#mucky shiny

[chipper-smol]

“no beta we die like macaque”

[tailoroffates]

Writing tips #5 - Conditions

Hey y'all! I'm back again with yet another segment of Writing tips. Today we're going to cover something a bit more vague, conditions. No, not the terms and/or conditions of some contract. What I'm referring to is the current condition of an item, a place, or even a creature.

Clean

Blank, bright, cleansed, clear, dirtless, flawless, fresh, hygienic, immaculate, impeccable, laundered, pristine, pure, sanitary, shining, shiny, sparkling, spick-and-span, spotless, squeaky, stainless, taintless, tidy, unblemished, unpolluted, unsoiled, unsullied, untainted, untarnished, washed, white.

Dirty

Black, contaminated, cruddy, dingy, draggled, dreggy, dungy, dusty, filthy, greasy, grimy, grubby, grungy, icky, impure, mangy, mildewed, moldy, mucky, muddy, murky, nasty, polluted, raunchy, scummy, scuzzy, slimy, smeared, smudged, soiled, soily, snooty, sordid, splotched, spotted, squalid, stained, sullied, sully, tainted, tarnished, unclean, unsanitary, unsightly, unswept.

Damaged

beat-up, bent, blemished, broken, burnt, burst, busted, collapsed, cracked, crippled, crumbed, demolished, destroyed, dinged, discolored, disintegrated, dismembered, flawed, fractured, fragmented, impaired, injured, mangled, marred, mutilated, peeling, pulverized, ripped, ruptured, separated, severed, shattered, shivered, shot, shredded, slivered, smashed, split, tattered, wrecked.

Faultless

Complete, entire, faultless, firm, fixed, flawless, full, intact, mint, perfect, perfect, plenary, preserved, replete, rooted, safe, secure, set, settled, shipshape, solid, sound, stable, steadfast, steady, unblemished, unbroken, uncut, undefiled, undivided, unharmed, unified, unimpaired, uninjured, unmarked, unmarred, unruffled, unscathed, untouched.

Messy

Bedraggled, botchy, careless, cluttered, dirty, disheveled, disordered, disorderly, disorganized, filthy, foul, frowzy, frumpy, grimy, grubby, ill-kempt, lax, littered, muddled, mussy, nasty, raunchy, ruffled, rumpled, shabby, slack, slapdash, slipshod, sloppy, slovenly, uncombed, unkempt, untidy, wrinkled, wrinkly.

Neat

Chipper, clean-cut, combed, detailed, fastidious, groomed, immaculate, kempt, meticulous, orderly, organized, prim, shipshape, snappy, snug, spick-and-span, spruce, tidy, trig, trim, uncluttered, uncluttered, unwrinkled, well-groomed, well-pressed.

New

Advanced, brand-new, contemporary, current, cutting edge, fresh, latest, modern, new-fashioned, newfound, new-sprung, novel, original, recent, stylish, trendy, ultramodern, unfamiliar, unspoiled, untouched, untrodden, unused, up-to-date, youthful.

Old

Abandoned, aged, ancient, antiquated, antique, archaic, broken-down, cast-off, crusty, dated, decayed, decrepit, deteriorated, dilapidated, discarded, dowdy, faded, hackneyed, historical, moth-eaten, neglected, old-fashioned, outdated, out-of-date, outworn, primitive, primordial, raggedy, rickety, run-down, rusty, scruffy, shabby, shoddy, stale, tattered, threadbare, time-worn, traditional, used, worm-eaten, worn, worn-out, wrinkly.

[therabbitthatpostthings]

Kids will believe anything you tell them. You tell them to be good so Santa will bring them toys. You tell them to brush every night and a fairy will bring them money. You tell them mermaid scales grant wishes and you have the bravest 7 year old armed in their little yellow raincoat, determined to find a mermaid.

Frankly, (Y/N)’s guardian should have known that a headstrong kid like them would just march themselves down to the beach after school. It’s not like the signs weren’t visible but you never really think a child will do something until they do it. The guardian sighed reading over the red crayon on yellow construction paper: Gone To Find Mermade Wishs.

The fun was short lived as the clouds started to look heavier in the sky. They felt a bit of concern. That heavy weight a parent gets when their child isn’t in eyesight. “I’ll just go down there…” they thought, already out the door and walking to the beach. Surely such a small child could not have gotten mixed up in anything that dangerous.

Of course they couldn't have.

*•*

(Y/N) scooped up big bunches of sand into the bowl with holes in it. They swashed it around till all the sand was gone and the pretty shells remained. They stared inquisitively at the shells. They held the shells gently in their hands and watched as they fell into the bucket, with the intense seriousness that only a child feeling like their tracking an animal can have. (Y/N) had a steely gaze as their eyes surveyed the beach. No one was out on the beach (they had the common sense to stay inside). The seagulls squawked overhead, occasionally swooping down to grab at the creatures caught in the low tide. A group of them gathered near the edge of the pier. They looked to be picking at shiny blue stones. There was a sound amongst the squawking, it sounded like someone crying.

(Y/N) sprung into action, running over to them swinging their plastic shovel in the air. “Shoo! Shoo!”

They waved the bucket around, scattering the birds in the process. They heard a groaning and looked down. It was not a pile of blue stones but a tail! The blue tail was covered in bruises and scratches. (Y/N) leaned down to inspect when it started to move. They stepped back, finally noticing the body the tail was attached to. Its body was half submerged in the sand that stuck to its long black hair as it sat up on its arms.

