#clouds fog and mists comments

[the-badger-mole]

Hey! I just read your fic about fog children, it's pretty realistic! Aang was 12 when the last he was with the Air Nomads, a child, so they definitely didn't tell him about the bad things.

Can I ask for a part 2? (Zutara included, please, pretty please.)

I'm glad you liked it! I've always said that it was impossible for Aang at age 12 to have enough knowledge of the history and philosophy of his people to be a good source to teaching about it. That kind of knowledge takes decades to build in the best of times.

I don't have plans for a follow up right now, but who knows? Maybe I'll be struck by inspiration again.

[moineauz]

may i request a ticket for mosaic the memento with boothill?

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ THE HOUSE OF MUSICA PRESENTS... 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆ノ𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 — boothill !

synopsis: lovers that collect each other, piece by piece and display it in peculiar ways.

side comments: tysm for requesting!! I definitely had fun with this and boothill in general. I took the concept quite literally hehe.

extra: gn reader, angst & fluff, mentions of marriage, established relationship word count: 1, 184

When eyesight failed, you turned to the wind's caress, the hum of incessant chatter, and the mechanical click of Boothill's shoes like a heartbeat made of flesh and bone.

Penacony thrived and bounced with promise and prose that night, as it has every night; brimming with the convivial spirit of a cocktail. While morphing desire into the tangible.

Nevertheless, Penacony is a pest: a jewel sowing songs of seduction, Time spent in Penacony rots the living flesh.

"You're thinkin' too much again."

Languidly, you turn your head towards the man leaning against the door frame. His limbs slacken as a tender grin pressed onto his face. It was as beckoning as a blast of dust and powder. A soothing grace found in jagged cliffs.

"It's Penacony," you begin scrupulously, "It's difficult not to think of-"

A small nail bolt hits the ground, a ring reverberating throughout your hotel room: a sour psalm. Your eyes observe the nail as it spins toward the tip of your boot; halting it in its path.

Boothill scrutinizes your eyebrows and how they crease, your placid countenance replaced by blunt displeasure. You cast a faint sigh, rolling your wrists until you discerned a click. A practice Boothill has inscribed into your skin it seemed. To Boothill, your faint, pervasive sighs are like wisps of smoke billowing in feeble puffs. It is the kind that Boothill could keep within the biting palms of his hands like a cloud of mist rolling over a slumbering horizon.

"Boothill," you chide askance, the nail now tightly wrapped under the guileful length of your fingers, "You're falling apart, again."

Boothill emits a delicate laugh; carrying through the thick atmosphere of your hotel room like fog being pushed to the side. "Oh? It's Nothin' to worry bout'," he exclaims, his grin acute and unrelenting like a child.

You scoff, your face solemn. "You're a fool then."

Boohill raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "A fool?" he begins with a tone of toying inquisition, "And what kind of fool would I be then?"

"The kind that never listens," you seethed as you turned your back and rummaged through your satchel. The click and ring of colliding components rebound from the disquieting walls. "Tell me, is it that difficult to keep your gun down?"

Instead, Boothill's legs carry him to the side of your bed; hoisting himself up before lying down on his back, his right hand gingerly tapping against the plating of his chest. One beat after another, one rise of your chest like sundown, one click before the drop.

The room grows reticent as does Boothill's incessant chatter. You considered him like a fly; one swat never ceased his lingering. His buzz and wagers compelled you to an ineffable cusp of undoing. He tugged at your hair, sauntered over your plans and tenderly pressed his treasured gun against your skull like a prayer of undying fidelity: the kind that reaches from the mounds of soil, dust and dirt. A skeleton crawling on the face of the Earth.

However, you kept the bones of that same serrated skeleton in your coat pockets. When the night yielded its youth, you traced your glided hands over its ridges like one recites verses in a destitute, ceaseless pursuit for solace. You hauled the bones of your dead on your back, straggling through sand dunes and sun. Thus, you ensured the bones would never corrode or break. For safekeeping, you thought.

"It always surprises me," professed Boothill, his body still limp on your bed, "That you carry every part of me in that damn satchel of yours."

He then scoffs, amused, "It's ridiculous."

A subtle, witty smile unwinds on your lips before you exasperate, "Well, I find it more ridiculous that a full-grown man needs his spouse to cover his boo-boos."

"Ha!" exclaims Boothill, a smirk unveiling itself, "And what's so wrong bout' that?"

You simply hum at this question, still absorbed by the sensations of various metal pieces grazing against your skin. "Boothill," you betokened "Which wire is thinner? The one on the right or the one on the left?"

Boothill promptly glances at the side table, "The one on the right."

You reach for the wire on the right, no inkling of doubt smearing the page of your chest.

Boothill never pressed his knee down or slipped a circular piece of metal on your finger.

On the contrary, you professed your devotion while uncoiling the vast forests of his wires found in his spinal cord and replacing the plating of his shins. Like a doll being unwinded: its button eyes stitched concurrently to become whole.

Boothill pondered the concept of marriage and discerned it to be ludicrous. However, there was a peculiar charm found in the title "My spouse" like windchimes that crash and sway, casting their dreams into an afternoon breeze.

He reminisced how you ripped his chest open and raised his metal heart in the plane of your hands like an offering. He entrusted you.

You dismantled him with each screw and wire; rerouting and disconnecting nerve after nerve, daring not to draw a breath in fear of failure. His entire being rested upon the pull and press of your fingers and the thrust of your arms. Boothill observed beads of sweat trickling down your forehead and the tentative purses of your lips. He could recount the strands of hair that brushed against your cheek and the bitter pit of envy and spite that grew in him like a weed. The wind could stroke your cheek and the Earth could wrap you fold upon fold until you became the foundations of life itself. Nevertheless, Boothill comprehended how insatiable he was. He envied how the folds of death seemed to embrace you closer than he could ever offer you.

The vibrations of your proposal still ring in his head and run up his spine with the zeal of electricity and the parting words of tenderness. Thus, how could he ever say no?

"I'm almost done with your leg," you muse, your eyes bouncing from Boothill's reposed face and the length of his leg.

"Why'd you ask to become my spouse, ( Name )?"

You blink, the movements of your hands paused while the clock continues to cast its familiar tick-tok. "Don't call me that," you remarked indifferently, your hands promptly resuming their work.

"Then what do I call you?" drawls Boothill, his eyes fixated on the tenacious shifts of your expression.

You emit a half-amused scoff before avowing, "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

"Alright then," teases Boothill, "We can play it that way." He pauses, then prompts, "Why'd you ask to become my spouse, doll?"

With that simple phrase, you gingerly place your tools down and lean forward. The poignant warmth of your breath skimming over Boothill's smooth cheek. A blinding smile tugs at the corners of your lips and the placid facade carved in your face broke with brilliance like the yolk of an egg. The corners of Boothill's eyes pooled with awe.

"Because I was tired of carrying pieces of you in my pockets."

general masterlist. request page for event.

[jeannereames]

Master of Battles...teasers

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

From @nemainofthewater The word for the next round is FEAST.

So, I’m going to have a little fun and share with you some excerpts from my current series, Master of Battles. Even better, as the word has five letters, I’ll choose one excerpt from EACH of the 5 completed novels in the series. (Book 6 is still in process.)

Two caveats: as the series is not sold yet, much less in the editing process, what you see here might differ from any final version (up to and including book titles).

Second, perhaps obviously, all of these are copyrighted material. Consider them teasers.

Love any feedback in comments.

From Master of Battles, Book 1, The Oriole

(I’m cheating just a tad here, as the second line of the novel starts with an /f/, so I’m bracketing the first line but including it….)

[Heart hammering, Otteutákhwa ran for his life.]

Five of the city guard scrambled after, stud-soled sandals aclatter on cobblestone, a bright-brass drumming that called “capture.” If they caught up, they’d drag him back to jail, which would, eventually, return him to Shishiíkwia.

He’d rather die.

From Master of Battles, Book 2, Green-mantle Bird Clan

Equal parts honored and terrified, Suwatha stood on the most hallowed place in all of Four Rivers.

The Sacred Isle.

Clouds fashioned a rolling haze, diffusing sunlight, so the elaborately carved arboreal buildings of the Holy City appeared then vanished in mist as Suwatha and her twin Skanyo were led along hanging wooden bridges. Phosphorescent vines braided handrails and slid beneath floor planks, making yellow-green and red trails through the cloud forest. Water rushed down cliff faces to which plants clung: fluffy ferns, delicate purple orchids, and huge white spider flowers with long cerise stamens like curling tongues. Birds piped clear and high over a constant purr of insects, and the air was heavy with moisture, more mist than sprinkle. Pathway lamps wreathed in fog stretched into the distance, a fuzzy yellow line rising as clouds filled the valley bowl, brushed on top by the sun’s pink and gold. She spotted a few hummingbirds, beryl and carnelian, amethyst and lapis zipping past almost too fast to see. Gnarled trees grew in thick clumps anywhere a plateau or ledge could be found. Now and then, branches would thin enough for Suwatha to see the parrot-blue sea far below.

She’d grown up in Yú-nawa Tewáleyu—Hundred Falls—the largest Longhouse city, arguably the largest in all of Four Rivers. She was used to impressive buildings, grandeur in scenery, and a bustle of people at all tree levels. Yet the Holy City invoked pure awe: ethereal, ancient, and serene.

From Master of Battles, Book 3, Great Blue Heron

As they entered the harbor under a halo of pale mist, no major engagement greeted them. Ision’s infantry occupied the dock, forming a long line of locked shields, eight-men deep. No one seemed to be down. It looked like parade formation.

Had Shishiίkwia permitted them to gain a beachhead unopposed?

Unbelievable.

What did the witch want so badly that he’d risk his entire army to get it?

From Master of Battles, Book 4, The Piasa

“Shhh,” he said. “Shhh.” It was the voice from [Suwatha’s] childhood when she’d been scared in the night, the big brother come to comfort her and Skanyo. She ceased fighting.

Cautious, those who’d dropped to knees got up. The half-finished sacrifice lay forgotten on the altar, everyone’s attention riveted by Ision-as-Piasa arrowing towards a scoop in the eastern slope: no doubt the flat area where Nowoko and Kuluana had made their wheel. A haze seemed to bloom around it despite the brightness of late morning. Roaring in defiance, Piasa pierced right through, rolling the mist to either side. Immediately, it flowed back together to flood after him. Suwatha clutched a hand at her throat, tail curling and uncurling. Nagwē kept a hold of her, as if afraid she might try to bolt again, but common sense had returned. How could she possibly help in a supernatural battle?

And, One Foretold or not, how could he fight cannibal spirits?

For surely that was what swarmed around him, materializing more fully as a gray cloud. His wings beat the air, driving himself up, up. At this distance, he was little more than a red-gold speck against sun glare, the cannibal spirits occluding his form like an oncoming eclipse.

