#hurricanes at midday

[jinruihokankeikaku]

the debate over how intense Francine will get has been quite interesting. Official forecast says Cat 2, but a lot of people say it won't make it past Cat 1, and a lot of others say it could make it to Cat 3+. At least one guy on the forums doubts it'll even become a hurricane (it will be a hurricane by the time people are waking up in Louisiana tomorrow; if I'm wrong about this, well, so was the NHC).

[yanderestarangel]

tio miguel o'hara au

art cr: @/Andalusia_lu-

TW: EXTREMELY DARK CONTENT, STEP INCEST, OC MIGUEL, MANIPULATION, VIOLENCE, ALCOHOL, DARK THEMES, TRAUMA, GRIEF, BROKEN MIND, DUB CON, NON CON, POWER PLAY, HARASSMENT, GN READER, THREAT, PAIN KINK, DOLLFICATION, NSFW, BREEDKINK.

˖⁺ ⊹୨ notes ୧⊹ ⁺˖ no negativity please. If this isn’t your sort of content you’re more than welcome to block me and move on with your day.

I just wanted to make a definitive AU for my version of "Tio" Miguel O'Hara ✧⁠*ᜊ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᜊ.

[PART.1.]

♡ ┆Tio Miguel is your non-blood uncle who is thirty-five years old, his skin tanned by the hot midday sun accentuates his body and he has greater muscle mass than most men of his age; brown hair usually combed back and dark brown eyes that seem to penetrate your soul.

♡ ┆ He arrived like a hurricane in your life and that of your family, right after you moved to another quieter place in the Mexican city, practically a rural place where Miguel lived just a few meters away on a large farm, isolated from curious eyes.

♡ ┆ You had a grandmother who already lived there and she introduced the previously unknown man to you, saying that he was Miguel O'Hara, a close neighbor who always came to visit and was always nice to her, practically a son for the older lady. The tall Mexican man helped your family unload the moving truck, he was the first to approach like a silent plague and the target was always you, since the first time he saw you he had felt something more like his life had meaning again.

♡ ┆ Soon he began to frequent your house, being a friendly and solitary gentleman keeping everything from his past between his teeth despite the entire reception of his family with his persona. You, on the other hand, saw how he always seemed to look for you regardless of the situation you were in, even asking you to call him "Uncle" and that was when it all really started for both of you, the demand to be called that was subtle but already functional that even your parents told/demanded that you respect the man as someone in the family and in a short time he was already an influential and feared member of your family.

♡ ┆He is almost always seen dressed in ranch clothes or dress shirts and jeans - punctuated with cowboy or work boots, most of the time they are expensive fabrics that are not compatible with the minimum wage he receives for his work as a caregiver of farms or livestock. He is occasionally seen wearing a shabby brown suede cowboy hat.

♡ ┆When you ask him about his profession he just smiles and uses the same excuse that he got extra money from some competitions he won at the local bullfight ─ and the mysterious gain is not only used for his own use but also to buy gifts for you, he is not afraid to manipulate or seduce you with monetary gains to capture your attention and keep it, if you want something he will give it to you without thinking twice just to keep you for him, whether for his money or by making you afraid. Miguel secretly ran the underworld of drugs and smuggling but he would never tell you that and he would rather die than for you to discover his source of money in reality.

♡ ┆He always uses affectionate and possessive nicknames with you, like 'Mi vida' 'Mi angelito' 'Mi carinõ'; practically like a passionate lover would do or even he would grab you and hug you, touching you in different places and leaving a trail of heat wherever his fingers passed, even though he was your uncle he would treat you like a possessive companion would.

♡ ┆He drinks a lot, his favorite drink is expensive and pure whiskey. He also becomes almost predatory when he's drunk, often coming into your room on celebratory nights and whispering dark promises to you ─ you've seen him kneeling at the side of your bed as the warm alcoholic breath comes from his thick lips, phrases like: "You will always belong to me", "anyone who dares to come close to you I will kill them.", "I will never let you slip out of my hands, my precious angel." Or even the secret desires to use your body escaped his lips on those rare nights when the drink overcame his stoic and cold demeanor.

♡ ┆Most of his cold behavior is the result of the fact that he never had children and also due to the death of his late wife, killed by a fateful fate that he refused to talk about. He tends to be extremely rude to everyone but he tries to be as gentle as possible with you, even though it can be scary at times. He is domineering, impatient and quick-tempered, looking for your company during family outings or parties. Miguel will manipulate you by saying that his behavior is normal, saying that you were his family and he was just trying to make your bond grow and he will also manipulate your family to sweep away any complaints you may make. from the carpet or say that you were being dramatic and if you try to return his advances he can be extremely rude and easily hold your body, whispering subtle threats like: "You don't want to see me angry, do you, angel?" While leaving your wrists marked red from the force he had put there.

♡ ┆He doesn't let you have boyfriends or girlfriends, if you dare to have a partner he will do everything to make your parents stop this relationship. Even if you are an adult he will do everything in his power to make your life hell if you dare to leave him for a random person. Most of your relationships ended mysteriously because your dear tio used his influence in the underworld to threaten your partner. It will also alienate you from friends or acquaintances, a useful way to maintain control over yourself.

♡ ┆He always invites you to his farm on the weekends, always with the promise of some expensive gift or comfort from all the weekly stress. If you accepted (through free and spontaneous pressure from him) he would spoil you and always spend exorbitant amounts of money on you. If you have problems with your family, he will convince you to leave your home and talk to your parents to let you stay with him in his house for an indefinite period of time. Your Tio I planned to make you his perfect future companion, submissive and untouched by the evils of the world, a husband/wife so he could have a real family again, even if he was your uncle.

♡ ┆He tries to make you sleep with him several times, be it with monetary gains, manipulation or breaking you to the point that you throw yourself into his arms because he thinks you won't get anyone to love you like he does. During sex he plays the role of a tough dominant, often treating you roughly and likes to use your body to vent his frustrations. Miguel will choke and bite you, marking your neck and shoulders with painful, red bites, - even hitting you if you try to struggle or struggle against him, whether it's slaps to the face or butt making you whimper and become more still and controlled in his control. He uses his greater physical experience and constitution to hold you back if you try to run. Your Uncle likes to fantasize about getting you pregnant and making you a perfect little doll for him, he fills all your holes with his semen. He can spit in your mouth, hit his dick on your face, giving you hickeys on your neck, strong bites, or cumming on your face and recording everything afterwards to threaten you if you don't want to accept his marriage proposal later.

[mindblowingscience]

A severe solar storm sparked by an intense flare from the sun could reach "extreme" levels as it bombards Earth, officials with the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) warned on Thursday (Oct. 10). Scientists with NOAA's Space Weather Prediction Group (SWPC) said that a cloud of charged solar material, called a coronal mass ejection, slammed into Earth around midday, triggering a "severe" geomagnetic storm that could impact power grids and GPS and radio communications systems, as well as amplify aurora displays in regions that typically don't see them.

Continue Reading.

[cleolinda]

The Category 4 hurricane, bordering on Category 5 [as of Tuesday Oct. 8], was expected to reach Florida's Gulf Coast between 10 p.m Wednesday and 2 a.m. Thursday, according to the latest forecasts.

“You have time today. Time is running out," Gov. Ron DeSantis told reporters on Tuesday. "But you do have time today to heed any evacuation orders and do what you need to do to protect yourself and our families.”

Sarasota Mayor Liz Alpert said she's confident her constituents understand the consequences of not evacuating. "What everyone has been saying is, you have to evacuate, it is not survivable, to survive a 10- to 15-foot storm surge," Alpert told NBC News on Tuesday. "It just simply isn't."