“Y-You’re a mermaid!” (Y/N) yelled.

The mermaid jolted up. It looked over its shoulder quickly and took off in a crawling-sprint to the pier. (Y/N) gave chase, following under the mucky pier. “Hey! Are you okay? Are you a mermaid?”

The little mermaid was surprisingly quick with its limited mobility. (Y/N) watched as it hoisted its little body over the rocks and support beams of the pier. It climbed on the largest rock and disappeared behind it. (Y/N) climbed up on one of the rocks, “Hey! Are you okay!”

“Leave me alone!” the voice called out in a broken cry.

“Hey! I’m coming over!” (Y/N) called back despite the shouts to not to. They threw the shovel and pail over first, earning a loud ‘ow!’ from the mermaid and hoisted herself over the rocks. They tumbled down the side into the small puddle. The mermaid was sitting in the middle of the puddle. It was crying. The mermaid was small, probably about (Y/N)’s age, its back was dotted with blue scales that spread past its shoulders onto its arms. (Y/N) approached them slowly and reached to put their hand on their shoulder. The mermaid swiped his claws at their hands and hissed.

(Y/N) jumped back, cradling their hand, “Ow! What’d you do that for?!”

“You hit me!” He yelled back

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did! You stupid human!”

“Well- you’re a dumb fish!”

“I’m not a fish!”

“You look like one!”

“Well you’re ugly!”

(Y/N) gasped dramatically. They went clutching for the non-existent pearls not around their neck. “You’re mean! You can stay here, I didn’t want to be here anyway!”

The boy huffed, “Fine!”

“Fine!” (Y/N) yelled even louder. (Y/N) turned to try and climb the rock but it was too large for such a small child to make it over, especially without the aid of the smaller stones to step on. Defeated, they turn back around to sit down. They dramatically sat down in a huff opposite from the boy. “I’m staying!”

The boy rolled his eyes and huddled into the corner muttering to himself. He pulled his tail close to his chest and dug his claws into his arm.  (Y/N) could hear him sniffling. He was shaking. Scratches and bloody bruises covered his body. There were small spots where his scales had been picked off by the seagulls. They looked down at their own hands. The cut wasn’t deep on their left hand, it wasn’t even bleeding. Even if the seagulls put up the fight, there wasn’t much they could have done against the thick plastic of the raincoat. Even though (Y/N) was very upset about the mean words, they still wanted to help. This was a mermaid after all! And (Y/N) had a mission to complete! They moved closer and held out the red bandage to the boy. He didn’t notice so they tapped him lightly on his head.

His head shot up and he pressed his back into the sandy bank “W-What’s that?”

“A band-aid.” (Y/N) replied nonchalantly.

“What do they do?”

“It’s for your tail, you’re bleeding.”

He scoffed, “I don’t need it.”

“My teacher said if you don’t use a band-aid you’ll get sick?”

He thought it over for a second, he looked concerned, scared and finally hesitant but willing. He straightened out his tail for (Y/N) and motioned for them to put the bandaid on. (Y/N) carefully places a bandaid on each bleeding spot, all over his arms and on his cheek. Now that they could look at him, they saw he had swirling blue marks along his neck and lower part of his face leading up his bright blue eyes. He was already pretty pale, it made all of other features stand out even more.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked

“Your eyes look like jewels.” (Y/N) answered matter of factly. They completely missed his embarrassed reaction as they wrapped the last band-aid around his finger. They held up their own bandaged hands. “Look, now we're matching!”

He let out a small giggle, “Thanks. I’m Giyuu.”

“I’m (Y/N).”

“I’m sorry I scratched you.”

“It’s okay, I’m sorry I said you were a fish. I know you’re not.”

“You do?”

“Yeah! You’re a mermaid and you grant wishes!”

Giyuu giggled again, “We can’t actually grant wishes. It’s something grown-ups say humans would hunt us for.”

“You mean that’s made up?” (Y/N) whined.

Giyuu shook his head, “It’s just a story.”

“Oh,” (Y/N) replied solemnly.

Giyuu noticed and moved to sit closer to them. “What were you gonna wish for?”

“To be a mermaid.” (Y/N) replied “I like swimming but I’m too little to go out on my own.”

“Oh,” He said. “If I had a wish, I would wish to have legs. I still want to be me, I would just like to walk on land sometimes.”

“Why?” (Y/N) asked.

“I don’t have any friends. All the other kids call me mean names. My sister and her friends are mean too!” Giyuu’s claws were digging into his arms again. He stared at the open crack between the pier bottom and rock. “They told me to go grab a rock from the surface if I wasn’t a guppie- and I’m not a guppie! One of those floating things got close to me so I swam and I got caught by the waves! Now I’m gonna die in this stupid hole cause I’m too small and I can’t get over this stupid rock!”

(Y/N) was quick to pull Giyuu into a hug. He sobbed into their shoulder. “It’s okay Giyuu, I’m your friend now.”

“Really?” he yelped

“Yeah!” (Y/N) cheered. “I’m your friend and I’m gonna help you out of this hole okay!”

“Okay!”

There was something about the strength of two kids who put their mind to something. For no good reason should two seven year olds have been able to lift themselves over a large rock with only the help of a plastic bucket and a lot of teamwork but, they did. The tide was still pretty low so (Y/N) had to carry Giyuu towards the water’s edge. Giyuu happily rolled in the bank, glad to be in fresh ocean water and not the murky puddle under a pier. He laid on his stomach letting the cool water run over his body.