Abruptly, the fog exploded outward and away from him, leaving him free, wings spread against the yellow sun behind, head lifted and mane streaming.

The fog seemed somehow diminished. Not gone but diminished. Diving, he chased after.

And it fled.

From Master of Battles, Book 5, The Peacock Throne

Teo felt cold seep into his bones. “Will they kill him? When they find out the truth?”

“That won’t be the problem. But he’ll have to negotiate.”

“I had a vision in the park. At the old plane tree.”

“The Mother Gaia Tree?”

So, Ensāni understood Mother Trees.

“What did you see?” Aratos asked.

“The city founding, I think. A red-haired man constructed an altar under the tree and said he’d build a city to last a thousand years. The altar isn’t there anymore though.”

“It is—holding up one of the branches. That must have been the first Perdikkas. He and his brothers were fleeing pursuit and crossed the Bodená, then scaled the cliff to find that tree. He thought it a good omen. I think he just liked the waterfalls and knew a defensible site when he saw it.”

That sounded like Aratos. Always rational.

“What else did you see?” His tone was expectant, as if he knew something. Was he the Spirits’ answer to Teo’s request for more?

“I saw two futures, but don’t know if they’re just different times in one future, or two possibilities. In the first, my people live peaceably among yours. But I also saw a future where the city falls, only a few survivors hiding in the tree’s hollows.”

The ghost of Aratos bent forward on the throne. “You must make the first Perdikkas’s prophecy come true, Teo. A thousand years. You must bring about the first future.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Negotiate.” The ghost faded until the throne was empty.

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

August 8th

Starting today off with a newspaper clipping, pasted by Mina in her journal:

One of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been experienced here, with results both strange and unique.

🎶 STOOOoooOOOOOoooOOOOORRRM 🎶

The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour—flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes.

Don’t you love some subtle imagery about the end of a world and the beginning of another.

The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in face of her danger.

People continue to try and help each other 🥺

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. […] To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland—white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.

I love depictions of the sea as a monster… 🌊🔱

On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

PEOPLE!!!!! CAN BE GOOD!!!!!

The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship.

Wonderful.

But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones—"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

Wonderfuler.

The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone.

Wonderfulest.

It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death—a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca—and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

NO NO NO BURN HIM CUT HIS HEAD SLAM A STAKE IN HIS HEART

Now back to the girls:

Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.

Everything is A-OK! 👍

Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

WHERE ARE YOU JONATHAN

And did the old man, in fact, die?

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 29: Back From Under the Ground

Summary: Tommy and Lucy work to put the last of their affairs in order.

Word Count: 4,244

Warnings: Violence, minor/canonical character death, terminal illness, suicidal thoughts/intentions, past animal death, and estrangement.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 19: No Limitations

Lucy clutched tight to the straps keeping her securely in place, jostling back and forth against the plane's movements. She cringed when they took a sudden dip, her stomach swooping. And not in a pleasant way. 

Outside the rectangular windows that lined the sides of the plane, she could see nothing but gray clouds. She could only assume that it was storming horribly outside. 

The inside of the plane felt cramped and small and dark. She had been reluctant to get into it when she and Tommy first climbed aboard. He must have seen it on her face, because he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he’d promised in a soft whisper into her ear.

Once they’d gotten in and settled, it wasn't so bad. At least until the turbulence started. 

Next to her, Tommy had gone quiet, his head down and hands interlaced on his stomach over the buckles of his seatbelt. He was frowning at the floor, eyes unfocused, somewhere far away in his own head. 

He grimaced, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the bumpiness of the ride, or whatever visions were passing across his eyes. 

She reached down and took his hand, interlacing their fingers. Something in his shoulders seemed to relax at the touch, the look in his eyes snapping back to the present. He gave her hand a tight squeeze, resting their entwined fingers on his thigh. 

The aircraft was rattling so bad, she half expected it to start breaking apart. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the seat, and hoped that soon it would be over.

When they finally touched down onto the ground, she heaved out a sigh of relief, eagerly unhooking the buckles on her seatbelt. 

“Well, that was awful,” she commented to Tommy after they’d gotten their things and were out of earshot of the pilot

“You didn’t like it?”

She cast him a disbelieving look. “You did!?”

He shrugged. “It was��interesting. I’m sure they’ll fine-tune the process as time goes on.”

“I thought we were going to blow up right there in the middle of the sky multiple times.”

He snorted. “We still have the trip back.”

She groaned. “Is it too late to just let Michael fucking kill us?”

That got a genuine laugh out of him, kissing the top of her head fondly. They started to work their way through the fog, heading in the direction of the same pub and inn they’d met Michael at before. 

On their way, Johnny Dogs sidled up to them. 

“What have you got?” Tommy asked. 

“I just spoke to your man inside the inn. He says that they’ve put a bomb in the boot of the front car closest to the door.”

“Right. We’ll go inside and keep them distracted while you switch out the bomb and put it in the boot of the other car.”

“You don’t want me to just throw it in the ocean?”

“No. I expect he’ll have his men take the second car. It’ll be an easier way to get rid of most of them without having to engage in a shootout.”

“I’ll mark a noose on the door of the car to let you know it’s safe to get inside.”

“Good. Now go, before someone spots us together.”

Johnny disappeared into the mist. Lucy took a deep breath, flexing her gloved hands against the cold. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Johnny to pull through for them; she just wished sometimes that she could do everything herself. 

“You ready?” Tommy asked. The inn came into sight up ahead. Sure enough, there were two cars parked in front of it. 

“Yeah.”

He stopped her suddenly, hands resting on her upper arms. “If things go wrong…” he drew in a deep breath. “I want you to know that I’ve loved you very, very much.”

She placed her hands on his forearms, emotion squeezing at her heart. “I love you too. I’ve loved you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

He kissed her, slow and gentle, lingering a little even though it was not a particularly long kiss. She squeezed him once, then let him go, and together they picked their way over to the door of the inn. 

They walked in to find Jack’s men lounging in the pub, eyeing them both up like a pack of hungry dogs. Michael was sitting at the bar, his back to them. In the corner, she saw  Jean-Claude, the cut that Tommy left him with the last time they saw him having healed into a faint scar.

It was a gambol; trusting his information. But they paid him well and put him and his friends back to work when prohibition threatened to steal them of their jobs. Hopefully that was enough. 

They went to the bar, Tommy ordering whiskey for them both and greeting Michael. They looked over at the man they had entrusted with their lives. Jean-Claude’s eyes sparkled a little when he noted they were drinking whiskey and not water this time around, lifting his glass to them. 

Lucy felt herself relax a little. 

Tommy ordered a second helping of whiskey, drinking it while Michael explained that they wanted him to take them to where the opium was being stored before they paid for it. 

Ah, so that was how they were going to get them into the car. 

They went back outside. On Michael’s order, all of the men he was with piled into the second car, the one parked further from the door. Michael said he would drive with her and Tommy, then stopped, patting himself down, promptly announcing he’d forgotten his cigarettes and heading back into the pub.

Lucy shared a knowing look with Tommy. The kid needed to work on his acting skills. 

She craned her head around Tommy to peer at the passenger side door. Smudged near the handle was a drawing of a noose. Tommy quickly wiped it away and opened the door. 

“You sit in front, with me,” he told her, leaning back so she could climb in first. The request made sense. If the car behind them went up in flames, the glass could injure her if she was in the backseat. He climbed in behind her, and slammed the door shut.

They sat with their sides pressed tightly together, the only sounds in the car their breathing. Lucy reached over and took Tommy’s hand.

At least if they died here, they would die together. 

Tommy checked his pocket watch, the ticking unbearably loud in the otherwise quiet of the car. Lucy could hear her heartbeat hammering away in her ears. It could only have been a few minutes, but it felt like an excruciating eternity, sitting there with him, listening to the ticking of his watch, waiting for the flames of an explosion to consume them both. She shuffled closer to his side, feeling him press back against her. 

When the explosion came, it half rocked their own vehicle with the force of it. The back window blasted inwards, and Tommy was suddenly seizing her into his arms, pulling her tight to his chest and half curling over her to try to shield her from the broken glass and blazing heat bursting outwards from the car behind them. The blast was so powerful, it broke all the front windows of the pub they were just in.

Neither of them moved, waiting to make sure it was over before cautiously raising their heads.

“Are you okay?” Tommy asked, gripping her shoulder. She nodded. Her ears were ringing a little, but other than that, she didn’t seem the worst for wear. 

“You?”

“I’m fine,” he let out a shaky breath, reaching into his coat for his pistol. Lucy did the same, head swiveling around towards the door to the inn. 

They stepped out of the car just as Michael came out of the inn, his eyes growing round as saucers when he saw them. Tommy had his pistol trained on him in an instant. Lucy took a moment to check behind them, to make sure that no one in the second vehicle was still alive. Fire was still crackling from its charred remains, and she recoiled a little at the scent of burning flesh. 

There was no movement from inside. Black smoke billowed into the air, a deep contrast with the white of snow all around them. The wind blew it back into their faces. 

She returned her attention to Michael, pistol leveling with his chest. Tommy was shouting for Johnny, who came running from where he was hiding nearby. He acknowledged Michael, and quickly excused himself.

Tommy lowered his weapon, but Lucy did no such thing. She did not see a weapon on Michael, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She kept her pistol trained on him while he and Tommy talked.

Her fingers flexed against the trigger, waiting for Tommy to give her the order. She offered, before they left England, to be the one to put an end to Michael. To spare Tommy the guilt and pain of having to do it himself. He had not yet decided which of them it would be, then. But still, she was ready. 

She knew the decision he made by the tone of sorrow that entered his voice when he began to speak of Polly. 

“She’ll visit me no more,” he announced, and in a movement almost too fast to even comprehend, he raised his pistol, and fired a single shot into Michael’s head. 

Michael went down, onto his back, splayed out there onto the pavement. She and Tommy surged forward to stare down at him. The bullet had entered his left eye, leaving a bloodied mess in its wake. His other eye was wide open, staring emptily up at the sky. Dead. 

Lucy couldn’t quite help the pulse of satisfaction that went through her. Even if she wasn’t the one to pull the trigger on him in the end, she was just glad that they didn’t need to worry about the usurping idiot anymore. 

They both holstered their weapons, and went inside. Glass crunched loudly under their feet, the hinges on the door shrieking in complaint when it was opened and closed. Tommy brushed bits of broken glass from the surface of the bar with a gloved hand and pulled up a chair. Lucy sat down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t bother with asking if he was alright. She already knew that he wasn’t. 

He pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one and taking a drag before holding it out silently to her. She took it, drawing the smoke gratefully into her lungs, and passed it back to him. 

A booming voice from the back interrupted the little moment of silence they’d been having, Alfie bursting into the pub with his usual flourish and bravado. Arriving to snatch up his prize of half of Boston. 