Mr. Biden said he pre-approved emergency declarations in Florida and had sent FEMA administrator Deanne Criswell to Florida on Monday. He also called on airlines to provide "as much service as possible" and "not engage in price gouging."

Mr. Biden said he had spoken to "all political leaders" in the region, "some of them more than once," and he said he told them "anything they ask for, they can get."

I don’t want to add to people’s anxiety about this if you’re already safe or following the story from afar, but if this kind of warning convinces anyone to evacuate or make sure their loved ones do, it’s worth it. If you want to evacuate now but you don’t know where to go, lists of shelters by county are over here.

More about the predicted path:

It’s also been pointed out that you can travel north OR south—the hurricane is cutting across the state. Ideally you would get out of the path entirely, but any distance from the direct line of impact and/or the coast would help, even a little:

Scroll way, way down for the interactive map, which I have screenshots of below (again, accurate as of midday Tuesday October 8th). The hurricane will weaken as it hits land, but it’s still wildly intense, considering:

I wasn’t online much the week of Helene, or I would have posted then too. But Helene also gave us an idea of how bad things could get, and a baseline for “even worse,” so that’s one of the reasons I’m posting all this now. (I also have the luxury of being in a different state. I’m not someone to worry about.) I’ll look for disaster relief resources and post those when the time comes. I hope people are still helping Asheville and NC, but this is gonna have to be my lane for now.

[scotianostra]

On January 5th 1993 the Liberian registered oil tanker Braer hit rocks off the Shetland Islands.

Twenty sixe years ago the Braer oil tanker ran aground off the Shetland Isles in hurricane-force winds, spilling almost 85,000 tonnes of crude oil.

The captain and crew of the vessel were airlifted to safety by helicopter after its engines failed and it became clear the disaster was imminent.

It hit rocks in Quendale Bay, just west of Sumburgh Head, on the south tip of Shetland, just before midday on 5 January 1993.

According to WWF Scotland, at least 1,500 birds died and up to a quarter of the local grey seal population was affected.

But the weather limited the full extent of the damage as much of the oil was swept out to sea. The Gulfaks crude that the Braer was carrying was also lighter and more easily biodegradable than other North Sea crudes.

The Braer was carrying twice as much crude oil as the Exxon Valdez, which had run aground off Alaska four years earlier.

The Alaskan oil spill had caused a devastating environmental disaster.

The first sign the Braer was in danger had come at 05:19 when the coastguard was told the tanker, which was travelling between Norway and Canada, had lost power in a storm 10 miles south of Shetland.

The situation quickly deteriorated and by 09:00 fears were raised that the Braer would run aground near Horse Holm, an island near Sumburgh Head. Instead, the current carried the ship into Quendale Bay where it foundered and breached, spilling 84,700 tonnes of oil into the sea.

The 800ft vessel had been built in Japan in 1975 and did not have the more modern double hull which would have lessened the chance of an oil-spillage.

There were major inquiries, including one by Lord Donaldson, which looked at the disaster and how it could be avoided in future.

Mistakes were made, such as moving all the crew off the ship and not letting them back when it had missed the rocks to take a line from the newly-arrived salvage tug.The Captain of the Braer tried desperately, with the coastguards, to get his crew back on board but the police would not release his crew because there was a confusion over orders.

A report into the disaster, published in 1994, said bad weather was largely to blame for the accident.

But it also condemned the actions of the ship's captain, Alexandros Gelis, who, it said, demonstrated a fundamental lack of basic seamanship.

By October 1995 a total of £45m had been paid out in compensation but a moratorium on payments was then imposed as the International Oil Pollution Fund neared its limit of £50m.

In April 2001, Jim Wallace, MP for Orkney and Shetland called for the inquiry into the disaster to be re-opened amid claims the ship had been unfit to sail.

[inoreuct]

a study of bruises, care, and potatoes. 

Zoro’s boots scrape dully as he skids across the deck, bending his knees to drop his centre of gravity, shoulders sinking as he presses a slow breath through his teeth. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

He scoffs as Sanji’s stupid fancy shoes come into view, the steel-capped toes he got the cook for his birthday dripping with the same red that’s flowing from his split brow and blurring one half of his vision to shit. Squinting upwards into the light, he finds the midday sun crowning Sanji like a halo, lighting his hair up gold. Beautiful. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe, if you win,” Sanji laughs, easy as anything as he backs away. 

Shusui and Kitetsu sing in his hands as he grounds his stance and spins them around, and he hasn’t unsheathed Wado. Yet. But with the way Sanji’s pushing him back— Zoro grits his teeth and allows a heel to crack across his jaw, letting the momentum turn his body sideways as he ducks low and rams his shoulder into Sanji’s ribs. The cook gasps, managing to drive a knee between them before Zoro shoves it out of the way, spitting out a curse as the swordsman hooks the flat of one sword behind his calf and yanks his leg out from under him, and they hit the ground hard.

Zoro’s laugh rides on his exhale, heartbeat pounding fiercely in his ears, one fist slamming into the ground above Sanji’s head when the cook wraps unfairly long legs around his middle and throws him upwards. It unbalances him just enough for him to go nose-to-plank, just enough for Sanji to flip them and yank Zoro’s wrists down to trap them under his thighs, and just like that—

“Caught you,” Sanji breathes, chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat-damp bangs sticking to his flushed cheek, and Zoro doesn’t fight the grin that bares his teeth. 

“Looks like it,” he says evenly, feeling hardwood press against his skull as he stops resisting. “Come here.”

A blue eye narrows sharply. “Why?”

“Just come here.” His heart lurches when Sanji leans down, suspicious, hair falling over them both like a flaxen curtain. It’s getting long, Zoro notes. Long enough that he could braid it if Sanji wanted. He makes a mental note to bring it up to the cook, waits until a barely-trembling mouth grazes his— 

And cranes his neck back to slam his forehead into Sanji’s nose. 

The cook lurches away with an enraged cry, hands flying to his face as Zoro uses his wrists to lift Sanji by the knees and flip them over again. “You fucking bastard! That’s foul play, you piece of shit—”

Zoro just grins wider, heart pumping hard and body buzzing like a livewire. Sanji looks hot like this with iron dripping off his chin, pooling in his cupid’s bow, staining his mouth rose-rust-ruby even as he smears the heel of his palm over his lower lip, and Zoro isn’t afraid to admit it. 

He watches. Watches Sanji’s eyes drag languidly from the blood on his hand to Zoro’s face, watches him tilt his head, lazy and unhurried, and suck the red off his teeth with that piercing gaze pinning him in place. He tightens his grip on Shusui’s hilt and digs his knuckles into Sanji’s shin as something tightens in his gut. “Never said we had to play fair.”

He watches Sanji’s smile sharpen into something downright predatory seconds before a foot is stomping sole-first into his chest, vicious and just off-centre, kicking the air right out of his damn lungs as he flies back. Fuck, that’s gonna bruise. The pain switches something in him into high gear and Wado’s out of her sheath, a familiar weight in his jaw even as he scrambles to get his bearings, and barely half a breath later Sanji’s on him like a fucking hurricane. 

Another signature roundhouse kick lands on his temple and re-opens the split in his brow, and he would have eaten shit if not for the palm he slams to the deck, pivoting to pop up behind Sanji and swing two swords parallel into his middle. The cook dodges and slips away, driving his heel into Zoro’s hip, and Zoro backs up to give himself space to breathe. 

The sun is blinding even when he isn’t looking up. His breath echoes in his ears, tight as he tries to slow it down, shirt stretching with the heave of his shoulders, pulse a war drum in his veins and his arms nearly trembling with adrenaline and there is blood on his face, in his mouth, sweet and metallic; he spits it in a red splatter onto the ground and sweat nearly steams off his skin. 