“I wish you could come with me,” he lamented. “I think you would like it, sorry I couldn’t grant you a wish.”

“It’s fine, I’m gonna get bigger and swim farther anyway.” (Y/N) smiled “Could you come back tomorrow?”

“I’m probably in big trouble…” He sighed.

“Oh…” (Y/N) replied. “Are you sure you can’t come back?”

“I don't know..” Giyuu said.

“Well, you can take this.” (Y/N) held out their bucket. “Next time you come back we can collect more shells!”

Giyuu smiled, taking the bucket in his hands. He saw stuck on the inside was a deep blue shell, slightly chipped on the side. He handed it over to (Y/N), “Here! Remember me okay?”

“I will never forget you Giyuu,” (Y/N) smiled.

“(Y/N)!” The panicked voice of their guardian came from the shoreline.

“Oh no, I might be in trouble too.” (Y/N) shuddered.

“I’ll see you next time!” Giyuu called. He crawled back into the water and swam off once he was deep enough. (Y/N) watched from the shore as the plastic pail disappeared beneath the waves.

“(Y/N)! Are you okay!? What was that thing?!” Their guardian yelled.

“That was my mermaid friend!” (Y/N) cheered.

They wanted to argue with the child but were too relieved to be mad right now. “Whatever, come on it’s going to start storming!”

The two children, without even realizing it, had tied themselves to each other. Their destinies were intertwined on that beach. A friendship was born and a promise was made. Nothing could stop the hands of fate now.

[shilohsylvanian]

Meet the Teak Persian Cat Family 💕

Released around 2015 for JP and 2016 for EU/US. They are the 2nd of 3 persian cat families to be introduced into the sylvanian world.

Not pictured are twins Nel & Ned, and a baby sister Bonnie. The extra mom figure is an exclusive from the Boutique shop set (2016). There are also additional outfit figures for the sister; one with a makeup set, ballerina, and Christmas.

Bios:

FATHER ARTHUR TEAK just loves collecting furniture and his favourite carpet is the centrepiece of the beautiful Teak Family living room. Arthur can’t help but collect pretty bric-a-brac and antique furniture, from teacups to vases.  He has a particular soft spot for carpets as there are so many wonderful designs!

MOTHER CECILIA TEAK, sometimes affectionately called ‘Bo’, loves designing dresses so much that she opened her own boutique with her sister-in-law. She has a wonderfully large wardrobe and is always encouraging little Nora to borrow her clothes and accessories, although Nora is not quite grown up enough for them to fit her yet! From fabric to frills, Cecilia loves all things fashion and fun!

BROTHER FELIX TEAK is known around Sylvania for being incredibly kind; but shhhh… don’t tell anyone that he’s afraid of heights. You couldn’t ask for a better friend than Felix Teak. Popular with the Sylvanian girls because he has such as warm heart, Felix has a knack for picking out the perfect gifts for friends and family because he’s always listening when they say what they like. He’s not keen on climbing trees though because he starts to get wobbly when he looks down at how far he’s climbed.

SISTER NORA TEAK is pretty-in-pink and rather good at doing make-up and making her friends look extra nice. She thinks that her mother is the most beautiful of them all, and often picks out a dress because she thinks that her mother would like it. She’s got plenty of tips for applying make-up from her mum and is constantly trying out new fun looks. She loves to look at her mother’s clothes and can’t wait to work in the boutique one day designing her own creations.

BABY SISTER BONNIE TEAK is a bit like a magpie because shiny things are always catching her eye. This could be anything from a pretty candle to some tasty looking jelly beans. But she likes to hold onto these treasures and watch them for hours, sometimes holding them in her paw. Unfortunately chocolate melts and she often gets mucky from holding too tight onto her sparkly treasures. Poor little dear!

TWIN BABIES NEL & NED TEAK are cute as can be, and while Nel can be a bit of a fussy eater, Ned is a grumpy little baby with a talent for making a mess. If little Nel gets given something she doesn’t like to eat she won’t take a single bite, but if it’s one of her favourites, she’ll make sure she gets second helpings. Ned can be a little bit grumpy and he often makes his mother sad by getting her dresses dirty with his mucky paws. Mother Cecilia has even started wearing an apron even when it’s not dinnertime just in case he gets some mud or tomato sauce on her! Oh no!

[abominationvault]

Session 4: Sat 15 Jul 2023

Suggested talking points: Gillian Anderson - still beautiful. David Duchovny - potato in a suit. Pasta: yay or nay? We are undecided. Double steak sandwiches. Whatever Happened To Little Sconner? Cryptid of the Week: Dipping Cheese.

Okay, so - dead frog? And the luxury maggots contained therein. Trash-Cat Luna approaches in order to splat them. She does three successive paw attacks and gets a Hero Point.

Luna and Skabb both get grabbed; Nadia juuuust squirms out of reach.

Hartvig reminds us all to try and roll some slightly higher numbers this week. Nadia takes this advice to heart and finally hits something - not only that, but she scores a crit and kills a maggot! Skabb goes one better and gets a crit on her third attack, killing another! Joto gets stuck in a door, and has to wait for a human to come and open it for him.

He kills the last maggot with a flashy throw of his dagger. Skabb wants to wear the empty dead frog. The DM allows this, for reasons known only to him. She makes a Nature check; 13. There’s something distinctive about the damage to the frog. Not from the maggots - she believes the legs were bitten off by something else.