“Hi Alfie,” Lucy greeted him with a small smile. “Did you get our wedding gift?”

“Yeah, I did, actually, thanks, little demon,” Alfie reached over to tussle at her hair affectionately. She swatted his hand away halfheartedly, 

“We got him a wedding gift?” Tommy asked. She kicked him lightly under the table. 

“I did, and because I’m a good partner I let you take half the credit by putting your name next to mine on the card.” She shot him a fond smile, pouring herself a glass of whiskey while Alfie launched into his usual mad ramblings and ravings. 

“Cousin,” she corrected, when Alfie referred to Michael as Tommy’s nephew. 

Alfie stopped mid-speech to stare at her. “Come again?”

“Michael was Tommy’s cousin. Not nephew.”

“Oh, for fucks–it’s practically the same bloody thing, isn’t it?”

“It is not.”

He rolled his eyes, grumbling and returning back to his pontifications. When Tommy did not react, he frowned, shuffling in closer, asking–in a voice frighteningly genuine in its concern–if he was alright. 

That lasted only about ten seconds of course, as his next question following Tommy’s revelation that he was dying was if it was from the clap. Lucy almost choked on her drink, Tommy patting her on the back and shooting her worried looks and Alfie a few glares until she had stopped coughing.

But under the madness and the nonsense, she could sense the genuine concern and sadness in Alfie’s voice. From over Tommy’s head, he looked at her, brow furrowed.

She waited until they were mostly done with their conversation, and then slipped from her chair. 

“Before we go, I need to make a phone call.” She went to the phone in the corner. “Ah, look at that. They replaced the one that you…shot.” She gave Tommy another fond look over her shoulder while she picked up the receiver and dialed. 

“The fuck you going around shooting telephones for?” Alfie demanded, and she chuckled a little to herself as the two men started to get into a spirited debate behind her. The phone rang a few times, and then a familiar voice answered from the other line. 

“Hello?”

“Isiah? Talk to me.”

“Billy’s dead.”

She let out a breath of relief, nodding to herself. “Who killed him?”

“Duke.”

“Finn failed, then?”

“Yeah,” Isiah sighed. “He tried to shoot Duke twice.”

“Is he alive?”

“Yeah. Duke banished him from the family. He’s allowed to do that, right?”

She smiled a little to herself. “I delegated my powers of exile to him while I’m away.” She glanced over at Tommy and Alfie, the pair still talking. A little ghost of a smile pulled at Tommy’s lips. “You’re both okay?”

“All grand here. Finn left in a huff, but I don’t think he’s going to try anything. Not for a while, at least. He’ll need to lick his wounds, first.”

She had to agree. Finn was mostly bark and no bite. But they would need to tread carefully, in case he decided to try to come crawling back like Michael had. “What about Arthur?”

“He’s fine. He and Jeremiah took care of Laura McKee and the men she brought with her to the Garrison.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yep.”

She sighed heavily in deep relief. Practically everything had gone as they’d expected it too, then. It was a fucking miracle they’d managed to pull this all off with no casualties. 

“Good. You boys did well. You found the booze in the cellar?”

“Sure did.”

“Enjoy yourselves.”

“You and Tommy are alright?”

“Right as rain.” Her smile faded. “Michael’s dead.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“Mhm. We’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, Lucy.”

She hung up, returning to Tommy to find him eyeing her anxiously. “Well?”

“Everything went as we planned. Billy and McKee are dead. No casualties on our end.”

His shoulders relaxed, relief blatant in his eyes. 

“Duke had to send Finn away.”

He squeezed his eyes shut at that, a look of pain momentarily working its way across his face. But when he opened his eyes again, his expression was resigned. “That’s what we expected to happen.”

“Mhm.”

“Right.” He stood. “Let’s go.”

∗ ∗ ∗

It was later, when he was seeing them off, that Alfie stopped her with a hand on the arm. Tommy was busy talking to the pilot of the plane they were taking back to England, giving him a chance to pull her aside and speak to her alone for a minute.

“He’s really dying?” he asked, voice soft and serious. 

She nodded, lips pressing together. “Yeah. Tuberculoma. In his brain.”

“Fuck,” he looked over at Tommy, then back at her. “What will happen to you, after he’s gone? Are you going to take over?”

She hesitated, not sure if he would understand. “There’s not going to be an after, Alfie. Not for me.”

His brow furrowed, taking on the expression of a grumpy grizzly bear. “You can’t be serious, treacle.”

“I’ve never been more serious of anything in my life.”

“You have plenty left to live for.”

“Do I?” She shifted, wrapping her arms around herself. “The Shelbys will probably want me gone, let alone ever accept me as their leader. Mosley will most likely try to have me killed again, and…” she trailed off, shaking her head. 

“And what?”

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “And I just don’t want to live without him, Alfie. I wouldn’t be living. I’d been surviving, at best. Wandering the earth, waiting to die so that maybe I can see him again.”

“You could come work for me.”

“I love you, Alfie, but it wouldn’t be the same. We both know that.”

He looked at her with the expression of a deeply disapproving father or older brother. “Does he know what you plan to do?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s alright with it?”

“I had to practically beg him over it, but yes. He is. He understands.” She looked into his face, the look of disapproval not dispersing. “It’s my decision, Alfie.”

His lips turned downwards. “Of all the bloody people you had to go and tie yourself too,” he shook his head, looking over to the plane. They appeared to be almost ready. “I suppose this is the last time we’ll ever see each other, then.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Probably.”

He pulled her into a bone crushing hug that she fiercely returned. “May you find peace, little demon,” he said into her shoulder. She closed her eyes, holding onto her old friend a minute longer before letting him go. 

“You too, Alfie.”

She offered him a sad, but hopefully reassuring smile, and went to return to Tommy. 

∗ ∗ ∗

She stood in the middle of the darkened foyer of Arrow House, a strange sense of deja vu washing over her at seeing all the rooms vacant of furniture or decoration. It felt like it did that first day he brought her and Grace out to see the house for the first time, when they were looking for a bigger home to buy.

A place for their family. To grow old in. To find peace from the chaos that was the rest of their lives. 

Look how well that fucking worked out, she thought bitterly. She wondered to herself if the house had ever really felt like a home to her. Or if there was always a part of her that felt like a fraud. Like they were playing pretend at a life they never were meant to have. 

“Lucy?”

She turned at the sound of Tommy’s voice, waiting for her near the door. 

“Are you ready?”

She took one last long look around the home, and nodded, going to take his hand. 

“Yeah.”

He led the way out the door and down the drive, giving the order once they were far enough away to their men. Behind her, she heard the echoing boom of the dynamite igniting, then the thunder of brick and wood splitting and bursting as the house went up in flames, collapsing down into itself. 

She forced herself not to look back. There was nothing to look back to, anyway. 

Her arms tightened around the urn clutched in them. 

They’d picked up Asher’s ashes on their way back from the airport. She kept them clutched tight to her chest ever since, unable to let them go quite yet. 

“Wait a minute,” she said, reaching to tug on Tommy’s sleeve. He stopped, facing her curiously. The rest of the family was camped out on the grounds near a lake on the property. They’d gone all out with the setup. Wagons. Horses. A campfire. It was nice. 

And it would serve as good cover for them to slip away with the excuse that they both needed the fresh air and time away from the city and business to unwind. 

Glancing out at the grassy fields surrounding them, she sniffled at memories of Asher racing across the lawn. He was always happiest there, chasing the ball they would throw for him or trotting dutifully at their sides.

“It should be here,” she said to Tommy. He looked out over the grass, and nodded. 

“Yes. I think you’re right.”

She fumbled with the top of the urn, twisting it open and passing it to him to hold. He followed her out onto the grass, to the top of a little hill just off the path. She felt tears burn at the corners of her eyes. Sniffling, she dug her hand into the urn, taking hold of the first handful of ash.

She let the grey and black material slip through her fingers to be carried away by the wind across the meadow. 

“My good boy,” she choked on her tears, turning the urn over, spreading the ashes across the grass. “I love you.”

Tommy came up to her side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. The empty urn dangled limply from one hand while they watched the ashes blow away into the breeze.

Lucy sniffled, chest spasming with a few sobs before she quieted. Tommy stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head, waiting patiently until she was ready to move. 

“Okay,” she whispered finally, taking his hand once more and letting him lead her in the direction of the camp. 

They had set up a long table amongst the trees, the rest of the family already seated when they arrived. Lucy slipped into one of the empty chairs next to the head of the table. She entwined her hands together, resting them against her lips while Tommy started to give a speech and raised a toast. Hopefully, if anyone noticed the emotion clouding her face, she could just pass it off as lingering grief for Asher. It was at least half true, after all. 

When he announced that he would be going away for a bit, she half launched herself out of her seat, going to stand behind him with her back to the rest of the table, knuckles pressed hard to her lips to keep from crying. Tommy rested a grounding hand on her shoulder. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned back to face everyone, watching Tommy say his goodbyes. 

Her heart felt like someone really was cleaving it from her chest. 

How could she say goodbye to all these people? They had taken her in when she had nowhere to go. Yes, Tommy had made them, and she did not always get on with all of them, but they had cared for her, each in their own way. 

She supposed that was what family was. 

Tommy was struggling too, his voice breaking when he spoke to Charlie, having to quickly turn away to collect himself. Lucy shifted a little closer to him. She could see Ada watching them, her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. 

They needed to get away before they both fell apart completely. 

She followed Tommy in hugging everyone goodbye. First Curly, then Charlie Strong.

“Thank you. For everything.” she whispered. Charlie squeezed her back. Had it not been for him taking her in when he did, she never would have had any of this.

“Goodbye, Lucy,” he told her. She could offer only a tearful smile in return, reaching over to fondly ruffle Duke’s hair. 

“Take care of yourself, kiddo.”

He cast her a warm look, nodding. She gave him half a smile back before stepping away, glancing around the table to make sure there wasn’t anyone she’d missed. Arthur wasn’t there. And she doubted Linda wanted a hug from her. 

From within her chest, her heart constricted agonizingly at the sight of Charlie across the table. Moving tentatively, she shuffled around the chairs to stand a few paces away, fingers fiddling with her rings. 

“Charlie?” she tried, cautiously. 

He refused to look at her, turning his face away stubbornly in the opposite direction towards the water, jaw clenching. She dropped her hands to her sides, breath shuddering painfully in her chest. It was what she had expected. 

Didn’t mean that it didn’t still send shockwaves of pain through her already bruised and battered heart. 

Wordlessly, she turned away, going to follow Tommy to their wagon. 

Ada raced after them, demanding to know where they were going. When she got no answers from Tommy, she turned to Lucy. 

“Lucy…Lucy what is going on?”