Up ahead, Sanji leans back against the taffrail almost leisurely, looking far more composed than he probably feels. He rolls his head back, elbows over the railing as he bares his throat almost arrogantly, and the smug look he tilts to Zoro as he tosses his hair out of his face is a challenge in and of itself.

Zoro crosses the space between them in three great strides and swings. 

He twists and drops low as Sanji slides beneath his sword, and the cook snarls as Wado grazes over his side just deep enough for it to sting. Sanji’s leg comes down over his head and he throws up a forearm, digs his heels in as he braces for the impact, shoving forward as soon as it connects. A knee jams into the same side as before and Zoro wheezes, core spasming, backing Sanji into the railing with a wide arc of his blade before the cook gets that glint in his eye— 

And Zoro gets an inkling feeling that he’s just lost himself this fight. 

Sanji spins to spring off the railing in a tight flip that brings his heel down directly between Zoro’s shoulder blades, and Zoro sacrifices his balance and Kitetsu in one last bid for victory. He reaches one hand over his head and grapples for a handful of fabric, yanking as hard as he can, biting down into Wado’s hilt as his knees slam into the planks.

Muffling his pained hiss into leather, Zoro manages to flip Shusui in his grip before his wrist is pinned beneath Sanji’s hip. Fuck. His free arm is grabbed and wrenched back, a sole pressed to his throat and forcing him into a kneeling backbend. Sanji slowly pulls harder and forces his upper body back as he thrashes, a subtle threat; it’s a futile effort, anyway. The cook’s out of Wado’s reach with the severity of the lean he’s in, neck tense, chin pushed up as cold, blunt steel digs into his jugular. Zoro’s arm strains in its socket, and as much as he is prideful— He knows when to admit he’s been bested. 

“Yield,” he grits, chest heaving as Sanji puts more pressure on his trachea and his lower back strains with the weight of holding himself up. “I yield.”

“…For today.” Sanji slowly lets go, and Zoro groans as he slumps to the deck. “You’ll beat me tomorrow.”

He spits his sword to the side and unfolds his aching legs from under him, starfishes out, tries to catch his breath. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless, familiar shade of blue. Zoro finds himself smiling and throws an arm over his face to hide it. “Hope that doesn’t mean you’ll go easy on me.”

“When do I ever?” Sanji scoffs, tapping the back of his heel against the swordsman’s thigh for good measure as he gets up. “Come on, marimo. Before the sun turns you into a dried cactus.”

*

He’d been right about the bruising. Purple and yellow blooms vivid across the right side of his ribcage, a deceptively pretty splotch that still makes him bite down a groan when he presses into it with cloth-wrapped ice.

“Let me.” Sanji gently takes the bundle from him, nudging him back until Zoro gets the hint and hauls himself up to sit on the table with a grunt. He lets the cook prod at the edges of the bruise with a frown pulling at his swirly brows, carefully rolling the ice pack back over the area, and he grunts as his ribs shift. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d strained a couple of intercostal muscles.

The urge to scrub a fist over the blood crusting in his eye is tempting but he resists, knowing that Sanji would probably scream at him if he did— However. His lashes really are starting to stick together. 

Sanji notices, because of course he does. “Hold,” he mutters, pulling one of Zoro’s hands over the ice and stretching to wet a clean cloth by the sink. It’s blessedly cool as he sets it to Zoro’s skin, letting it soak for a few seconds before he starts scrubbing away at dried gore and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You’re all messed up.”

“And whose fault is that?” Zoro asks dryly. “You kick like a fucking donkey. And twice in one spot? Really?” He ducks his head with a laugh when Sanji moves to yank his earrings.

“You’re infuriating,” the cook scowls, at odds with the slow, meticulous way he rubs the cloth over Zoro’s lashline. “And you were distracted today. What’s going on?”

Zoro closes his other eyes and recalls a fierce grin, blood-slick, golden hair and steel toes and a flawless kick slamming into his jaw. “Dunno. Maybe I just love you.”

Sanji stills, and Zoro clocks his soft, quick inhale before he hears the cook shift and opens his eye. “…I’m still not used to that,” Sanji murmurs, more to the floor than anything else, and Zoro tilts his chin up with two fingers tucked beneath.

“I know.” He feels his own shoulders slouching, sinking as he curves toward Sanji like a planet in orbit. He’s tentative when he cups the cook’s jaw steady and lets go of the ice pack to bring his thumb to Sanji’s bloodied nose, but he twitches back when Sanji hisses. “Shit, sorry, curls. Is it broken?”

“Nah,” Sanji chuckles airily, relaxing into Zoro’s touch and letting his eyes slide shut with a sigh as the swordsman prods at his bridge. “Just tender.”

Zoro hums, unsatisfied. “Pass me another cloth.” He wraps the offered fabric around his index finger and wipes away the blood congealed on Sanji’s lip, turning the cook’s face this way and that to make sure he gets everything as lithe hands press the ice back to his torso. 

His own face’s mostly clean now, but his brow still feels a little stiff when he raises it just to make Sanji laugh. No big deal, though; he expects he’ll scrub down before dinner and drag Sanji with him, because otherwise the cook would stay in the galley all night. Zoro loses his train of thought when blue, blue eyes flick up to his, and his breath catches in his chest.

“What?” Sanji murmurs, his jaw nestled in Zoro’s palm, gaze travelling over his face, and suddenly Zoro doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He’s not a man of words. He never has been, really, but he thinks he could try, for Sanji. The man standing between his knees is a prince, for fuck’s sake, in everything else if not in name. Sanji, with skin the colour of white sand under the sunset, eyes like pools of sapphire crystal, slender fingers and gold-spun hair and kindness in spades, given to everyone with a generous hand, even when life had tried to beat it out of him with a stick. He’s regal. Something out of one of those fairytales that Zoro had never believed in.

He’s regal, and sometimes Zoro worries that he’s too rough around the edges for them to fit. 

And then Sanji cusses him out with a sharp tongue and kicks his head back on straight, and he remembers exactly who he’s dealing with. Who he’d fallen in love with. 

Sanji makes a questioning noise but doesn’t shift back when Zoro pulls him closer, gently carding his hair out of the way to press a kiss to the space between his brows. The strands are soft between his fingers, sweet with the lingering scent of Sanji’s conditioner, and Zoro lets himself bury his nose in Sanji’s crown and just… breathe, for a second. 

Arms slide around his waist, and Sanji’s weight leans into his chest. “Are you alright, chéri?”

“I— Yeah.” He shifts a palm to Sanji’s nape and squeezes, mainly to ground himself. “I’m good, cook.” Up this close, it would be difficult to miss the cook’s slight inhale as he draws back, and he frowns. “Your side.”

“S’fine,” Sanji dismisses, shaking his head with a soft smile.

“Lemme see.” 

“Honestly, it’s just a scratch!”

“Let me see.” The cook huffs and rolls his eyes, stepping back to pull his shirt up over his side and Zoro hunches down, finding a clean corner of the cloth as he scrutinises the thin slice on Sanji’s skin. “Doesn’t look too bad,” he says, cleaning it up even as Sanji mutters an “I told you so” under his breath. It didn’t matter how bad it was. He wouldn’t take it any less seriously. 

Sanji drops his hem back down and slips in close again to rest his cheek on Zoro’s shoulder, hands locking at the small of Zoro’s back, and Zoro smooths his palm over the soft cotton of Sanji’s dress shirt. It’s a texture he knows against his skin. He knows all of it; silky hair and a sharp jaw and a smart mouth, white teeth and strong hands and cotton shirts and wayward kicks to the shin and familiar weight against him as they fall asleep. “What’s for dinner?”