Luna can see they were bitten off by some kind of draconic creature; there are burn marks around the leg bones. She thinks it was a river-drake. Does she have a sketch of one of those in her pocket, by any chance? No, but Nadia remembers the most about dragons. Drakes are primitive draconic monsters, with only a fraction of the power of their cousins. They are much less cunning, as well. They are known for forming raiding parties known as rampages. They are Large.

Sprocket’s little ears can hear distant buzzing. Not like the maggots being farmed by the mitflits. We have a think. What do maggots turn into…?

(Skabb wants to know if she can hack the face off the frog and bring it with her. She can, she is told, so she does.)

Joto knows that the flies that come from these maggots are hard to hit, even though they’re the size of people. He also knows they carry diseases. Delightful! He recounts a tale of a previous exploits in the jungle, where he learned of these creatures.

Luna and Nadia approach a closed door - they notice some scribbles on the floor outside it. The writing is childish, but they can’t read it. We could try and make Skabb read it, but that isn’t likely to go well. Please…?

“It’s not about pleases, words are evil!” she shrieks. If we ask Grabby-Cat nicely, she might read it for us and tell Skabb what it says. We remember that she left Grabby-Cat standing guard further back; Skabb calls her back and has her read it. She makes an Intelligence check, as it’s in Mitflit and not Gobbo. 15; ‘Important - here be Buzzy-Wuzz. Keep it well fed, by order of Boss Skrawnig.’

Joto heard, “Joto should go back and get a dead mitflit, open the door and fling it in”. How strange, that’s what the rest of us heard as well.

He fetches a dead mitflit and cautiously opens the door. Inside is a watch post, full of animal carcasses and entrails. He slings the mitflit in, does a gross cat-retch, and presses back around the corner, peering back in to see what happens.

Nadia and Luna move back, readying attacks in case the fly attacks us. Sprocket stands there looking at us all.

The buzzing gets louder. Those of us who can see this:

Through the now open door we see another fly appear. The first is about the size of a pony, and shiny blue and green. It has been painted with something, probably by the mitflits. The second is a more drab colour. A third, mucky-brown one squeezes in through the window as we watch.

Joto shuts the door.

Luna has some black adder poison; could she slap it on a dead mitflit and fling it in? Well, it’s a venom, not a poison, so we would need to get it into the bloodstream. Oh well. She gets a Hero Point for the scheme.

We need some giant flypaper. Or an aerosol and a lighter. Skabb could Tanglefoot one…? We don’t need to kill these things, but if we don’t they’ll be buzzing around outside later on. Especially since we killed the mitflits that were feeding them. Would cold magic make them sluggish, maybe?

Sprocket thinks he has a spell that might do something, but it’ll take a round to charge. Traps and snares aren’t likely to do much since they’re floor-based, and flies, well… fly.

We arrange a surprise attack, since the flies don’t know we’re here. Sprocket readies his spell, Skabb and Hartvig prepare spells too, Nadia readies a shot, and Joto and Luna prepare to dart in and do melee strikes. Augustus will do some smashing.

Joto opens the door…

Sprocket fires off his spell: Horizon Thunder Sphere. He rolls a 7 to attack, then a 5. All is not lost - the spell explodes and does damage to the adjacent two flies instead. (He sparkles with electrical energy.) The flies make their saves - one takes no damage but the other takes half.

Skabb does her Clinging Ice spell; her target crit-fails its Reflex save and takes double damage!

DM, sadly: “Poor Buzzy-Wuzz.”

Skabb, on a roll, casts Ray of Frost on Buzzy-Wuzz. 20 to hit and 8 Cold damage!

Nadia hits with her shot, for another whopping two damage. She reloads and crouches down.

Hartvig steps over Sprocket as he walks toward the door and does Cry of Destruction, hitting all three flies.

Joto: “Is it a shout, or are you just crying?”

Hartvig, weeping: “It’s not a phase!”

The flies make their Fortitude saves and take half damage. Clearly flies don’t understand emo culture.

Joto darts past Hartvig into the room and gets stuck in the wall on his way in. He springs over the flies so he can attack from behind. He goes for Buzzy-Wuzz with his rapier, hitting for 7 damage and gets the Howdy-Doodis! He carves a J into its back.

Hartvig: “I loosened it for you.”

Joto then does an action called You’re Next:

He rolls an 18 on his Intimidation check.

Sprocket: “Undermine it emotionally! Gaslight it!”

That was a free action so Joto attacks one of the remaining ones, misses, and uses a Hero Point to reroll: “Ah, piss.” He gets the Hero Point back for being awesome though, so not all is lost.

Luna is hidden, and also stuck in the wall. She gets unstuck, and leans around Hartvig to take a shot. She misses, uses a Hero Point to reroll, and misses again. She closes her Roll20 window in her excitement, and there is a short pause while she reopens it. She bounds in to attack with her rapier, and misses with that as well.

Pretty good surprise round, all considered! With that, we roll Initiative…

So it turns out that Hartvig’s curse has kicked in, so anyone within ten feet of him is in his ashy aura and is considered Concealed. Double edged sword, though, because they can't see out of it either. Sprocket Spouts one of the flies. “He’s getting a dungeon bidet.”

Hartvig casts Produce Flame and hits one for 4 fire damage. He moves out of the way, taking his ash cloud with him. He gets a Pity Point from the DM. “I accept.”

One of the flies exits the room and attacks Sprocket for 5 damage with its mandibles. It goes in for another bite, but misses. The other fly bites at Joto “with his mandi-blez”, then at Luna - and flies away toward Nadia.