She smiled at Ada sadly, pulling her into a hug. “Thank you for taking care of Trouble. I know she’ll be well looked after with you.”

“What are you–? Lucy!” she shouted when she pulled away. “Tommy!”

Lucy wiped at her cheeks with her thumbs, reaching out to take the hand that Tommy silently reached out for her. When they got to their wagon, he stopped, pulling her close, eyes staring deeply into hers.

“You can still change your mind,” he said, voice quiet even though they were far enough away from the rest of the family that there was little risk in any of them hearing him. “You can stay here. You don’t have to come with me.”

“Tommy.” She gripped onto him as tight as she could with one hand, touching his face with the other, looking at him hard, forcing him to see the resolution in her eyes. “I’ve made my choice. I’m staying with you.”

He swallowed hard, searching her eyes for another moment, then nodding. “Okay.”

She took hold of his hand again, and let him lead her away, to the last few weeks of their lives.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Ten (Part 2)

I have never known cold in my life like the cold of the early morning in Berlin. It’s the kind of morning that feels like the sun will never rise. The cars still have their headlights on as Claire and I haul our bags up the stairs of the U Bahn station and out onto the street for the first time. It is seven in the morning, and it is not beautiful here. 

We huddle together beneath a massive BAHNHOF NEUKOLLN sign and peer through the grey in search for a familiar face. The metal barriers all around us are lined with chained up bicycles overlapping each other, and there is careless graffiti on the shutters of the electronics shop across the road from us. It isn’t open yet. Nothing is open yet, including our hostel, so we stand with our backs against the frigid metal of a cigarette machine and wait. 

He’s like an otherworldly spirit when he emerges from the fog, bundled in a big black coat, breaths turning to clouds that absorb into the thick mist around him. He raises a hand in a wave, and his smile is the brightest thing for miles.  

“Good morning.” Jude says. “I’m sorry I’m a bit late.” He bends down to hug me and I immediately feel my lack of sleep. I could almost sleep right here on the cushiony softness of his puffer coat with his cheek somehow still warm despite the weather. 

“So this is your home.” Claire says as he gives her a hug, and he shrugs nonchalantly. “Looks like shit this morning, to be honest. It literally couldn’t be uglier, but welcome to Berlin.” He offers to carry some of our bags, and we let him. We head down an identically bleak street that’s lined with Doner Kebab takeaways, phone shops and tiny supermarkets, all closed. Jude gently tugs on the back of my collar when I try to cross the road. 

“You have to wait for the green man.” He says near my ear. 

I stare at him incredulously. “I know, but there’s no cars coming.”

“I don’t make the rules here.” We stand then, stupidly, waiting for the lights to change as not a single car passes us by. Then finally, it does, and we can cross. 

“That was ridiculous.” I say. “What’s going to happen if I just walk? They’ll throw me in jail?”

“No, worse.” He says. “An old German woman will materialise and start scolding you from her kitchen window. Happens literally every time.”

“Hm. So they’re pretty rule bound here.”

“You’re telling me.”

Jude lives a twenty minute walk from the station in a large brutalist block of flats that is identical to all of the other brutalist blocks of flats that flank it on all four sides. I wonder how he can ever remember which is his, or how many times in his first few weeks he found himself wandering around trying to recall which block he walked out of that same morning, because I can certainly imagine that for myself.

“Oh, cats!” Claire comments as a pair of tabbys appear from the vegetation around the base of the building, one of whom starts winding her slinky body in between Jude’s ankles and mewing rather impatiently at him while the other sits watch from a short distance away. He leans down to scratch her head. “Nothing for you right now.” He says to her. “I’ll come back later on.”

“You feed these cats.” I say. Not a question, a fact. 

“I’m the crazy cat man of the neighbourhood.” He admits. “But they just love me, they must know that I have a kind soul.”

“It’s because you feed them.” The tabby gives up on him and approaches me next, mouth open in a startling maw, her meow the cat equivalent of a screech. “Jesus.” I whisper.

“It’s just how she sounds.” He explains. “She’s actually a well tempered cat.”

“What’s her name?”

“I call her Main Street, because that’s where she mostly hangs out, and that one.” He points his thumb toward her noticeably more timid pair, hovering by the wheels of a parked car. “That’s Ten Feet Behind.”

“Because she’s always-”

“Yeah, ten feet behind the other cat.” He grins with chattering teeth. “Let’s go inside, it’s so damn cold.” With stiff fingers he punches in the code for the apartment and leads us into a hallway stuffed to the gills with more bikes. There is no lift, which means we have to carry our things up the stairway, winding around and around, hoping that each landing will be our last, but we keep going up until the seventh floor, where finally, mercifully, Jude lays our bags on the floor and fumbles in his pocket for his keys. 

“Jonas is probably still asleep.” He warns us. “So let’s try and keep it down until he surfaces.” He gingerly opens the door to his apartment and lets us inside, and the heating is on, and my body is flooded with the kind of warmth and comfort that makes me want to curl up on that inviting green couch in the living area and fall asleep for hours. 

“You two can sit down wherever.” Jude says, so we peel our coats off and leave them hanging in a closet by the door. “I’ll make something for us to eat.”

“Oh? Food?” Claire says, as she and I sink into the soft cushions of his couch. “You don’t have to make anything.”

“I’m hungry, I’m sure you’re hungry, we can eat.”

“Okay.” She says, immediately convinced, and I wind my arm with hers and rest my head on her shoulder as my eyes flutter shut with contentment. The apartment is so nice. It smells good. There is nice art on the walls that looks as though it was picked out by someone with a good eye, rather than the usual landlord special back in Dublin, which consists usually of some ancient picture of a hideous, jowled dog that was likely dug out of the bottom of a bargain pile at a car boot sale. 

I can’t believe that this morning I was in Dublin, and now I’m in a different country. I’m really in Berlin. I’m in Jude’s house. He’s cooking breakfast. It feels like something that would only happen in my head, but I keep opening my eyes to make sure that it’s real, and finding out that it is. After a while I peer over the back of the couch, and he has his back to me, whisking eggs in a bowl, and I read the spines of the cookbooks stacked neatly by the hob. Ottolenghi. Samin Nosrat. Grace Young. There are no books with unsophisticated titles like One Pot Wonders or Meals in Minutes! His are specific cuisines. Middle eastern food, Japanese food, North African, Italian, Chinese, French. I prop my chin on my hand and regard him with fresh interest. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

He glances over his shoulder at me. “Of course.”

“I mean that I didn’t know that you cooked cooked, as in, more than just improvised tomato pasta and shepherd’s pie from a container.”

He chuckles. “I seem like I enjoy food from containers, do I?”

“Not particularly, I just never thought about it.”

He takes a serrated knife to a hunk of soft bread and cuts off several thick slices. “I’ve always liked to cook. I had to do it a lot when my parents were too busy to make dinner for my sister, it all kind of fell on me, and I grew to like it a bit, I suppose. Luckily. There’s not much that beats the taste of something you made yourself. When it’s good, I mean.”

He casually drunks a slice of bread into the beaten eggs with one hand and fires up the gas stove with the other. “Weird that you never knew that about me, honestly.”

“I suppose it never came up.”

“Hm. Well, surprise.” 

The door from an adjoining room suddenly opens, and I glance around to see a very broad, bare chested man emerge from the darkness of his bedroom. “Hello” He says groggily. “What smells good?”

Claire, who had drifted into a shallow sleep before, regards him suddenly with wide, shocked eyes. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, looking like a viking, with blonde hair the length of his shoulders and messed up on one side to suggest that he sleeps on his right. 

“Oh.” He says when he notices us on the couch. “Hello ladies.” He steps in front of us so that we’re just about eye level with his crotch and extends a hand for Claire to shake, then me. “I don’t need introductions. I know that you’re Claire, and you’re Evie.” He points his thumb at himself. “I’m Jonas.”

Jude peers at him from the kitchen. “Yeah, they’re pleased to meet you, Jonas, can you put trousers on please.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Okay! If you want.” and goes back into his room. 

“Oh my god.” Claire says under her breath. I can’t tell whether she’s appalled or impressed, but she’s wide awake now. 

Jude starts dealing out plates at the counter, and we get up to take our seats as he carefully places a slice of perfectly golden French toast in front of us. He takes a bowl of fresh berries out of the fridge, along with some sort of mascarpone cheese cream, and slides a jar of maple syrup across the counter into my waiting hand. “Enjoy.” He says, and stands on the other side of the counter to eat his the way that Italians drink espresso, al banca. He stabs his fork into the centre of the toast and swipes the knife across it. He’ll have it all eaten in ten seconds, but Claire and I will savour every delicious mouthful. 

“Sorry about the berries.” Jude says eventually. “They’re off-season.”

“Oh God, no, we don’t mind that.” Says Claire. “It’s actually so good, this is unreal.”

“Absolutely.” I agree. “This is like something you’d get in a restaurant.”

“Calm down, lads, it’s just French toast.” Says Jude, but the tips of his ears have gone red. 

When Jonas reemerges, dressed, he takes a plate from the cupboard and starts unceremoniously shovelling food onto it, and then stands barefoot in the middle of the kitchen eating it like a wild animal. I side eye Claire to gauge her reaction to this, and just like I expected she’s horrified.

“What is everyone going to do today?” He says, mouth jammed with bread. 

“No big plans.” I tell him. “Maybe see the sights a bit, wander around. Look at the shops.”

“Oh, have you got costumes for Saturday night?”

“Sort of. Halfway, maybe. We were hoping to find something here.” I glance at Claire and she nods. I have the shoes I want to wear, but nothing else. She hasn’t got a single item, so some serious shopping is in order. 

“There are so many places for thrift shopping.” He says with a wave of his fork. “You will find something great.” He prods Jude’s shoulder with his fork. “Are you going too?”

“Nah we’ve agreed to meet up in the evening, I have to go to the studio today, unfortunately.”

“Work work work.” Jonas says with an eye roll. “I hope you get a good job after all of this is finished, or it will all be for nothing.” 

“Agreed.” Jude says flatly. “Who are going as, by the way? I mean, costume wise” he says to Claire and I then, eyes flitting back and forth between us, and I smirk at him. “We’re not telling you.” We don’t know. “We’re going to surprise you on the night.”

“Fine, then I’ll surprise you too.”

“Well I’m expecting to be impressed.”

His smile falters. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“You mean you’re not overly prepared?”

“It was a difficult theme.”

“It’s not difficult.” Jonas informs him. “It would be difficult if it was, I don’t know, 1930s soviet politicians, but it’s 60’s celebrities. It really couldn’t be easier.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “Just mostly men were just wearing variations of the same suit.”

“Not true. You could have been a beatle, or a rolling stone, any of those groovy woodstock men, you didn’t think outside the box.” Jonas turns and winks at us. “My costume is good. Wait and see.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[roseofithaca]

A Slip Through Worlds (Part Five)

(Both Silvers just want to go home. Set partly in @idiotwithanipad 's Gore Au).