Sanji hums, nuzzling into the crook of Zoro’s neck before he pulls away, reluctant. “Potatoes au Gratin and spinach pesto linguine.” He moves over to the sink, pulling a huge bowl of washed spuds from somewhere, sliding it across the table as he tosses Zoro a paring knife and a pointed look. “Chop chop.”

The swordsman scoffs, leaning back on his hands. “Chop chop, he says. No please, no thank you, no nothing—”

“Oh, come on.”

“No appreciation!” he continues, grabbing a potato and sighing at it sadly. “Or financial compensation, mind you, this is unpaid labour—” 

“Marimo,” Sanji begins, pinching his nose bridge but failing to hide his smile. “Darling. My heart. L’amour de ma vie. Will you please peel the damn potatoes, thank you.” 

Zoro sniffs, but picks up the knife.

“You know, one day I’m gonna tell the whole crew what a drama queen you are,” Sanji says lightly, pulling a cabinet open to grab a box of pasta and grabbing a pot from the shelves below. 

“They’ll never believe you.” Zoro shrugs, a what can you do sort of thing, and points the potato at the cook. “And this is still unpaid labour.” 

“You’ll survive. It’s a labour of love.” 

“Don’t recall ever saying I love peeling root vegetables.”

Sanji throws a teaspoon, and it bounces off Zoro’s forehead. “Not the potatoes, moron, me.”

Zoro can’t find a retort to that, so he shuts up and peels. It’s… good. He doesn’t recall ever smiling this much before everything. Before bloody scrapping and the gentle hands after and peeling vegetables in the easy quiet of the galley while Sanji watches the pasta boil. The cook pushes him, stretches his limits and helps him break down barriers that he would’ve been loathe to tackle alone. Helps him to dress wounds he can’t reach. Sanji holds him with a care that Zoro has never bothered with for himself, and it’s good. 

He's listened to Sanji enough to know that these are baby potatoes, finicky to peel because of their thinner skin, and still terribly tender. Sweet. The one he's working on fits nicely in his palm as he guides the knife, angling the edge the way Sanji taught him. The skin spirals over his thumb as he works his way around and he crosses his ankles when he breathes out.

“Marimo.”

“Hm?”

Sanji’s facing away from him, but the cook turns his head just enough for Zoro to see the shrewd look in his eye. “Depending on your performance in helping with the rest of dinner prep, I may be amenable to discussion about… other kinds of compensation.”

Zoro pauses, blinks, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “You always speak real fancy when you want something, curls.” 

“I didn’t say anything!” Sanji sing-songs, wiggling his shoulders as he stirs the pot. “No guarantees, mosshead. Peel!”

A laugh slips from Zoro’s throat, rich and real. Sanji’s steel-tipped shoes tap on the ground as he moves around the galley, comfortable in his element, and Zoro watches him with a fondness that warms his chest. Their cuts will heal. His bruises will fade from green to yellow before they disappear like they were never there, before Sanji paints new ones under his skin, and he’ll peel potatoes while Sanji boils pasta and they’ll curl into bed together knowing that they’ll wake up and do it all over again.

Zoro slips his knife beneath the last strip of peel and places his potato back into the bowl, pale and sweet and tender.

It’s good. 

[adrift-in-thyme]

Fairy!Time and Minish!Four with the situation being one of the Colors is injured so they can't reform Four or return to normal size

Four and Time my beloveds. I fully intend to write more scenes with them in the future

Fic beneath the cut

Cw for blood and injury

Vio lies on his side on the ground, curled in on himself. Every inhale is a choked hiccup; every exhale shudders. He is as pale as the pearly white wildflowers that tower above them, piercing the sky. The blood that runs down from his middle, coursing past crimson-drenched fingers, is in stark contrast to the emerald blades of grass that wall them in.

“This is bad,” Red chokes, hand pressed to his mouth.

“You think?” Blue snaps. “We can’t go reform with Vio injured! And we definitely can’t revert to normal size!”

Green watches the two of them argue as he kneels beside Vio, the hero’s head propped on his lap.

“But you can heal him.” He tears his gaze from them, sets it on the god-torn face of his friend. “Right?”

Time doesn’t look up. His attention is on the violet clad boy, hands hovering over the wound.

“Yes,” he says, calmly.

His wings wave gently. They are spread on either side of him like a protective barrier between the four shards of one and the outside world. Dire as the situation may be, Green can’t stop his gaze from flicking to them repeatedly. They gleam in the midday sun, panes of stained glass the color of the sky, of blood.

“I can heal him.”

The others grow quiet at his somber words. Vio’s breath hitches.

“It will take much of you-your strength though, won’t it?” Even pain and blood loss cannot dim the gleam in Vio’s eyes. Always thinking. Always analyzing.

“Your wings…you’re n-not a normal fairy.”

Time smiles, soft and grim. “That much is true.”

The dust floating around him like a halo grows thicker, more potent. Time’s eye slides shut. His fingertips graze the very edges of the ragged river carved through Vio.

“And healing is not as easy for me as it is for some of my kin. I am skilled at it, nonetheless.” He sighs and the exhale seems to echo in Green’s aching ears. “Remain still. I promise it won’t hurt.”

There is not much to show that the healing is taking place. Only the slight spread of the thickened fairy dust, a dim glow traveling from Time’s hands to Vio’s wound. But Green stares anyway. All of them do.

He has seen — and felt — a fairy heal his wounds more than once, both as a whole being and while split. Watching his friend do it, however, his brother whom he had never guessed harbored such a secret (and whom had willingly shared this secret in order to find and rescue them), is different.

And the feel of it, the ease of the pangs that had gradually grown in his abdomen the longer Vio suffered, is more gentle, more caring than any other fairy prior.

When the older hero pulls back and the glow disappears, Green hardly knows it. The magic fades in dying whispers, a mere breeze that calmed a hurricane. He is left soothed, painless in its wake.

“You will need to rest,” Time murmurs, exhaustion thick in his tone. “But the danger is passed. If you wish to reunite, I think the only side effect would be fatigue.” He inclines his head. “Only you truly understand the nature of the magic you all use, however. If you don’t yet feel ready to become one and regain your original size, I will stay with you until you are.”

Vio blinks dazedly up at him. There is more color in his cheeks now that the bleeding has stopped.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “But there is no need for you to stay.”

“You’ve done so much,” Red puts in.

Blue nods. “We can take care of ourselves now.”

“We will reform once Vio’s rested,” Green says. Even to his tired eyes, Time looks ready to collapse. To mend such a severe wound could not have been a simple feat. “And then we’ll head back to camp. We’ll be alright, I promise.”

Time gazes at them all. Then, he smiles.

“Would a little company really be so terrible?” He cocks his head. “I would like to know more about these powers of yours, if you’re willing to share.”

“Of course, we would enjoy your company,” Green says with a grin. “And we would be happy to explain our power to you.”

“Only if you’re up for explaining yours,” Blue remarks, flopping down beside the two other pieces of himself. Red follows suit.

Time chuckles. “My secret is already known. There is no reason to hold back what I know of this form.”