She shoots but misses, reloads and crouches down.

Luna takes some shots, but misses.

Skabb uses her first action to try and puke away her sickness, but fails her Fortitude save. She flings an Electric Arc at the flies - they fail their saves and takes 6 damage each.

Joto runs back out of the room and throws a grappling hook at one of the flies. It misses, so he shoots with his crossbow instead. That misses as well.

Sprocket can’t reach the flies - but Augustus can. Sprocket does another spout of water at the fly nearest him, but it makes its save. While it’s dodging out of the way, Augustus swats it with a 23 to attack! 5 damage, yeah.

Hartvig moves, and casts Guidance on Nadia. Good thing too, because one of the flies attacks her. It hits, but she can add the Guidance point to the secret roll the DM makes for her. Its second attack misses. Embarrassed, it turns to attack Sprocket instead and hits him for 4. The second fly bites at Joto (miss), Augustus (miss) and Sprocket (miss).

Nadia shoots, misses, and crouches down shielding Skabb as she does so.

Luna springs out of the room and rapiers one of the flies - 17 hits for 3 damage, and she does a little cat-dance. The thing is now dripping fly gunk and flying on the wonk. “Gross.” The fly uses Avoid the Swat:

Skabb tries another Tactical Vom, but fails. “You’d think I’d be good at puking.” She shoots another Ray of Frost at the one trying to flee. She gets a Howdy-Doodis! It freezes and shatters into, quote, “delicious little chunks”.

Joto uses Augustus to get some air time, and leaps at the last fly for some mid-air rapier action. 23 hits! Upon the landing he takes another swing. Howdy-Doodis! He cuts the wings off, and it explodes on the floor.

Joto does some healing for Skabb, who pukes enough to make herself better, and then runs around the room hoovering up the bits of dead fly. Full again, she uses her healing mud to try and heal Sprocket but rolls too low. She does the same for Augustus, and rolls much better. Fortunately they share a hit point pool so Sprocket gets healed anyway.

Joto heals Luna, and Hartvig tries to heal Nadia but rolls too low. Hartvig has also stopped emitting so much dust. Nobody was unalived! We’re getting better at this. Time to move on! ... Next week.

[duckdotcom]

i vacuumed my car they should put me on youtube to do the thing where they dump out a big bucket of mucky water and then the car is shiny i'll make millions

[stohessdistrict4]

The first time he saw him, he thought he’d finally lost it. He had just cut down a 5-meter class, the rain spraying silt into the air to mix with the titan’s hot blood when he’d seen him, standing there, watching.

He was of average build, shrouded in a long black trench coat, similarly black, too-large umbrella held low to cover his face. The rain fell at his feet, mud clinging to the man’s polished Oxfords, rainwater dripping past the umbrella onto his gloved hand that lay limp at his side.

He stood there, beyond the walls, a silent watchman, a voyeur of humanity’s destruction, as if he was merely waiting for a carriage. And Levi would turn away from what was surely a mirage of the rain and shadows, contorted into some twisted folktale character.

But then Levi would see him again, rain cascading in rivulets from his too-large umbrella, one black-gloved hand wrapped unmoving around its curled handle, perched high upon a tree branch. Levi’s gear would carry him by, but he would turn midair to look, to spare a precious glance at the man with the umbrella.

He began to associate the man with Death. That was the only time he ever saw him, his black umbrella an omen of destruction. He appeared on every mission, standing off to the side, never interfering or showing his face. Sometimes he caught a flash of a dark umbrella in a crowd, and like a madman would seek him out, driven by curiosity and confusion and, even, fear. But whenever he got close, the sun would be shining brightly, and there wouldn’t be an umbrella in sight.

The haunting figure seemed to contrast Erwin. While the man with the umbrella was darkness, Erwin was light. Erwin was hope and all things beautiful, with shiny golden hair, deep blue eyes, and tender smiles. He was like a shining beacon, the sun and the stars beside the man with the umbrella, cold and still and void.

It was raining hard that night, puddles collecting on the streets, mucky water kicked up by carriage wheels and horse hooves. The rain fell in sheets, and Levi found himself standing on the other side of the street from the man with the umbrella, his own grey umbrella trying to shield the rain.

The man with the umbrella was still, frozen like a statue, but his clothes rippled and undulated in the strong wind that buffeted them from the east.

“Who are you?” Levi called from across the street, but elicited no response. When the next carriage rumbled between them, the man disappeared behind it, and Levi was left alone, cold and soaked.

He caught glimpses of him still, over the next few months. His trailing black coat, his gloved fingertips, his umbrella. Some days he found himself wildly curious about the man. Others, he convinced himself he had never really been there at all. He had things to do, missions to accomplish, real, tangible items that required his complete attention and so he banished the man from his mind, and focused on what was.

And yet one night as he tossed in his bed, a storm raging outside (he had never much liked storms anyway, nor beds, nor the oppressive darkness of a cloudy night, followed by the damp, moldy stench after rain) and thought of the man with the umbrella. How no one else seemed to see him. What Erwin might think of him if he knew he was losing his already feeble grip on sanity.

But then he thought of Erwin’s lips, Erwin’s smile, his laugh, how he liked his whiskey, his coffee, his ink. How he’d look at Levi when he entered the room and how it made his stomach churn. And he would fall asleep to secret thoughts of Erwin’s lips on his neck, his breath in his ear, and think that sanity was overrated anyway.

He woke one night in a brilliant white void, bleak bright nothingness stretching in all directions. A few meters away from him were a couch and an armchair, angled a bit away from each other, and a tall metal cart on wheels. 