Moisture tickled the inside of his nose as he stirred.

"Robin? Robin!" A stern voice shouted in his ear; "For God's sake, man, wake up!"

"Ugh..." He grunted, annoyance pounding through his head, never a fan of having anyone force him to wake up.

Especially not a Bossy Army Boots.

"What wrong?" He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, which also felt damp.

Huh...

"What's wrong?! Open your eyes and take a damn look for yourself!"

The caveman did so, eyelids flickering open to the images of Cap and the others standing over him, all of them staring at their surroundings with perplexed frowns. The sky above was miserably grey overcast.

And all around them was the densest layer of mist blanketing the grounds.

"Ooh. Weather odd." He commented, strange to see so much mist at this time of year.

"Tell us about it. I can feel the damp right up my..." Julian cleared his throat; "Well, y'know."

Robin waved his fingers through the air. Droplets of cold water were caught on the edge of his finger. He brought them to his lips, hoping for his first taste in centuries, only for them to evaporate before reaching his tongue. Unfair.

"It's all a bit spooky, ey! Would have been perfect for Halloween." Said Pat, forever looking on the bright side.

"Are you responsible for this, Robin?" Asked Fanny.

"Me? Why me?"

"Most weather abnormalities tend to be caused by you." Thomas remarked.

"Ey, this no stormy. Who say it not other..."

The sudden quiet and lack of giggling or hand clutching his own struck him silent.

He glanced around.

"Where Moonah Girl?"

"We heard her calling for Kitty a short while ago, the two girls disappeared into the woods together." Explained Cap.

The relief was slight. At least she wasn't alone and Kitty would keep her entertained, but he felt an protective itch to make sure both young women were safe, even though Kitty was only a year his junior. In his eyes, she would forever be the four year old child her parents brought home from Jamaica.

And Moonah Girl now being both blind and mentally broken...

"They've been there a while. Probably as long as you've been kipping out here." Said Julian.

"Is it just me, or does the mist seem to be swirling towards the forest?" Thomas asked.

Robin followed his gaze. There did seem to be an undercurrent pulling the thick air close to the trees, nearly obscuring them from view in a rising fog.

Then they heard the scream.

"Katherine!" Captain gasped, recognising the pitch.

They all dashed as fast as they could in their various outfits across the field. Robin's heart thudded against his eardrums. Stupid, useless thing. Once again falling asleep and leaving tribe to be eaten by wolves. Or whatever was causing the girls distress.

Why was it only Kitty who was screaming?

Just as they crossed into the woods, the Georgian ran to meet them, gathering up her skirts so as not to trip. Her face was pasty with terror.

"I...I thought I was helping her!" She cried, reaching for Cap who took her hands; "She...She said she wanted to find her mum. I didn't know she'd..."

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

There it was. Moonah Girl's laugh. It made every hair on Robin's head rise, the shrill bleat sending the birds flying from their nests.

He left the group and darted forward, following the plumes of mist, seeming to flow in the direction of her laughter.

It was...coming from her? Since when did Moonah Girl have misty powers?

"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"

That laugh...it was as he'd heard it on the night he'd found her, dancing alone on the field. Too high pitched. Too forced.

Panic quickened his pace as he followed his ears and nose.

Then he came to a small clearing in the woods were the mist seemed to converge, a cloud encircling the figure on her knees in the dirt, cackling hysterically, hands over her eyes.

"Moonah Girl?" He called, stepping forward. "Silver?"

"Hahaha...Hahaha...She won't come! I thought this time she'd come! Hahahaha!"

He knew that laugh. Not just from her...but from himself. Buried memories from the times when his own brain cracked beneath centuries of torment. Laughter replacing tears. Laughter replacing screams.

Blood trickled down her hands, her velvet sheaths, across her lightning bolt tattoo and off the tip of her elbow.

"What happen? Tell me..." He gently touched her shoulder.

Then she turned, pulling her hands away from her face. Away from where her nails had dug themselves deep at the corners of her mouth.

Long strips of skin had been peeled from her cheeks by her own nails, red horizontal lines widening her unnatural smile even more so, revealing the muscles and gums and teeth beneath her face. Fat tears rolled down from her bloodshot grey eyes and into the raw flesh chasms.

It was enough to make a man who hadn't eaten in ten thousand years want to vomit.

And Silver continued to laugh.

"Mummy won't come! I bled and screamed but she won't come! Where is she, Robin?! Why won't she come find me?!" The tortured teen demanded to know, unable to cease smiling; "I want my mummy! I want my mummy! I WANT MY MUMMY!!!"

-

Amy wondered if maybe she'd given Other Silver the wrong advice. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, all those months ago when the witch had forcefully entered her memories to assess her character. It was somehow worse seeing it from the outside.

As she watches the girl scream after the spiked tendril shoved its way into her frontal lobe, she wondered if she should have told the girl to run instead. Not that there was much chance of escape but...

It wasn't her Silver. Not the semi-insane friend who had brought magical forests and dragons into an otherwise cloistered and miserable afterlife. But it was A Silver. A Silver who knew her favorite fags. A Silver who had tried to defend her from the witch's wrath.

She made a move forward, but a paw wrapped around her wrist. Turning around, the beast man shook his head at her, grunting.

His eyes softened as they met hers, seeming to tell her to be patient. It would be over soon.

Clearly he'd witnessed plenty of these interrogations by the witch's hand.

Amy shifted back, agreeing to wait. She tugged at the sleeve of her hoodie, hoping for Other Silver's sake that there's not going to be anything in her head to invite the witch's anger. Even better if she happens to subconsciously give some clue as to where Their Silver was.

I'm gonna fly right up to the Great Wall, Ames! You watch, I'm gonna visit every single other world! Do you think we're best friends in every one of them? Hehehe.

Well. She was right about one at least.

Hopefully the Other Amy - Lucky Bitch Amy who could still speak and didn't have to deal with her eyeballs occasionally falling out - was looking after their Silver. Or maybe hiding from her incessant hugs and laughter.

Though, by the sounds of it, that Amy didn't have dragons, so that was a win for-

"AAAAAAH!"

Another scream. Amy jumped, fizzy drink leaking from her lips as she tried to gasp.

It wasn't Silver who was screaming now.

The two figures were still stuck in that pose, Mary holding Silver up before her with one smokey tentacle, the other buried deep in her brain. And both of them were crying out, wailing as if sharing in the deepest and most agonising of griefs.

Amy tugged at the beast's fur, signing.

This happen before?

For the first time, she saw genuine fear appear on that ancient, bearded face. He shook his head.

Not good.

What the Hell was inside this Silver's memories that it was causing the witch to suffer as well?

Nothing ever broke through her darkly regal and gothic front she put on - nothing except Silver. Amy had watched them together, how they lovingly bantered and teased each other, Silver bringing out a lighter, gentler side of the wraith that reminded Amy she had once been just a normal woman. The one that Other Silver had known as her Mum.

Even the beast man looks as though he's internally debating whether to intervene now, worried for both his Mistress and perhaps the child, whether she be his charge or not. Amy knows, despite all appearances, he doesn't like to see children in pain.

"Mmm." She tries. Maybe they should-

Two arms encircled her and lifted her up off her feet. Amy spilled some of her drink again.

What the fuck?!

Then she recognised the feel of the fur lining against her cheek, along with the cloak damp with blood.

No! No, not yet! It can't be morning already!

She squirms in her dad's body's arms, wriggling around to try to bat against him, push herself out.

Let her go! Damn it, she can't leave now, not until she knows that This Silver is okay!

If the witch has seen something awful then she'll want revenge.

Amy can't just leave her...

But there was no reasoning with this thing. It merely tightened its grip, jostling her up and partly over its shoulder, ignoring the punches she delivered to its back.

Not yet! Not yet!

She tried to meet the beast's eyes, but even he looked reluctant to intervene. He hadn't done too well the last time he'd tried to go up against the body bit, having been thrown out of the house onto his arse. He looked as though he'd be more willing to go up against another bear again than him. Besides, he had to stay close to Mistress. His tribe.

The beast gave the girl an apologetic grunt. In return, she gave him her middle finger. Fat lot of good he is!

All she hears as the body carried her out of the woods and back to the house was the two screaming women behind her.

And then, as she finally reached the front door, silence.

-

Robin stared, mortified, at the girl before him, laughing away despite the blood and tears on her face. It didn't take too long for the self imposed cuts on her cheeks to sew themselves back together. But her nose and mouth continued to leak deep red clots.

Summoning all his courage, he knelt down close to Silver, trying his best to stay calm.

"Why Moonah Girl hurt self, hmm? Try to ruin pretty face?" He asked, softly, reaching for one of her hands.

She was trembling; "M-Mummy put a spell on me. Sh-she called it a Special Charm. It...It makes it so she can always tell if I get hurt. She always hears my cry, no matter how small and it...Hehehehe, it's like a special tracking chip. She can come find me anywhere!"

That was certainly....inventive. Robin highly doubted Mary was capable of such a trick.

"Moonah Girl hurt self so Mum would come?"

She nodded, giggling some more; "Just a few pinches at first. Nothing too big. D-didn't want her to worry. But then she didn't come and...I thought I needed more pain, hehehe!"

One of her fingers moved up to the corner of her lips again.

"Mummy loves my smile. I thought I'd make it bigger for her, hahaha."

Shit. This was so much worse than Robin feared.

Silver hadn't just suffered a mental breakdown. She'd crossed the line into self-harm, which as a ghost was not an easy feat unless someone put in some serious effort. It broke his heart yet again, remembering briefly when William and Godric had once had to stop him from trying to punch his own teeth out.

"She didn't come...Mummy won't come, no matter how loud I cry..." She sobbed, stretched lips twitching in strained agony; "Why won't she come for me, Robin?"

"Moonah Girl...." He sighed, wanting nothing more than to take the pain away.

"Doesn't she love me anymore?"

"No! I mean, yes! Of course she love you. More than anything. You precious to her." He stressed, squeezing her hand.

"She's cross with me...Because she knows I did something bad. I-I didn't think it was that big a deal. I didn't even think it worked, hehehe..." She began to ramble again, "But I think something went wrong. And now Mummy and Mr. Floof are gone."

Robin bit his lower lip.

"Moonah Girl. Listen now..."

She stopped her laughing and sobs, brow furrowing. At least he had her attention.

He took a deep breath, then turned to notice that Cap and the others were all at the edge of the clearing. Watching him. His heart that had felt torn between two sides all day seemed to settle to one as he looked at Kitty clutching the soldier's arm.

Robin lowered his head.

"Silver. You trust Robin?" He asked.

She sniffed; "Y-yeah, sure, hehehe."