Vio’s eyes brighten anew with that intelligent fire of his. And Green can’t help but smile as he asks his questions — voice growing stronger with each one — and Time, aglow with magic, wings still reflecting the sun in jagged prisms of warning…begins to answer them.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

AP, via The Guardian:

A “once in a lifetime” winter storm sweeping through the southern United States on Tuesday dumped snow at levels millions of residents had never seen before. The storm blanketed New Orleans and Houston with record snow that closed highways, grounded nearly all flights and canceled school for more than a million students more accustomed to hurricane dismissals than snow days. About 40 million people, from Texas to Florida, were under some type of weather hazard, including more than 21 million under a winter storm warning, forecasters said. Residents of several coastal counties near the Texas-Louisiana border were under their first ever blizzard warning. Moisture from the Gulf of Mexico was combining with a low-pressure system and chilly air to drop significant amounts of snow in some spots. That included a near-record 10.5in near Lafayette, Louisiana, by Tuesday afternoon. The National Weather Service said 7 to 8in of snow had been reported in areas between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Parts of New Orleans saw more than 9in (23 cm) of snow by Tuesday evening, breaking its previous record. New Orleans’s old record was 2.7in set in 1963. In Texas, the Houston-Galveston area had 2 to 4in before midday. “This is a once in a lifetime event for a lot of these folks down there. For kids that have never had snowball fights … they’re going to have one,” said Tom Kines, a meteorologist at AccuWeather.

Residents in the South near the Gulf coast area are seeing a once-in-a-lifetime heavy snow and cold temperature event, and climate change is one of the causes for it. This is also God’s Punishment on America for putting the Orange Tyrant back in office.

[gurggggleburgle]

Twas the night before skinmas when all through the house everything breathed everything pulsed. Even the mouse.

The stocking were grown from the chimney with care

In hopes that Saint Shizun soon would be there

The skittens were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of tanghulu danced in their heads;

And Shen Jiu in his 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just surrendered our brains for the long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Unable to open the shutters or throw up the sash.

The moon on the breasts of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to flesh below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight hoof handed skin deer

With a little old driver so lively and skinned,

I knew in on sigh Shizun had desend.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancher! now Prancher and Skinkin!

On, Comhet! on, Skinfan! on, Yingying and Mingyan!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now bleed! Bleed! Consume all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and Shizun too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney Shizun crawled to the ground

He was dressed all green from from head to his twelve pronged foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were sunken, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And whites of his eyes glowed like the burning of sleet;

The bow of a present held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a thin face and was thin as twig

When he laughed he looked like he'd snap like a stick.

He was fleshy and long, a proper great master not unlike myself

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Skinmas to all, and to all a good night!”

[jmdbjk]

Episode 8: Promise for Tomorrow

Beyond the Star, produced by HYBE Media Studio

You could say the Yet to Come concert in Busan was the final cap on Chapter 1 or you could say it is the bridge between 1 and 2 for the group.

It was controversial from the start. There was a lot of turmoil surrounding the planning of this concert, the reason it was planned and the actual logistics of making it happen in less than 3 months. K-Army fought hard for this event to take place responsibly and safely.

That stadium they performed in was in terrible condition just WEEKS before they were to perform. Panels were missing all around on the outside due to being blown off by a previous hurricane. We're talking MAJOR REPAIRS had to be made in a matter of FOUR WEEKS when they finally settled on this venue after going back and forth on where to hold the concert:

By the miracles that the universe keeps bestowing on BTS, the venue was ready, the city was in festival mode and over 50,000 concert-goers attended this event FOR FREE.

This concert was very emotional for all of them. It was the last moment for them as a group for a long time. I'm glad they were able to finish off the first ten years like this. It was epic.

The members talk about the unknowns, how they might present themselves in the future. They want to see if they can come back as a proper group and show it can be done and done well, even in their 30s.

Namjoon says they hope they can comeback with a balance between group and individual activities, they want to try to show how an idol group can mature and still be successful. They are all on the same page with this.

But they and Army must have faith in each other to let the time go by in order for the growth to happen and in order for them to fulfill their obligation.

Yoongi said they had something to prove with their performance at Yet to Come in Busan: that they still had it. They worked hard, reported to work early, stayed behind late to keep practicing. He feels strongly this won't change with them as time passes.

This is someone who is able to see the synergy of the individuals who make up the whole.

By this time, Hobi had already released Jack in the Box and had performed at Lollapalooza and was feeling more confident about all of it:

From the very structured days that Hobi likes to the totally free-spirited Jungkook, they have shared some very intimate moments in this episode.

Hobi says they have to learn how to rest and be on their own, do their own thing, think for themselves.

Tae and Namjoon individually speak about how this level of fame and success they've achieved, especially in the last three years, is something they had trouble grappling with. That level was not what they'd anticipated. They have to ask themselves what was it they had initially wanted to do?

Then we get a big reveal: Jin's posse of friends. They are in the car going somewhere and the music track playing is Life Goes On, a callback to the opening scene of the song's MV. They are going camping. Jin shares that these guys hang out at his house even when he's not there, welcoming him home when he gets there. Jin, a gamer guy who's told us he can play video games for days and forgets to eat while doing it, made us think he was all alone ... and here has had this great group of friends this whole time. He knows his group of friends are rare to have in the world of celebrity.

And an extremely intimate moment when Jungkook visits his healthcare provider for a health visit. He's just like me, I can't watch them sticking that needle in my arm to take blood or whatever it is his healthcare provider is doing. Omega-3 supplements after midday and evening meals and vitamin D at night. And he is guilty of patient non-compliance because he's not drinking the liquid supplement they prescribed. For as healthy as he seems to be, that's a lot of prescribed supplements. And this is some very, very personal information he's sharing with us.

This episode is hard to watch, y'all. I keep having to stop and dry up my tears. Omg then Take Two starts to play after Jin gets his head shaved. One heart rip after the other... and then the credits roll while Spring Day plays.

Bottomline, this series shows the tightness, the oneness, the knowledge that these seven men have forged a bond that makes them family and will keep them together as they continue on with their lives. They've tied their identities to BTS so tightly that they will never not be known as the seven original and only members of BTS.

They all want the same thing. As Tae says, they now have to make it through their military enlistment healthy...

We were shown a much wider picture of how their lives are and were especially since 2019.

Their words, their tone of voice, the memories, the visual cues and reminders are all to help us understand what they've done, how far they've come and what they've had to overcome and how they felt about all of it.

The docu-series concept overall was to convey the members thoughts about their careers, past, present and future. I was extremely interested in hearing in their own words, what it was like being a member of BTS in those first years.

I listened to what the members had to say, I assimilated that into what I already know. It moves chronologically. If you think of it as the members of today telling their story, it plays more like a narrated movie. A movie of their lives.

We saw images that helped us understand the things they were talking about, the things they'd been feeling and thinking as they sorted through the years. Each episode focused on a period of time.

The basic things they said: they went through some hell, they tried to figure out this popularity thing, pandemic fucked with them, mental health issues were a problem, they worked through that, they finally worked through what enlistment and after could be and they are all in a good place. Through it all, they remain committed to each other and to the group.

I know some were saying the editing was choppy or events were out of order, but this docu-series was not supposed to be a chronologic retelling of the history of BTS and it wasn't just a listing of their milestones. Whoever said that didn't watch any of it.

It moves along in a way that conveys how they started, what their mindset was then and shows us how they've evolved over time. Scenes from the past help convey emotions and feelings, reflecting on the depth of memories they have from their career. The clips we see can't begin to convey how dense and rich all of those experiences are for them and don't come close to touching the number of hours they've spent on stage during their career.

