the words I held back

As I was leaving too soon

I was enchanted to meet you

Please, don't be in love with someone else

Please, don't have somebody waiting on you

Please, don't be in love with someone else (Ooh)

Please, don't have somebody waiting on you (Ooh, oh)

Back to December

I miss your tanned skin, your sweet smile

So good to me, so right

And how you held me in your arms that September night

The first time you ever saw me cry

Maybe this is wishful thinkin'

Probably mindless dreaming

But if we loved again, I swear I'd love you right

I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't

So, if the chain is on your door, I understand

Long Live

Hold on to spinning around

Confetti falls to the ground

May these memories break our fall

Will you take a moment? Promise me this

That you'll stand by me forever

But if, God forbid, fate should step in

And force us into a goodbye

If you have children some day

When they point to the pictures

Please, tell 'em my name

Tell 'em how the crowds went wild

Tell 'em how I hope they shine

Long live the walls we crashed through

I had the time of my life with you

Mine

And I remember that fight, 2:30AM

As everything was slipping right out of our hands

I ran out crying and you followed me out into the street

Braced myself for the goodbye

'Cause that's all I've ever known

Then you took me by surprise

You said, "I'll never leave you alone"

[thedawningofthehour]

How much time has actually passed since the initial kidnapping? I know its been over a year, maybe a year and a few months? Draxum has all their hatch dates, and last I remember Galois is 15, but Leo is 16 (since they only guessed their hatch dates) and Draxum even tells him so in the latest chapter, it feels…idk it feels like something, but I cant pinpoint it exactly. Something soft with a hint of ridicule, maybe? Or maybe I missed Galois‘ second birthday during all the managing of war and stuff

Donnie's kidnapping took place March 13th, 2019. Currently, we're somewhere in early-mid July of 2020. Leo was going to mention in one of his sections last chapter that Independence Day had passed without fanfare and how weird that felt, to not have fireworks in New York. But then I forgot, because you know how I am. Leo's sixteenth birthday has passed; Gale's has not. But neither of those dates are their actual birthday.

Donnie and Leo hatched on the same day. Considering when spiny softshells hatch this with probably in fall of 2004, (Leo was hatched by a breeder so he didn't necessarily need to hatch when wild sliders usually do) so they are technically still fifteen! But Draxum also doesn't go by their real hatchdate for Gale's birthdate-December would be way too late for a spiny softshell to hatch, and in his fiction Gale never really hatched at all. He got thrown together in a petri dish like an IVF baby. So he didn't need to be 'born' in a certain season; he was entirely on Science Time.

I went back and forth on whether Draxum should acknowledge him as fifteen or sixteen, but ultimately I decided it would be more impactful for him to acknowledge Leo's own agency over the matter and Splinter's judgement over their approximate ages. And anyway, it wasn't like it really mattered. Galois's own birthdate is a month or three after his 'real' one. Not to mention time was sort of of the essence-he didn't have time to argue with Leo over whether he was fifteen or sixteen.

[lilypadlys]

Domestic December Day 31 - Happy New Year!

The Ghouls' NYE celebration

Notes: Prompt list by comp-lady. See prompt list here

Holy fuck we made it. Whew! This was a wild month but I'm so happy I managed to get here. Thank you so much to comp-lady for the prompts. Thank you for reading. Happy New Year to you all!

NYE party and kissies below the cut or on AO3

The ghoul’s new years eve party is in full swing. All the ghouls as well as Copia, have gathered in the common room to mingle. They’ve got gold tinsel left over from yule strung around the common room, party poppers enchanted with quintessence to emit harmless colored sparks when pulled; Copia even tracked down enough champagne to keep ten hell beasts occupied for at least a couple hours.

Cirrus and Cumulus are cuddling on the couch, feeding each other h’orderves. Sunny is watching/egging on Dew and Swiss as they see how many flutes of champagne they can down before they get tipsy. Rain and Mountain disappeared to a closet a while back after they both got more than tipsy. Phantom and Aurora are eagerly eyeing both the clock and the poppers and noise makers that had to be placed on a high shelf so they didn’t use them all up at once. Aether and Copia are chatting and keeping an eye on the others (Swiss and Dew) to ensure the chaos doesn’t get out of hand.

Fifteen minutes to midnight, it’s finally time to head outside. Phantom and Aurora lead the charge to the lawn where siblings and clergy members alike have gathered on blankets in preparation for the fireworks. The rest of the pack follow close behind with Copia bringing up the rear. They find an open spot and settle down. They pass around the party poppers and noise makers as Phantom and Aurora beg Copia to check his watch for the umpteenth time. Five minutes to midnight.

Finally a hush goes over the lawn when the minute countdown starts. Someone yells out, “Ten! Nine!”

The crowd quickly catches on.

“Eight! Seven! Six!”

Party poppers and noise makers are grabbed.

“Five! Four!”

Everyone pulls their friends and lovers close.

“Three! Two! One!”

The chapel bells begin to ring out.

“Happy new year!”

The sky is lit up with quintessence aided fireworks. Everyone cheers. The ghoulettes hug and immediately start exchanging kisses. A very inebriated Rain and Mountain start full on making out. Swiss kisses Phantom on the mouth as Aether pulls Dew close and they exchange a tender kiss. Then everyone turns to Copia, sitting on the edge of the blanket watching the fireworks.

“Bring it in Papa.” Aether beckons.

Copia makes to shuffle over but there’s no need. All ten ghouls immediately smother him in a dog pile of hugs and smooches.

“Happy new year Papa!” They all cheer.

“Happy new year to you all, my ghouls.”