"You trust that I friend?"

She nodded; "Yes. My sweet fluffy friend! Hehehe."

"Then listen now." He held both her hands in his; "You...You mum. She....not coming back."

A beat.

"W-what d'you mean? Where did she go?" She asked, quietly.

"She go up to stars. She safe. But...she no be with you anymore." He told her, as he wished he'd been the one to tell her the first time around. Perhaps they wouldn't be in this state; "She was good friend of mine. She ask me to take care of Moonah Girl."

And he'd done a piss poor job so far.

Silver winced, the news struggling to sink in.

"But....But Mummy can't leave me." She said, "I...I need her to turn the lights on."

The mist around them seemed to freeze, tiny icicles stuck in mid air.

Fuck. He hated this. But he had to see it through.

"You safe with me. Robin look after you now. Robin and friends, all together." He promised, renewing it in a way.

"Mummy wouldn't leave me. She wouldn't! She didn't even say goodbye!" The tears won out against her laughter, fresh tears falling fast.

Robin tried to gather her into his arms.

"Hey, hey, listen." He comforted, holding her close; "She no say goodbye because she no want to leave. No parent ever want to leave baby. Trust me. But....some time we forced to leave, or get taken away..."

"S-someone took Mummy? But...she's the most powerful woman in the world."

That she was, in her own special way.

"Fate take us from one's we love. It no one's fault." He tried to reassure; "But we remember them. They stay with us here." He gently touched Silver's chest, above her heart. "And one day you see, you have new family to love you."

Or remember the ones who have known you for years already. Perhaps this would be the start of her brain healing at last.

"....W-will I ever see her again?" The girl asked, weakly.

"Yes. One day. That I promise. Just...might be very long wait." Very, very, very long in his case. "But she there. Waiting. Always close by."

With any luck, Stompy would soon visit her dreams to remind her.

Silver sniffed, the mist beginning to fade, though the unseasonal chill remained.

She reached for Robin, wrapping her arms around him and nestling into his furs. He wrapped her up tight and held her close, one hand on the back of her head.

"Mr. Robin...Is Amy in the stars as well?" She whispered.

He closed his eyes; "...Yes, Moonah Girl. Sorry."

Another sob, followed by the most heartbreaking giggle.

She clutched onto him like a lifeline.

"Are you gonna leave me too?"

He shook his head; "Never. Never leave Moonah Girl. Never ever."

-

The smoky tentacle vanished and Silver fell to the floor in a heap of floppy arms and legs.

Her cheeks were soaked with tears. Her throat sore as shit.

And her head...Fuck. Worse than any hangover.

"What...What did you..." She clutched at her aching skull.

Flashes of old memories had pulsed through her senses. Her life, her lonely childhood, the sudden death of her dad, the school bullying, her mother's neglect, eating disorder, sibling abuse, followed by her death by aneurysm. And that had only been the start.

Silver looked up at the witch who was gazing down at her, those bony hands now over her lipless mouth as she regarded the teen before her with eyes of...

Wait.

She no longer looked angry or vengeful, just...

"Oh you poor little darling." Nary gasped, "I dids not expect to see...How you has suffered so!"

Not Robin padded forward but didn't disturb the pair. Where was Amy?

Silver frowned, still panting, feeling as though her brain had been run through a grinder.

"You....believe me now?" She asked, surprised by how much the witch's tone had changed.

"Of course I dos, little'en! I saws it all! What yous endured in that...other world." The witch touched her own exposed clavicle; "So t'is true. My darling girl did find a way to break through the forbidden barrier. The great wall were dreams that we glimpse in windows become real, living worlds. And somehow, by random chance...You did happen to wander through the gap she made..."

Silver nodded, even if she didn't fully understand it still.

"I...I just thought I was dreaming...And then I heard you. M-Mary..." She confessed, earnestly.

Come to Mummy. There's a good girl.

"You sweet little thing. You dids mistake me for thy own dear mother?"

She nodded again, tearing up a little.

Mary's bony hand stroked over her head; "I saws how you lost her. How she did leave thee without a word of goodbye. And how thou wallowed in uncertainty for years until her love was confirmed."

Only recently at that. She'd tried not to doubt it, but...

"And then, ons tops of that, your companion was taken from thee too."

Silver sniffed. Yes. That also wasn't great.

"I...I'm really sorry you lost your Silver. I didn't mean to trick you into thinking I was her."

"Oh, sweet child. Don't you worry your little head about that. T'was all a harmless misunderstanding. T'is waters under the bridges."

Oh. Yeah, sure, triggering her claustrophobia, choking her, threatening to burn her alive...All easily forgiven!

Shut up, Silver, just roll with it.

"At least now we know what happened to my darling girl. She be more powerful than I thought." The witch mused; "I will have to find a way to reopen the gap in the wall and guide her back through."

"Reopen? You checked it?"

"Yes, child. T'was one of the first spots I did check. The universe doth not care for anyone poking holes in its. It can easily repair itself."

"But if she did it before then she might be able to again?" Silver spoke, rubbing the red mark at her neck; "Or maybe I can? And I can find her on my way home?"

The witch tilted her head as she regarded her. Then she laughed...almost sounding like the Mary she knew.

"What do you mean, sweet one? You're already home."

Silver blinked.

"Uhm...No, I...I have to go back to my world."

"Why ever woulds you want that? There be nothing for you there. I saws it myself." Nary said; "No mummy to hold you. No dearest friend to laughs with. And that...That poor excuse for a guardian!"

"Guardian? You mean...Robin?"

She saw what he did. What he said. The last feelings Silver had towards him before she left that world. The hurt. The resentment. The disappointment.

It all seemed so insignificant to her now.

"A beast who lacks the loyalty of one such as my dear ally." The witch looked fondly across at the feral man close by; "He woulds never betray my little'en the way that scoundrel dids to you."

Silver shook her head; "He...He didn't mean to-."

"Hush now, pretty one." Not Mary began to sooth, summoning another tendril of smoke. Not to attack, this time, but to caress Silver's face like a velvet glove; "You do nots need to defend him. Soon far more pleasant thoughts will replace him in your mind."

What?!

She shook her head, feeling dizzy and weak again as the smoky arms began to swaddle her.

"You...You wanna keep me here?"

"We calls it claiming, in this world." Nary explained; "T'is what we do with lost foundling children."

"I'm...not a foundling..." She has a Mum. The adoption certificate proved it. It didn't matter if...

"Oh darling girl. I saw how you dids run to my embrace without a seconds thought. T'is understandable. All girls need their mummies."

"I..."

"Shh." Her bony hand stroked her cheek this time; "Don't fret. My little'en did struggle to accept her new home at times too. But she did settle, in the end, and became my most beloved and happy child. In time, you will come to feel as comfy here as she did. I will ensure that you want for nothing, my precious."

Fuck, fuck, this was wrong, all wrong.

But, sod it, she was too weak to fight, after having her brain ripped open like breaking the spine of a book. Too tired, despite her cycle being far from over.

"Wha...What about...y-your Silver...?" Her words became slurred as her jaw went slack.

The smoke wrapped her up as if in a thick, soft duvet, lifting her feet off the ground. It was too tempting to close her eyes and just...rest...

"Oh, fear not. I shall find a way to retrieve my darling girl." Nary smiled as she leaned in close, the ember in her eyes glowing with adoration instead of fury; "And she will be overs the moons to come home to a new twin sister."

[kimchi-bby]

hihi! could we maybe request a few names with the themes of confusion/haziness/fog/the color grey? the names we currently go by are Panda and Host, if those are of any use at all. any gendered names are fine, although we primarily want to stick to gender neutral. thank you in advance, and apologies if this is too complex!!

Salutations Anon! Glad you have decided to purchase a name request! Let me get the foggy package ready! ✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧ ⋘ 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡... ⋙ ⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙ ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

𓍊𓋼𓍊 Mist / Misty 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Fog 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Storm / Thunder / Thunderstorm 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Haze / Hazel ( ? ) / Hazy 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Dew / Cloud / Drizzle 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Daze 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Puzzle 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Delirium 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Chaos 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Anarchy 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Ash / Ashes 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Silver / Nail 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Smoke 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Mushroom 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Wire / Barbed Wire 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Chainsaw / Hacksaw / Chain 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Blade / Needle 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Zipper 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Marble / Jasper 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Gloom / Smog 𓍊𓋼𓍊 Vapor / Aerosol ┆ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ ° Package Packed ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ Owner Note : Hey hey Anon! if this isn't what you're looking for, my sincerest apologises! I tried looking for things were grey in color or gave off the vibes of the words you gave, I hope this helps in some way or is good enough. Feel free to leave a review ( comment ) to let me know what I can do better next time! Thank you for shopping at Name Shop *ੈ✩‧₊˚

[stardust-and-papercuts]

Lonelycore

No one knows where the fog comes from. You’re sure it exists though, you feel it blurring the world around you, enveloping you in a damp coldness that chills you to your bones.

The others notice it too, not the fog, but the effect it has on you.They cluck worriedly and tell you about how ashy-grey your face is and how thin you’ve gotten and how the bags under your eyes keep getting bigger. They tell you these things like you have never seen your reflection before, like you don’t sit in front of the mirror picking every flawed element that you are made of. You lean into the fog then, the familiar cold comforting you as you watch their faces slowly blur away. You are invisible, and you are safe.

The fog slowly gets thicker, and colder. You walk around astonished that people don’t notice the cloud of condensation that follows you. Your fingers feel stiff from the cold and your body shivers from the onslaught of the fog. You see people walking on the street, holding hands, hugging one another, sharing the heat you so desperately crave. Your body trembles, shivering in memory of the warmth you never really had. You put on a sweater. The fog thickens around you once more.

It’s cold, is the thing. It is so,so cold.You wait for someone, for anyone, to give you a hug. You wait for them to say words warm enough to melt the ice that fills your bones.You look at groups of friends and you ache to be like them, to laugh at nothing in the buttery glow of happiness. When was the last time you laughed like that? Have you ever been that happy? Your chest feels like someone has scooped out an integral part of you. You want to yell at them for being too loud; You want to beg them to include you, to make this pain go away somehow. You want so,so much. You look once more at the giggling group of friends and you are struck with the terrible, horrible realisation that you will never be one of them.

You fold yourself into the fog. You are invisible, and you are alone.

You can feel the colour slowly leaching out of you. You sit in front of the mirror for hours just to make sure you’re still there, to make sure you haven’t disappeared accidentally. People no longer comment on your looks, you phone no longer flashes with messages of people you wish you could call your friends. You open a chat and stare at the keyboard. There is dust on your friendship and dust in your lungs and dust on the person you used to be. You have been forgotten now. You switch off your phone with frostbitten fingers and stare at the bluish tinge of your palms. 

It is so,so cold.