Production of this documentary began long ago, as shown by all the different interviews conducted. When producing a documentary created from interviews, there is an outline of points to convey and obviously there was a camera person and probably a director/producer to prompt the interview. In other words the interviewer may have said "tell us what your favorite concert memory is" or "let's talk about how you felt when the MOTS tour was cancelled." The member talks, and then maybe the next question is "what were you feeling/thinking when you sat on your sofa for days?" and the member talks, then "when did you feel like (insert whatever)... (member talks)... etc. and let the member being interviewed say everything they want to say, or if they go off on a tangent, they'd bring them back to the topic to make sure there was enough footage/soundbites from each member. There is typically no dialogue "script" for a documentary unless it has a narrated voice-over. I have done this sort of thing in the course of my work career. Documentaries can be very flexible but are meant to be factual.

My criticisms: I saw one or two instances that should have been corrected: they labeled the UN building as Oakland. There were a few translated phrases that were a tad awkwardly structured.

Anyway, long-time fans might already know the history of BTS and know wayyyy more details about how everything went down, even more so than what was shown in this series. It's the newer fans that will benefit a lot from watching this. As we know, the amount of content to "catch up" on is ENORMOUS. Ask me, I know this. This documentary series is a very condensed history that would definitely benefit newer fans.

I hope I was able to summarize everything clearly in these blog posts.

[whumping-valentine]

Continuation of that short Sailor Whumpee Lighthouse Keeper Whumper thing I wrote last month. Will tag as "Sailor Whumpee" Also I guess Whumpee is trans and uses he/they pronouns.

"The Docks aren't the friendliest of places, you know." The Lighthouse keeper warned the sailor about to leave. It was the day after their shipwreck, and out of all the many sea travelers he's seen, never has the old keeper encountered one quite like this. Already so eager to leave despite their condition.

Whumpee stopped in their tracks, hand on the cold iron doorknob. They turned around, "What do you mean by that?"

"What else is there to mean? The pirates in town are rough and tumble, and I'm just not so sure they'll take too kindly to the bruised, washed-up sailor." Whumper closed their eyes, taking a slow sip of their tea. "Mm. Besides, they all know about you. The Boy in the Boat, they called you. Found your little pathetic board smashed out on the rocks. Not much of a boat now, is it?"

"So you pull me in off the shores just to insult me?"

"Yeah, pretty much." A sly smile appeared on Whumper's face. "People often find my hospitality comes with a price. But hey! I pulled you off the shores, bandaged your wounds, and gave you a place to stay. Though I know sailors don't take too kindly to badmouthing their ships— even if she is nothing more than plywood now."

Whumpee rolled their eyes, "Well, thanks for saving me, but our short paths end here. You can quit your yapping."

"Farewell. But there is one thing you should know—"

Whumpee opened the door, and was greeted to a horrendous downpour, and a perfect strike of lightning.

Whumper smiled, "Welcome to The Docks!"

~~~ Continued ↓ ~~~

Whumper was surprised when Whumpee actually went out into the storm, with no hesitation, at that. Suppose that kind of stupidity is exactly what got them crashed here in the first place. It didn't matter, though. They'll be back, and they'll have questions. It was only a matter of time.

Whumpee was never one to care of storms. He'd sit in the mud during a downpour, run across the beaches in a hurricane, and hoist his sails in a thunderstorm. He lived for the clouds, the sea, and the storms. People called him crazy and reckless, but he would never see it that way. After all, he always said:

If you don't die on a boat in the middle of a thunderstorm, did you ever truly live?

He made his way off the rocky shores of the Lighthouse, despite the crashing waves hitting his feet. They knocked him over quite a few times, but a face full a' sea water n' a rock jammed in his side wasn't any new feat. Most people might find the sand up the nose and wet clothes to be uncomfortable, but for Whumpee it was just another part of life, and they tried to enjoy all of them. Even in the unpleasantries there is something to be experienced.

That experience was life itself. It was something to be cherished. Every shipwreck, every storm, every literal rock in the side, it was life. Even death was just another part of it, albeit the end.

He stepped off the rocks and onto the docks. Ships swayed in the violent rain, hitting loudly off them. He walked down them and into the coastal town, simply referred to as "The Docks" as a whole. They weren't too sure what time it was, as the clouds were just that thick, but they reckoned it had to've been midday.

The town was as rough and tumble as they came, more so than Whumpee had seen, and they'd sailed all over the world. What I meant by that is it looked like it was out of some nautical maritime fairytale. A cluttered, disheveled, seaside town, but it was medieval, too. Old timey, 15th century, and— did that Lighthouse keeper mention pirates earlier?

Sure, they're still around, they've ran into a few, but to so casually mention them like that seemed strange. Then again, they were also talking about mermaids sinking ships, so maybe the lonesome old keeper was just crazy and full of shit. Still, with curiosity at its peak, they walked down the cozy wet cobblestone streets.

Though the rain was loud and rough, they could hear the lively chatter inside the old buildings. The sound of clanking glasses, laughter, dancing, and old-timey sea shanty music boomed inside the large tavern building. The widows were open holes in the wall, covered by planks that could swing open.

Whumpee pulled opened the tavern window, and an olive skinned woman happened to be standing right against it.

"Oh, hi, sorry." Whumpee said.

"It ain't be a bother." Said the woman, a piratey accent to her voice. She took a sip of the beverage in her hand, "Mm. Besides, the air be nice, it's stuffy in this ol' place. Name's Caretaker."

"Whumpee."

"Charmed." She said, doing a raise of her glass before taking another sip, "What bring ya peerin' into taverns?"

"Just walking around, getting acquainted."

She chuckled, "Durin' a storm? You're quite the adventurous one."

"I was born out at sea, I wouldn't be me if I wasn't." He said, hoisting himself to sit on the windowsill, getting out of the rain. "There ain't a better time to get out into the open air than during a thunderstorm."

"Ain't ya frightened by it?"

"It's about risk vs. reward. Is the risk of dying out at sea greater than simply being out at sea? Is the threat of getting struck by lightning worse than the experience of being out in a thunderstorm? Does the thought of getting sick outweigh the positives of being one with nature? The answer is no, to me at least. Like, I'd much rather die in a shipwreck than of a heart attack in some dumb suburban house, you know?"

"Can't say I do, but I respect your enthusiasm."

"That's more than most people. I just really love life, and that includes all the bad things that come with it. I've gotta admit, I love me a good shipwreck."

"Oh, are you the new boat boy who crashed on the bay last week?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm surprised people know about me already."

"In a town like this, word tends to spread fast. Ain't much goin' on. How'd the grumpy ol' keeper treat you?"

"Well, he was talkin' about merfolk and stuff."

"Ah, that old bastard is always so cryptic. He is one of the merfolk. Don't know why he does it, but I suppose it's just to scare any of the humans he gets."

Whumpee furrowed their brow in confusion.

"Oh, yeah, you're new, sorry. He's a human-trapper who works with the royals. Sometimes they end up crossing over, so it's his job to turn them in."

Whumpee was incredulous, "What are you talking about?"

"Hm? What d'ya mean?" She asked, brushing her long, dark, curly hair behind her ears, letting Whumpee see they were long and pointed. Whumpee nearly choked on air as their eyes widened and heartrate accelerated. Was... was this real?

"Hey, you alright?"

"Eh, I was... just in a crash the other day, ya know? Still a bit lightheaded and all that. I— I should get going. Nice talking!" He said, jumping down from the window, shutting it, and running off down the streets back to the shores.

He practically had to crawl through the sea across the stones to the Lighthouse, the waves that stong and harsh. He kicked open the door, dripping wet.

"Back so soon?" Whumper asked, but Whumpee only had one thing on their mind.

"You sunk my ship!" He slammed the door behind him, "Where am I? Who are you? How did I get here?"

Whumper smiled, still with his cup of tea that he sat down on the table. "Welcome to The Docks."

--- --- --- ---

Hey hoped you like this! It wasn't very whumpy, but I'm currently just fighting demons (writer's block) hoping they'll go away soon. I was sat out in a thunderstorm soaking wet and wrote this while waiting for round two so then I could go shower 😂

I wasn't intending on this being anything other than a one-off, but I love the rain and sea (if you couldn't tell) and when inspiration strikes, it strikes. I now plan on continuing this, as I have a few ideas, but I'm just kinda going with it. I don't have a plot or anything but I DO know that while Whumper may seem chill now he's going to be the absolute worst later. This confident, life-loving Whumpee is about to be crushed.

Also! Since I'm continuing this, I'd like to name them! Since I have literally, actually, 300+ named characters (I listed them) I'm kinda all named out. So I'd like some suggestions! Masc/neutral names for whumpee and whumper and fem/neutral for caretaker.

[i-am-bella-donna]

Hurricane Chapter 1

Acegust 2024 Week 3: Angst With a Happy Ending

AO3 | Next Chapter

Story Summary:

There were no thunderstorms in Heaven. Vaggie did not understand how anyone could enjoy this.

Pairings: Platonic Vaggie x Angel Dust, Platonic Vaggie x Sir Pentious

Word Count: 544

CONTENT WARNINGS: N/A

A/N: Here we go! I am back on my bullshit!

Seriously, I am enjoying myself way too much.