He crept towards the sitting area, walking around the other side to stand behind the couch. It was worn and well used but not tattered, a dark green with a tacky gold striped pattern. The armchair matched.

He blinked and a man was sitting in the armchair, completely drenched with water and gasping for breath. Levi flinched hard, and automatically ducked behind the couch, out of the man’s view as he clutched desperately at the armrests of his chair with shaking pale fingers. 

For a moment it was only the man’s gasps that filled the room and the steady drip of water from his pant leg to the floor.

Then, somewhere on the other side of the couch a door opened and was gently latched shut again. The impersonal click of dress shoes sounded against the hard white floor. Someone walked closer and sat down heavily on the couch, placing a dripping black umbrella to rest against the side of it.

“Where am I?” the man in the armchair asked, his voice quivering. “Who are you?”

“You’re in the After, my friend,” the man on the couch replied. “You are dead.”

“You- you killed me,” the man on the armchair accused, panting, his chair sliding back with a resonating screech on the cold floor.

“Why don’t you sit back down, friend; take a deep breath and we can have a little chat? We need to do your exit interview.”

“You’re Death, you’re-”

“I said sit back down.” The man on the couch’s voice echoed unnaturally around the room, and the other man gasped again, sitting back heavily on the armchair.

“I understand that this must all be very confusing for you, Patrick, but all will make sense soon.” Death’s voice was smooth and calm again. It made the hairs on Levi’s neck stand up. “I do not decide when you die or how, but I do decide where you go once you die.”

“Where I go?”

“North, or South.”

“You mean heaven or hell?”

The man on the couch’s smile was apparent in his voice. “Now you’re catching on. Your file is still being reviewed, but why don’t we start your interview now, my friend.”

The man stood, and Levi pressed himself against the couch to not be seen.

“On this screen, we can see all the good moments in your life, the bad, and the very bad.” A switch flicked, and the man sat back down on the couch. This time he leaned back against the seat, and Levi caught a glimpse of curly black hair over the top.

Keep reading on ao3

Title: The Man With The Umbrella

Words: 4,616

Genre: Canonverse

[liontilesuk]

5 Ways to Liven Up Your Bathroom

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At Lion Tiles in Leeds, we have a whole range of items to help you live up your bathroom. If you’re looking for bathroom tile deals, you’ve come to the right place.

[prof-peach]

Does Minerva have a favorite outfit? When did she first start exploring clothing?

Man it changes a lot! Her wardrobe is bigger than mine, and she’s constantly being nagged by the house to donate the old stuff she doesn’t wear anymore, we trip over her piles of laundry a lot, we may have to build her a bigger space for it all at some point...

Right now today this is what she’s wearing. It’s quite sunny here!

I have sewn a tail hole with big buttons for ease in the back, she usually will knot her ears (harmlessly obvs) behind her.

As for when it began? Like Waaaaaaaaaaay back when she was a little Buneary. I’ve run over her story before, I picked Minerva up as some mangey little bug ridden half pint about 14 years ago now. Her shiny nature was so mild, the notable pink colour almost pastel, faded, mucky in tone, like she was greyed out and stressed as all hell. I had spent so much buying her off an illegal seller, I had no money for the trip to the new region, and had to battle to get cash, until I was just able to afford some hole filled tent, and medicine for her that I couldn’t knock up myself from herbs and plants. That first night in the tent it rained, and I used an open umbrella to plug a large rip in the roof, we all huddled up, myself, Val a couple other new Pokemon friends caught, and this weird pink-not-pink Pokemon, who seemed incredibly timid, the notable shaking of nervousness all over her, finally found a comfort. When buying medicine I’d pocketed a magazine, you know, 5-finger-discount style. The magazine entertained us all that night, and even the stressy Buneary came over to read with the team. When we finally got through it all, and everyone had got to look at the pictures and hear all the stories, cover to cover pretty much, She took the magazine and started to find great fascination with the fashion segment. She poured over it every night, and had the magazine on her most days. She got healthier, and used my keys to cut out her favourite outfits. I spent money on a scrap book for her, with a very small amount left over after food and medicine, battling to make it work out. During the trip to Sinnoh, Minerva chose her own name, got healthier, worked hard, battled with ferocity, evolved, she gained more and more confidence, but above all else, she got her first ever taste of fashion! I was eventually able to buy a few item on the trip, she use to have the cutest hairpin thing, and a little short cape with a hood. Made my heart hurt she was so innocent haha!

Since then she’s grown into a decadent lady, who lives a very full and happy life (I think, she seems content). As the seasons change and fashion shifts to new styles, she will also pick and choose new stuff. You could ask her the same question every day, ‘what’s your favourite outfit?’ And she’ll come back with a different look each time.

I’m just grateful I got the hang of mending and editing clothing to a degree, saves a lot of cash, but I do have a limit. If she wants something stupid expensive, then she’s gotta earn it. We go out battling until she’s gained the funds, minus what I’ll put towards it.

[comfortwriting]

Ashtray Part 4 - D.M

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompts

This is Part 4 of my Draco Malfoy Mini Series, please read parts 1, 2, and 3. 

Warnings: swearing, smoking, mention of food and eating. 

“Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.” Snape’s voice echoed in the back of your mind whilst you flicked through your Romeo and Juliet GCSE muggle study materials, forgetting about charms, divination, and hexes, and learning about Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men instead.