You go to the beach one morning and look at the waves sluggishly roll out. The mist envelops you so thickly you can almost pretend the fog never existed at all. No one notices your absence, no one cares that you have seemingly ceased to exist. You know with a sudden, sharp clarity that if you looked in the mirror you would see nothing at all. There is a lazy river and it is uninterested in the way it pumps your blood. Your heart beats in time with the waves lapping on the shore. You are alive, and it does not matter at all.

You breathe in the ocean mist and make one last discovery.

You are the fog.

You are invisible.

Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?

(Or maybe that’s what you’ve always been, have you ever real at all? Has anybody ever ever noticed you? Who are you trying to fool? You’ve always been the fog.)

You walk into the fog.

It’s not cold anymore.

[phagechildon]

Song of Our Soul - Part 1

Modern Wangxian reincarnation soulmate au where both hear a song in their dreams, a song so familiar yet so foreign. They catch glimpses of each other in their dreams, and hear their voices, but when they wake up, all they remember is the melody and the other’s faint emotions. Angst with a happy ending. TW: mentions of violence, child abuse, abandonment, suicidal thoughts, etc. Will add more One of my many AU ideas XD Decided to upload what I have so far since I’ll be gone most of the weekend. It’s not much, but hope you enjoy~ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |  ----

“Have you listened to it yet?”

“To what?”

“To the top song on Spotify right now!”

The whole classroom was in a buzz, and it wasn’t too hard to guess why. Overnight, an account with only six followers suddenly jumped to over ten thousand after releasing a new hit song. No matter how many times you listened to it, new emotions and memories were evoked and preyed upon.

The most confounding thing of all was that the masterpiece had no name. 

“I heard Chenqing is just some famous artist's side account where they drop their rejected songs.”

“There’s no way they rejected Untitled!”

“Well I heard he’s just a copycat that steals other people’s songs!”

The comment made the only silent one in the room clench his fists, feeling more unsettled by the minute. Unlike everyone else, he knew for a fact that he’s heard that song before. Not on a radio station, the internet, or played live. No. Though it sounded absolutely insane, he’s heard it in his dreams his whole life. It’s the very reason he pursued a career in music while also following in his family’s footsteps, training the country’s special forces in the art of lost martial arts. 

Lan Zhan couldn’t remember when he first started to hear the song, only that it was fairly early on. With that song sometimes came a voice, muffled and far away, but their laugh whistled and stayed. There were times where that voice was muted, the atmosphere gloomy and tense. He felt compelled to call out to them, to ask what was wrong, but the clouds always dissipated, the sun practically shining through. 

A year ago, his dreams started to change. That melody he dare not play for others played fiercer, and the voice he’d hear every now and then started to get more frequent and louder. At one point, both were like a violent maelstrom that raged with no end in sight, that voice’s call to him becoming slurs and grunts of pain. In this dream, Lan Zhan could feel phantom touches of pain, somehow knowing it didn’t even come close to the torture the song of his soul was in. 

“-Zhan, Lan Zhan…” they’d weep quietly. No matter how hard he tried to pursue the one that haunted him, to save him from whatever torment he faced, he’d only manage to find a hand pressed to the ground covered by pure white mist before a strong wind burst forth and sweep them away. 

After many months passed, the voice that called out to him became silent, as if losing faith in the world. Every night he could feel them just behind the thick white fog, see the end of a long red ribbon, and feel how utterly broken they were. Drowned and empty, lost and uncaring. 

While asleep, he knew the other’s name. Upon waking up, the only thing he remembered was the song, the red ribbon, and the crushing weight of the other’s soul nearly snuffed out. 

“... I’m not worth saving.”

The only other person who knew this song was the one from his dreams - the one he desperately wanted to hold close and shield from the world. An absolute absurd idea, considering he hated the thought of physical touch, even an accidental brush in hallways. Something was different about the soul in his dreams though. He didn’t know his name, let alone what he looked like, yet his arms and heart ached the longer he went without the other resting against him. 

After hearing the song around four in the morning, he almost didn’t go to school. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to click and listen in the first place, but when he did, he felt tears fall past his stone cold cheeks. 

While others felt different emotions each time they listened, Lan Zhan only felt one thing: desperation. This was his soul’s last attempt to reach out to the world before it was snuffed out. 

‘I can’t do this anymore. Find me. Please find me.’ 

No amount of research helped him figure out the identity of the artist. The username wasn’t reused anywhere else, however the profile picture, which was a distinct image of a lotus pod, helped him find a barely used Tumblr page after reverse image searching it. 

‘Subian’ was the username, and the only description was ‘there’s music in my soul.’

Browsing through the blog, Lan Zhan did learn a few things. His music loved nature, focusing on large lakes and forests. There were many memes and puns littering his reblogs too, along with funny cat videos and of kids being ‘stupid.’ 

He did find a few clues. There was one post where he ranted about how trashed and disgusting one of the train stations two cities away have been lately. Then another of him holding a large cup of blended coffee with hearts all around it. 

“The spicy mango sriracha coffee is simply delicious!” The caption said, then, he wrote even more in the tags: ‘okay not the best but I like people who dare be adventurous when it comes to spice.’ ‘I’m gonna get spicy ramen after this.’

Upon looking up the mentioned train station, he found at least five coffee shops nearby that like to do odd seasonal drinks such as the one he posted. Next, he looked up ramen shops. Unfortunately, there were far too many to even try to narrow down his music’s location.   

Those were the only clues he had to go on, which is why he forced himself to school, hoping he’d hear someone who knew a little more.

[dragonmasterhiccup]

“Stories? What kind of stories?” She asks curiously.

When he mentions an evening flight, the girl lights up. “Oh yes please! I want to be in the sky again. I can only imagine what it must be like up there with the stars…”

Melodía follows him back to the hut, stealing one more glance at the village and the sunset.

“Hiccup… what do clouds feel like? Are they as soft as they look?”

(OOOOH YES I’m definitely going to take advantage of this hehehehehe)

His eyes went wide, regretting making the comment. "Uh...well, they, uh..." He sighed. "See, I don't believe them, but some Vikings believe that....well, that mermaids...lure sailors...to...to their deaths."

When she lit up at the suggestion of a nighttime flight, his eyes softened, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He realized how much he enjoyed seeing her happy. "It's amazing. Tomorrow night it is, then."

Stopping in front of the door, he turned to her to answer her question. "Clouds are mostly like a very, very thick fog, and heavy mist. They're surprisingly cold, as well, but that could be the dampness." Looking into her eyes, their fingers still entwined, he added, "Tell you what, if we have the right clouds, Toothless and I will fly you up there to experience it for yourself. Does that sound good to you?" He grinned, because he was almost certain she'd say yes.

[decoding-narcissism]

You think you know what’s real. You’re wrong.

A narcissist’s most powerful weapon is vitiation—the subtle art of undermining someone’s reality. It’s like dropping poison into your drink, one tiny drop at a time, until your mind is clouded, and you don’t even know who you are anymore.

Here’s how it works. A narcissist doesn’t just lie; they twist the truth until it’s unrecognizable. They tell you that you’re overreacting when you catch them in a lie. They convince you that you imagined that cruel comment they made. They claim they never said those words you heard with your own ears. Soon, you start doubting yourself. You wonder if you’re the one who’s wrong. You think maybe you are too sensitive, too emotional.

This is no accident. The narcissist wants you weak, confused, and questioning everything. That way, they control the narrative. They become the only voice of reason in your life—the one who “sees things clearly.” Meanwhile, your reality is eroded, bit by bit, until you feel lost in a fog.

But there’s a way to see through the mist. Pay attention to the patterns. If someone constantly makes you doubt your own experiences, if they twist your words and rewrite history, you’re being manipulated. When you confront them and they flip the blame on you, claiming you’re the problem, that’s a red flag waving in your face.

Don’t ignore it. Trust your instincts. Remember, your reality is yours. Don’t let anyone vitiate it.

[golden-captain]

Bright Future

Chapter One, The Comet

In the dead of night Lockheed was deep in slumber, he had just built himself a secluded cottage far away from any nearby civilization the prior day. Then in the distance he heard a rumbling sound that shook the ground and the house around him. After the initial commotion he ran over to his window, just to see the remnants of what seemed to have been a green comet, a long green streak through the sky and a glow off in a distant field. For a moment after there was nothing but silence back to only the noises from the insects and other such things like that. What could that thing have been? There was no way a comet was normally green, maybe it was just something that was in the comet that caused such an unusual color. But whatever it was he needed to go see what fell from the sky. 

Slowly he got himself ready and walked out of his house, the eerily still night air hitting him, and cold grass under his claws. Something was off, a dense jungle had sprung up that wasn’t there before, covering the view of where the comet had landed, mist covering any crack that was open. It was so much easier to just leave and make his way back to his house and forget what he saw, but something was drawing him in, a want to explore and find out what was pulling him towards the forest. Maybe fate, maybe just his curiosity. There was one thing for sure though, as he took his first step into the mist, he knew there was no going back. 

As he walked into the dark mist it was somehow so much colder than outside his breaths sending clouds of fog out his maw. It was so cold and so quiet that he could hear every crunch of the leaves and plants under his claws. The thumps of his heart got louder and louder as his fear grew on what he might find in this mist, or what might find him. But as he walked more and more, he went from walking to running, and from running to sprinting. he couldn’t see anything like he was trapped, dodging through trees and branches, his heartbeat sounded louder and louder it was so loud yet so quiet, and he looked back he could swear something was following him as he ran! Before he turned back, he slammed head first into a tree, knocking himself out. 