~~~

There were no thunderstorms in Heaven.

Vaggie did not understand how anyone could enjoy this.

The walls groaned as winds smashed debris into the Hotel’s exterior. Lightning flashed bright against the dark sky—had Vaggie not known any better, she would have thought it was night instead of midday. A roar of thunder sent tremors through the foundation of the building.

Or perhaps Vaggie was the one shaking, if the way her teeth chattered was any indication.

Was this normal for a thunderstorm?

Was the building supposed to sound like it was screaming?

“I do love a good ssstorm,” Pentious sighed happily from his spot on the couch, and Vaggie wanted to throw something at him.

Behind the bar counter, Husk snorted. “Sure—it’s all fun and games until you get caught outside with fur.”

“…You make a good point.”

Husk rolled his eyes. Thunder crashed. Vaggie flinched.

Why was the rain so loud?

This storm had come suddenly, catching all of Pentagram City off guard. Aqueous rain in the Pride Ring was rare, and unlike brief acid showers, these rainstorms had the potential to be long and disastrous. In her three years in Hell, Vaggie had been lucky enough to avoid this weather so far.

Charlie promised her it was not so bad.

Vaggie already wanted to vomit.

Her mind was foggy, thoughts slow and sticky as molasses. Her body, on the other hand, vibrated like a live wire—every muscle was pulled taut with suffocating fear and the overwhelming urge to get away from the rain. Distantly, she heard footsteps, but she could not tear her eyes away from the window. A knot tightened in her chest.

Lightning flared through the room. The lights flickered. Vaggie inhaled sharply.

Before she could recover, a deafening crash of thunder shook the entire building. A high-pitched noise—she refused to call it a shriek—tore past her lips.

Pentious snapped his head in her direction, brows furrowed as she hurriedly schooled her expression into one of neutrality. He reached a tentative hand toward her before letting it drop. “Are you…all right?”

She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, belatedly noticing that Husk was gone. When had he left? “I’m fine, Pentious,” she responded, clumsily rubbing her upper arms. Her fingers were numb.

Her voice sounded hollow—and very much not fine.

If Pentious’s frown was any indication, he did not believe her, either.

But before he could speak up, the Hotel doors slammed open—another crash that made her jump—and Angel fell into the lobby. Literally.

Vaggie cringed at the sight of his soaking fur, remembering Husk’s earlier comment, as Pentious quickly moved to help him up.

“Long day?” she asked, digging her nails into her arms as Pentious led Angel to the couch. Her voice wavered as another boom of thunder sent vibrations through the building. Pentious shot her a look, but Angel did not notice her strange behavior as he shook his head.

“Not really, believe it or not. Val actually let us go early.” Angel flopped backwards onto the arm of the couch and scrubbed at his face. “But he made me walk home in the fucking rain.”

Vaggie opened her mouth—but before she could reply, every light in the building flared.

And then the Hotel plunged into darkness.

[instructionsnotincluded]

Wild Winds

Chapter V

Excerpt:

Logan ran the back of her wrist along her forehead, the midday humidity starting to make her shift feel like it was taking place in a swamp. The sun shone brightly overhead, a Top 40 station playing, launching the pool area in a vacation-esque feel. “I feel like I’ve sweated off at least ten pounds.” Amy Lyons dabbed at her sweaty neck and chest, tugging on her uniform polo to try to get some air inside her shirt, “And don’t get me started on the boob sweat. Why aren’t the misters working?”

“Damaged in the hurricane,” Logan tried not to think about how nice it would feel to dunk her head in the ice bucket as she gathered the ingredients for a smoothie, “and they can’t get the parts to fix it until next week.”

“Fuck me.” Amy shook her head, “This is worse than the bev cart. At least out on the golf course you get the breeze off the ocean…”

“You can thank Ryan for the honor of working in someone’s armpit.” Logan said, “Next time you see him, of course.”

[november-rayne]

Chapter Five: The Lost Prince

A/N: Oh, our sweet prince. What a naughty little sh*t he's been.

Word Count: 1700

Rating: Mature

Tags: Mentions of heavy alcohol and drug use

*This story is for mature audiences only.* 18+ *Minors DNI*

Thor had been tasked with keeping his brother out of trouble by his mother when she first embarked on their tour. He agreed to the task at the time but no idea what was in store for him.

After the news of his betrothal arrived, Loki ran away from the palace, moving through the realm like a hurricane. Drinking, drugs, and sex were his new religion, and he worshiped without ceasing.

Loki spent the next several weeks drinking excessively and bedding any warm, willing body available. Discretion went out the window. He attended orgies without wearing his usual illusion disguise. The common quiet rumors became open discussions in pubs and shared gossip in society circles.

He caroused all hours of the day. He only slept when his body passed out from exhaustion or overconsumption. He hit the bottle as soon as he woke, usually under a pile of naked bodies or alone in some strange place, unsure of how he ended up there.

His status as prince granted him access to all the best the realm had to offer. His chaos was untamed.

Initially, he knew to move around frequently to keep anyone from the palace from getting wind of his exact location. However, as the weeks passed, he lost track of days. He ran out of coins, leaving a trail of IOUs wherever he went. He did remember to keep to the less affluent areas. He knew he did not want to run into friends of his parents.

One chilly morning, Thor tracked Loki to a brothel on the capital’s outskirts. This part of the realm was certainly no place for a prince. The streets were narrow, the buildings in disrepair, and the vibe in the air was nothing short of hostile. But this morning, it was quiet, like the neighborhood was sleeping off a hangover.

Thor pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the dark entry. No one was behind the long counter where guests would check in and pay their coins. He stepped through the heavy velvet curtain that separated the foyer from the parlor.

Men and women were sleeping in various stages of undress on piles of cushions and couches. Discarded bottles and goblets littered the floor. The sweet smell of incense barely masked the heavy scent of sweat and sex. Thor scanned the dark room looking for his brother.

An older woman wearing a long, thick robe came into the parlor from one of the hallways on the side of the large room, shuffling carefully through the refuse and stepping over prone bodies.

“I’m sorry, but we are not open for business at this hour. You could come back after midday.”  She smiled sweetly at Thor and lightly touched his arm to lead him to the exit.

“Greetings, madam. I am not looking for a consort. My name is Thor Odinson. I am looking for my brother, Loki.”  The woman gasped and stepped back, sinking into a deep curtsey.