The spring breeze brushed against your tender neck and cheek, causing your hair to blow out of place, the pages in your books flicking over, your bookmark sliding out of the crook and onto the grass.

Sighing, with a cigarette clamped between your lips in the corner of your mouth, you quickly grabbed on to your book, trying to find the page you were on, battling against the strong and unsteady breeze which started to resemble a billion hands, trying to push you away all at once.

Reaching the page you were on, you picked up your bookmark and shoved it back into the crook, sucking on your cigarette and inhaling, you stuffed the books into your bag and rested your head against the giant birch tree you pressed your back up against, looking up at the long, thick branches that welcomed new leaves and blossoming flowers.

“Are you bloody mental?” A familiar voice called out, footsteps stomping towards you.

Choking on your breath, you spluttered, the cigarette shooting out of your mouth and onto the grass, the wind blowing it away before you could pick it up or put it out.

The group of footsteps got closer and then stopped, you stared at the familiar mucky and well-worn shoes that stood out next to the shiny pointed flats in perfect condition, looking up, you were faced with Ron and Hermione.

Feeling your heart drop in your stomach and bracing yourself for another lecture, you continued to stare at them, darting from one pair of eyes to another.

“What do you want?” you sighed, too tired to argue, too drained to explain yourself all over again.

Ron squinted at you “leaving Hogwarts just as you’re about to start your O.W.Ls, Y/N, have you gone mad?”

Your heart started to pound, your stomach suffering fatal blows with each heavy beat.

“It’s nothing to do with you” you replied “I told you that last week!”

Hermione held Ron back from losing his temper, flashing him a look and pulling him behind her. She looked down at your book filled bag and pouted for a moment, pondering her thoughts.

“But why?”

But why? are you kidding me!

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed and laughed lightly, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder as you got to your feet.

“You’re a smart girl, Hermione.” you glared “don’t ask stupid questions.”

Turning away from her and walking away in the other direction, Ron pushed past his girlfriend and grabbed hold of your wrist, pulling you back, his other hand gripping the wand in his pocket tightly.

“Ron!” Hermione hissed.

“No!” You raised your voice “It’s alright, I’ll give you what you bloody want.” You snatched your wrist away from Ron and pushed him away from you, almost causing him to fall onto the grass.

Hermione tried to speak, so did Ron but the fire burning in your stomach became uncontrollable and the embers that flew off spread around your body like wildfire.

Draco, Pansy, Blaise, and his other cronies strolled down the path towards the lake, your raised voice catching their attention and pulling them into the spider web you were accidentally forming around you.

“I fell in love with Draco and he happened to already like me back!” you yelled “I got to know him better than anyone, better than Pansy, better than Blaise, better than Snape!”

Hermione still tried to speak, but only managed to stutter.

“That lad has been treated like shit by his father, he has been forced to do terrible things he didn’t want to do, he was never given a choice and still can’t decide what he wants to do with his own life for himself!”

The fire in your stomach shot up and travelled past your ribs, Draco’s mouth hung wide open, his heart pumping like it never had before in his life, Pansy stared at him out of the corner of her eye.

“He isn’t a death eater by choice! I am not a death eater for helping him gain the courage he so desperately needs to break away from the poison in his life!” you walked towards Hermione and Ron, your index finger pointing at them. “I didn’t decide to fall in love with him, it just happened, I could smell his green apples in my bloody love potion, he could smell my fucking cigarettes!”

You inched closer and closer, now trembling with fury.

“Is this true, Draco?” Pansy snapped, staring at him in horror.

“Well don’t just stare at it, what can you smell?” Snape droned on at you, gliding down the empty classroom.

You closed your eyes and swallowed hard, allowing the scent of green apples and expensive shoe polish to engulf your senses, drowning you.

The scent pulled you away from reality and forced you to relive the picnic with Draco, the perfectly sliced green apples sitting on a plate before you were pulled from that moment and thrust into his arms as the two of you danced slowly and silently in the dark and empty courtyard, his expensive shoes shining in the moonlight, the smell of his shoe polish breaking out into the cold air.

You cleared your throat “I can smell Draco, Professor.” taking a deep breath you opened your eyes and stared into Snape’s pits of darkness “I can smell the green apples he eats, and the expensive shoe polish his dad buys for him.”

The corner of Snape’s mouth curled into a rare smile - a sign of approval rather - Snape’s hand rested on your desk, his eyes focusing hard on your cauldron.

“I want you to hold up your bag” he ordered, watching as you did so “and I want you to take out your Marlboro Cigarettes.”

You felt the air get snatched out of your lungs as you were pulling out the exact cigarette brand.

“How did you-”

“When I asked Malfoy what he could smell” Snape paused for a moment, the corner of his mouth curling upwards even more “he pulled a disapproving face and said the same cigarettes in your hands; Draco could smell you.”

“I had no idea that Harry had feelings for me, he never hinted at such a thing, he never told me, and when you thought I was becoming Mrs Malfoy with a burning desire to pledge allegiance to Voldemort-” you bit down hard on your tongue, having never said his name out loud “before I had a chance to explain everything, you publicly shunned me! the whole of Hogwarts shunned me!”

Hermione and Ron’s faces dropped, other students passing by stopped and stared at you, listening in to every word that flew out of your mouth, Harry could hear everything as he ran towards you, his scar prickling, nausea polluting his system, the vision as clear as day in his mind.

“I can’t eat in the great hall - I have to sit with the bloody house-elves in the kitchens! I can’t go into my own common room, or sleep in my own fucking bed!” Your yelling turned into loud screeches, your throat incredibly raw and sore as if you had swallowed the worlds tiniest razor blades.