He was out cold and dreaming, yet something called to him, telling him to get up, to keep going. That he couldn’t stop now. Whatever that thing was in his dream it had a green glow… taking the form of another dragon. He woke up slowly, opening his eyes and getting up. He looked around, completely lost in the fog, scared and alone he curled against the tree. But in the mist he saw something, a green glow! As he saw this glow he walked towards it. It was strange, but he felt that he was tied to this glow, that this glow meant safety and love. As he got closer and closer the mist became less and less dense. Soon enough it completely cleared, and there he was standing at the edge of the massive crater of this comet. But what he saw was no comet, no. In the middle stood an absolutely massive dragon! At just over 141 feet tall giving off this warm green glow, that same glow he felt pulling him, this dragon had its front claws in the ground it seemed to be giving energy and life to this planet, he was the reason this forest had sprung up.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ thank you to everyone who helped edit this!

please leave comments, i like to see them

[vapehk1]

Clouds on the Field: Mike McDaniel Vape and the NFL's Chill New Vibe

In the often serious and strenuous world of the NFL, where stress levels can match the scores of a high-octane playoff game, Miami Dolphins' head coach Mike McDaniel brings a refreshing twist. Known for his strategic genius and quick wit, McDaniel has been spotted more than once turning to his trusty vape. Let's dive into this foggy sideline phenomenon and see if there's more to the story than meets the eye. So, grab your snacks (and maybe your own vape), as we explore what it’s all about. The Sightings - A Puff of Mystery It's not every day that you see a head coach puffing away during a tense moment on the field. Yet, Mike McDaniel, with his laid-back demeanor, has been seen handling a sleek vape pen. The first notable sighting occurred during a particularly nerve-wracking overtime. Cameras caught a glimpse of McDaniel, not with a playbook, but what appeared to be a vape pen in hand, leading to a flurry of memes and cheeky comments on social media. Subsequent games had fans and commentators alike eagle-eyeing the sidelines, turning each Dolphins game into a where's Waldo of vape spotting. While some argue it adds a relatable touch to the coach, others wonder if he’s starting a trend. Will future NFL games feature designated vaping zones on the sidelines? Only time will tell. The Reaction - Fans and Fog Machines The reaction to McDaniel's sideline vaping has been as mixed as a tropical fruit e-juice. On one side, the internet has embraced this quirk with open arms, creating gifs, and even proposing a new team mascot: Mikey the Mist. Dolphins fans have expressed a spectrum of feelings, from amusement to admiration, appreciating the coach's ability to stay chill under pressure. On the other end, health advocates have raised concerns, sparking debates about the message this sends in a sport already scrutinized for its health policies. Yet, the consensus in the fanbase seems to lean towards amusement, with many noting that if vaping is McDaniel’s secret to keeping cool and crafting winning plays, they might as well sponsor a vape brand at the stadium. NFL Policies and the Vape Debate The NFL, known for its strict policies on substances, has a somewhat cloudy stance when it comes to vaping. There's no explicit rule against vaping on the sidelines, but it’s certainly a gray area. The league has policies against tobacco products, but non-nicotine vapes fall into a nebulous category. This sighting has prompted discussions among the top brass about whether there’s a need to clear the air regarding vaping. Could this lead to a new rulebook entry? And more importantly, how will it affect the coach's popular image as the "coolest" guy on the turf? As the debate continues, it seems McDaniel might just be the unintentional poster boy for vaping in professional sports. The Bigger Picture - Changing Times in the NFL Mike McDaniel's casual vaping brings up a bigger conversation about the evolving culture in the NFL. Gone are the days when coaches were expected to be the stoic, untouchable figures, pacing the sidelines with grim expressions. Today’s coaches, like McDaniel, are viewed more as real people with relatable habits, including the occasional need to take the edge off with a vape. This shift could signal a change in how the public perceives not just the leaders of their favorite teams but athletes and sports personnel in general. As society becomes more accepting of personal quirks, the NFL too seems to be adapting, slowly but surely. Maybe the future holds a more laid-back, accepting environment across all professional sports, where a little vapor is just part of the game. Conclusion In the entertaining exploration of Miami Dolphins' head coach Mike McDaniel's sideline vaping habit, "Clouds on the Field: Mike McDaniel Vape and the NFL's Chill New Vibe," we delve into how McDaniel's occasional puff adds a touch of humor and relatability to the often tense atmosphere of NFL games. This article captures the mixed reactions from fans and health advocates alike, with social media buzzing with memes and playful commentary, while also prompting discussions about potential updates to NFL policies regarding vaping. The phenomenon highlights a broader cultural shift within the NFL, signaling a move towards a more relaxed and humanized view of coaches. The piece amusingly speculates on the future of vaping in professional sports, suggesting that McDaniel's laid-back approach might just set a new trend, blending personal habits with professional personas in the public eye. If you want to know more, please refer to this article: https://keystonevape.com/best-vape/the-best-disposable-vapes-2024-you-cant-miss/ Read the full article

[whileiamdying]

The Shipping News: Moderate or good?

Our voyage into Annie Proulx is under way, but the outlook for a satisfying read remains unclear

📷 Kevin Spacey as Quoyle and Judi Dench as Agnis in the film version of The Shipping News

There was a mixed reaction when The Shipping News was announced as this month's Reading Group choice. Plenty seemed pleased. But many were disappointed.

As expressed by Lobster1: "Oh gosh … I really didn't like the book … eeek … I enjoyed the story but I had problems with her prose style … I found it annoying."

This prose style seems to be the sticking point. Even many of those that like the book seem to find it difficult. Shavedlegs wrote: "I agree with the comments about her writing style. I found it really hard work and it took me ages to really get into it. It's worth sticking with it as the description of a bleak Newfoundland winter and the emergence of the key characters is beautifully done. Definitely a slow burner."

MajorWhipple too had worries about the pace, saying: "It's a terrific work although the pace might not suit everyone." Although he went on to note: "For me it was the perfect marriage of style and setting. Excellent characterisation and plotting too."

Kendrew agreed: "I fell out of love with fiction for many years and it was this book that persuaded me to fall again. Many people have told me that they find Proulx difficult and hard going but I found her quite the opposite. I have since read Postcards, and after Cormac McCarthy I find Proulx wonderful when describing landscape."

So what is it about the style in the Shipping News? Is it (as Partridge says of one of Quoyle's early pieces of journalism) "like reading cement"? Or, as that line might suggest, is it rather witty?

Personally, at just over halfway mark, I'm on the Kendrew-MajorWhipple side of the fence – although it took me a while to get there. At first I wondered what Proulx had against relative pronouns and conjunctions. I stumbled over sentences like the following:

"But Partridge, dribbling oil, said 'Ah, Fuck it.' Sliced purple tomato. Changed the talk to descriptions of places he had been, Strabane, South Amboy, Clark Fork."

I also wondered if I was going to find the imagery heavy going:

"As she spoke she changed in some provocative way, seemed suddenly drenched in eroticism as a diver rising out of a pool gleams like chrome with a sheet of unbroken water for a fractional moment."

Because that passage came early in the book, it got me worried. I spent a long time starting at it, sometimes thinking it sounded quite pleasant, other times thinking "but divers rising out of pools don't gleam like chrome" and "how long is a fractional moment"?

As it turns out, nothing since has tripped me up. Like many of the best books, The Shipping News has taught me how to read its rhythms, cadences and how to take in its imagery. Now, I'm racing through and enjoying every word. I can't verbalise why those sometimes clipped, sometimes languorous sentences fit the setting so well – it's more of a feeling. Is it too much to suggest that those waves and troughs, ebbs and flows, fogs, clouds and moments of piercing brightness in the prose are right for Newfoundland? Perhaps. But I'm sure that Proulx's prose is an admirable tool for conveying the tough poetic speech patterns of local characters like Billy:

"'Tis a strange time, strange weather. Remember we had a yellow day on Monday – the sky cast was an ugly yellow like a jar of piss. Then yesterday, blue mist and blasting fog. Cap it off, my sister's youngest boy called up from St John's, said there was a fall of frozen ducks on Water Street, eight or ten of them, feathers all on, eyes closed like they was dreaming, froze hard as polar cap ice. When that happens, look out boys."

I could read passages like that all day. Annie Proulx, it's fair to say, knows her weather. Wind, snow, rain, lots of rain, storms, odd strange moments of sunshine and then, fog: "Fog against the window like milk..." "The sullen bay rubbed with thumbs of fog" … "green of grass stain, tilted in fog."

There are masterful descriptions of the elements – a pleasure in and of themselves – although, of course, there's more to them than mere decoration, as this early description of the strange hero Quoyle indicates:

"His thoughts churned like the amorphous thing that ancient sailors, drifting into arctic half-light, called the Sea Lung; a heaving sludge of ice under fog where air blurred into water, where liquid was solid, where solids dissolved, where the sky froze and light and dark muddled."

Fog again. A splendidly-worked pathetic fallacy. Or at least, that's how I've been reading it. I should state again here that other opinions are available. I've just spotted this New York Times review stating: "Weather offshore or overland can often seem chokingly imbued with portentousness."

So there you go. As we already know, this isn't a book that pleases everyone. Although it's definitely keeping me happy. Whenever I come back to it, the strange rhythm and texture of the prose transports me straight to Newfoundland. It's one of those books that's enjoyable enough to make me resent the rest of my day. How mundane doing the dishes seems when I could be reading about Quoyle. I'm even feeling antsy writing this piece. In fact, I think I may slope off and read some more now …

Before I do, I'd just like to solicit opinions. How do you find the weather? Hard going? Bright and clear? And what is it that is so unusual and appealling/unappealling about the prose? Oh yes, and one last thought from cutta:

"Christ it's dull. Haven't read it but it's been Book at Bedtime on Radio 4 for God knows how long and still nothing's happened. All that 'low, Biscay, deepening rapidly' or 'southeast Iceland, good, becoming poor, 7' etc etc. Occasionally there's an exciting bit about hurricane warnings but I still struggle to stay awake till the end each night."

There's no pleasing some people...

[independentzaun]

Having no desire to leave Jinx of course stayed perched on her spot watching the ceremony. At first she thought it just another boring example of someone offering a meaningless comfort. What good did it really do to gather, and cry? She’d blown up the Council Chambers. Now that was a way to express your grief he’d be proud of her and loss. However that thought faded as she watched the mist slowly forming a circle which made her frown, and tilt her head a bit. Such things didn’t normally happen in Zaun. Smog, and mist normally came in clouds or fog banks drifting through the area. Not threads encircling a group of people. It wasn’t weird enough to make her think it was just in her head, but it was odd enough to catch her attention.

She of course couldn’t hear Nith’s whisper, but she figured something had been said with Nith approaching the lady which lead to another bit of puzzlement as the lady ended up crying. Jinx could easily understand why someone might cry because of a corpse, but there was something in the order that it happened that seemed odd to her. Almost as though something had happened, or been realized and that had made the woman cry perhaps rather than the corpse itself.

It wasn’t until Nith walked close to her however, and she saw that tall figure that Jinx let out any sound. A scraping sound as she shifted on her perch, and tilted her head along with a soft whispering comment sliding through the air. “Well that’s new.” Her visions didn’t normally seem so clear. They were things of static and anger and confusion. They also didn’t just follow other people. Reaching up Jinx rubbed at her eyes, and blinked fully assuming this was a trick her mind was playing on her. “Heh.” A soft almost bitter one note laugh escaped from her. Perhaps she was getting worse than ever? Wasn’t that a lovely thought, and one that made her lips tighten.

Surely it wasn’t really a ghost? Why would it be following this strange singer?

“You certainly left an impression on them. They got their money’s worth I guess.”

Nith arrived on time. Entering calmly she greeted the family and offered her condolences before surveying the space. There were no neon lights… unfortunate, but at the same time understandable. She walked to the center and took a moment to observe the body covered in blankets. Before they could say anything to her, she raised her hand and gently explained: “It isn’t necessary… These moments are not to judge and it is not my job to pry into what was his life. My job is for you to see him one last time and say goodbye.”

Keep reading