“My apologies, Your Highness. These old eyes did not recognize My Prince in this darkness. Please forgive me.”

“’Tis nothing. Now, if you please, this is an urgent family matter. I need to find my brother.”

“Yes, of course, right this way! Please, watch your step.”  The woman led Thor through the hallway on the opposite side of the room. Then up two flights of rickety stairs and down another hallway. She stopped in front of a door with a heavy brass knocker. “Your brother rented the VIP apartment.”  She licked her lips and looked up at Thor with a hint of fear in her eyes. “He doesn’t like being disturbed.”

Thor leaned down so that he was more level with her lined face. “Unlock the door. That is not a request, do it now.”  Her eyes widened, and she scrambled in her robe to produce a thick iron key ring. Her hands shook slightly as she worked the ring around and around again, searching for the correct key.

“Ah! Here we are!” She unlocked the door and stepped aside.

“Many thanks.” Before he could take a step, the woman cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“Well, Prince Loki has not paid his tab in weeks. If you plan to remove him back to the palace, I must collect so I may pay my employees.”

Thor furrowed his brow, “I see. I can cover his tab. How much does he owe you?”

She shifted nervously. “Prince Loki has been going through quite a bit of my ale, mead, and wine. Not to mention the food and… entertainment. He has run up quite a debt. We are, of course, honored to have a prince of Asgard as a guest, but…”

“Spit it out, woman. How much?” Thor was on an extremely tight deadline, and his patience was paper thin.

“Twelve hundred,” the woman blurted out.

“Twelve hundred silver?”

“Twelve hundred gold, Your Highness. Prince Loki has generously shared with the rest of the guests.”

“Of course, he has.”  Thor gritted his teeth and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. “I don’t carry that kind of coin around with me. I can have it delivered. What say you?”

“Certainly, Your Highness.”  She curtseyed deeply and hurried off down the hall.

Thor took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. He found the state of Loki’s room much like the parlor. It was spacious, with tall windows along the back wall. The canopy bed sat atop a platform. There were cushions and couches dotted around the room. The en suite bathroom was off to the other side.

Thor stepped over a man with long auburn hair and began scanning the room for his brother. Bodies covered the bed in a tangle of naked arms and legs. This was going to prove more difficult than he thought.

“I wondered how long I would be allowed to remain off the leash.”  Loki’s faint voice came from behind Thor’s back.

He turned to see his brother leaning against the bathroom doorway. He wore only a thin pair of linen pajama bottoms hanging loosely around his hips. He had lost weight; Thor could see his ribs plainly. He had red wounds on his arms and deep purple kiss marks and bites on his neck and abdomen. His hair was limp and dirty, and his complexion was paler than usual, making the purple rings under his eyes more prominent. In his hand was a half-empty bottle of spirits which he brought to his swollen lips and took a long, slow swig.

Thor had prepared a stern speech in his mind when he opened the door. But, after taking in the state of his little brother, all he could choke out was, “Loki…”

Loki looked as if the door frame was the only thing keeping him upright. He tried to take a step forward but stumbled backward. He caught himself with his free hand and braced against the doorway again.

“Loki, this depraved debauchery has gone on long enough. Your time is up! It is time to come back to the palace.” 

Loki took another long drink from his bottle, shrugging his shoulders.

“I am taking you home. Where are your clothes?”  Thor asked while looking around the room with a scowl of disdain.

“Haven’t required them, it seems.”  Loki drawled out, rubbing the cool glass of the bottle across his forehead, and struggling to keep himself upright. “I think I will have a sleep and meet you back at home. Tomorrow morning is preferable, yes… one more day…. will not hurt.”

Loki’s eyes were closing of their own accord as he slowly slid to the floor.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Thor ripped the ornate canopy off the bed and draped it over Loki’s bare shoulders. He yanked the bottle from his grip and hoisted him over his shoulder.

“I will catch Hel from our parents as it is! No way am I going to get into hot water for you missing greeting your fiancé at the gates.”

That sobered Loki up a bit. “What did you say? Put me down!”

Thor was outside in the crisp morning air in no time flat. He managed to make it back through the parlor without stepping on anyone. The brothel’s owner was at the counter in the entryway as they left. She was about to complain about making off with the bedding but thought better of it.

“What bloody time is it?” He squinted in the direction of the dawning sun and pulled the canopy tighter around his shoulders as Thor stood him upright. Goosebumps rose on his bare skin, “What bloody day is it?”  He frowned as he swayed where he stood in his bare feet. He was disoriented and on the verge of vomiting.

“Just get up here! We need to get out of here before anyone sees us.”  Thor yanked Loki’s arm and jerked him up onto his horse in front of him. “Hold on!”

“This is humiliating!” Loki cried, struggling to hold the canopy closed around his body. Thor took off despite his protest. Fringe and large tassels flapped in the air.

Loki lamented the lack of a tunic and cloak as the cool air whipped around his body. The barely-there linen bottoms and a decorative cloth were his only protection against the wind.

“Oh, shut up! You are proving to be more trouble than you are worth. I would have smothered you in your cot when you were a baby had I known what a giant pain in my ass you would turn out to be!”  Thor’s horse thundered along a narrow dirt road around the capital's outskirts.

“First of all, rude! Secondly, what did you say about a fiancé?”

“Mother has sent more messages; they arrive home this afternoon. Your future bride and her parents in tow. She thought it would be a clever idea for the two of you to meet and get to know each other before the wedding, which for your information, is scheduled for one month from today.”

Loki felt the world get colder. A heavy black curtain covered his eyes, and he slumped forward in the saddle.

“Bloody Hel!”  Thor caught Loki around the waist before he could tumble from the horse.

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[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Reposting (rather than reblogging) my "A Visit From Saint Nicholas is a Dream Narrative" analysis.

(Originally posted 20 December, 2018)

Now, that’s far from proof that Santa Claus is fake (we can certainly have dreams about real people and real events). But it does ... loosen ... the scope of possibilities of how Santa Claus really fulfills his mission, each year (For example, the sleigh and reindeer, and chimney, may all be open to negotiation)

Here, let me break the poem down, and show you how I figured this out:

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

So, the narrator and his family are already in bed and, if he himself is not sound asleep, yet, he’s certainly starting to drift off...

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

Wait a minute -- his wife is in the room with him.  If this were really happening in the waking world, wouldn’t she wake up when he opens the window in the middle of the night, and lets in all that cold air (and yell at him for it)? I would.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver* so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too— And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

Okay, this whole thing started in the narrator’s bedroom... And now we’re in the main parlor (I think)? I mean, granted, bedrooms had their own fireplaces, back then. But would the children have hung their stockings on their parents’ private mantle? That seems odd for the waking world. But the sudden shift of location like this happens all the time, in dreams.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

His clothes were covered in soot (from all that chimney bounding), but his beard was pristine (calling back to the snow imagery from before)?

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

If this were happening in the waking world, there is no way the narrator could see Saint Nick get into his sleigh, and it would be very hard, if not impossible, for the narrator to see the sleigh flying away from the roof, while he’s still inside the room.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight— “Happy Christmas** to all, and to all a good night!”

*That explains how he can fit down the chimney so easily: the literary source that gave us the chimney bit of lore also made him tiny enough to fit. It's the fact that we now have fully grown humans acting as Santa Claus's representatives every year that brings in the complications.

**This video, from clothing and fashion historian Abby Cox, explains why this particular version of Santa Claus says "Happy Christmas" instead of Merry Christmas. (~35 minutes. Eye contact. Proper closed captions. BetterHelp sponsorship)

[futuristicsaladparadise]

A Visit from St. Nicholas

BY CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Florrie and Francie wish you sweet dreams!