Harry reached closer and closer towards you all, panting, desperate to catch his breath and spill everything he had just witnesses, the hairs standing up on his back, fear consuming him and guilt suffocating him.

“Everyone hates me! I hesitated for one moment when Draco asked if I were to choose him over you, my best friends, and when I said it wouldn’t come to that, he shunned me too!”

Tears filled Hermione’s eyes, making her vision go glassy, mirroring you, she had never felt so guilty and wrong in her whole life. Harry fell to his knees, gasping for air and pulling on Ron’s sleeve, trying to speak, gasping as he babbled.

“He’s coming-”

“Harry, take deep breaths mate, I can’t understand what you’re saying”

Breaking out of your rant, you noticed everyone circled around you and watching everything unfold in the distance, Draco stood and stared at you, his heart clawing through his bones and flesh to pull you into his arms where you belonged, but his head cursing you and seeing nothing but red for exposing his vulnerabilities to his peers.

“So now you all know why I’m leaving!” you yelled, addressing everyone, getting on your tiptoes, your arms stretched out as you spun around in a circle “and the best news is that I’m leaving earlier than expected!”

“He’s going to attack-” Harry gasped whilst Ron rubbed his back, concern splashed upon his face, trying to put the pieces together.

“Y/N, we’re sorry!” Hermione cried out, her voice shaking.

“No!” you yelled “you’re not! none of you are!” turning your back to everyone you took off in the other direction, your throat burning like your stomach, your eyes stinging from the tears “and after tomorrow it won’t matter!” you yelled again “I’ll be gone when the morning comes!”

Storming off, your bag bounced and bashed against your back, the heaviness of the books pushing you along with each slam, you could feel Draco’s icy grey eyes carve holes into your spine, your heart yearning out and crying for him.

but it didn’t matter anymore, you were moving on with your life and so would he.

“He’s going to attack her-” Harry gasped, finally catching his breath.

“Who-”

“Voldemort-”

“Who is he going to attack? Hermione-”

“No!” Harry shook his head, burying his hands into the grass, pulling on it, everyone now staring at him “Voldemort is going to attack Y/N!”

Draco’s world stopped, his grey eyes focused on Harry - as Harry’s green eyes that belonged to his mother looked back at the lad he hated with every ounce of his being.

“We need to help her” Harry stressed “both of us.”

Tag list: @amourtentiaa @reeophidian @alwaysnforeverfangirl @inglourious-imagines @sycathorn-slush @blackqueens01 @astramalfoy @yesimsleepdeprived @fredshufflepuff @a-dusty-emerald @samineisntmyname @hogwartsbroom

[mintly]

Day 4: Vampire

This is cheating a little, and late, and not connected to the other story, but here's some vampire content. Very lead balloon despite being an AU, whoops.

Much love to @racketghost for the excuse to post some of this despite my not finishing the fic omg.

cw for vampire blood as a drug.

***

Crowley hadn’t meant to become a vampire hunter, though few do. When he was young and foolish and drank far too much at parties he wasn’t invited to, he made a few friends who enjoyed a raucous good time and mischief as much as he did.

There was a lot of gambling which was entertaining, especially if one cheated. There was also a lot of occultism, which was becoming quite fashionable, and Crowley loved being fashionable more than anything.

So when his new, charismatic friend Lucifer cornered him one evening at his club, carrying two drinks and a wicked grin, and asked Crowley if he’d like to join a séance, maybe a few other little adventures he had planned, Crowley could hardly have said no. He had accepted the gin, and if he had hoped aforementioned adventures would have more to do with the flirtatious tilt to his smile than ghoulish forays into mysticism, well, he would be disappointed.

Instead there had been no shortage of black candles, glowy orbs, and goat unmentionables, which left Crowley a little green behind his dark glasses. But he was curious to a fault, especially as it became obvious that there was something true to all of this after all. And, ultimately, something profitable. Unfortunately.

A bit of immortality, an extended life and vitality, in a drop of blood. Provided that blood came from a vampire.

Just a little went a long way, and too much looped all the way back around into regular old mortality. Or the end of it, really. Occult things were funny like that. Full of paradoxes.

So, vampire hunting. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and all his friends were doing it, and suddenly there was a secret guild which was an insufferable concept and all the more enticing for it. In other words, Crowley saw a shiny new thing and he wanted to be part of it. It was a curse to be such a trendsetter.

Now Crowley had a contract signed in his own blood, a constant miasma of garlic, and, worst of all, he was paid solely on commission.

He was still holding out hope that men’s cologne would make a comeback before the turn of the century, at least.

It hadn't yet, and it was nearly 1890.

***

The cloudy afternoon had melted into a cloudy evening, and Crowley was sitting at a café across the street from an antique bookstore. He had been researching the spot since the guild had received a tip about the proprietor from a concerned citizen, who had ended his letter with the claim that the owner would refuse to sell his books to a good Christian like himself. Crowley personally thought this was a case of petty vindictiveness, but Dagon had sent him anyway. He suspected it was punishment for his poor performance last quarter.

At least it was a simple enough investigation, as opposed to a mucky stroll through the sewers like last time. Less danger for his Italian leather shoes. It also helped that the café made a decent coffee for the guests that asked. He drank, and looked back over his scrawled notes.

If the bookshop’s owner were a vampire, he would certainly be an unusual one. Most tended to be antisocial to the point of not existing in society at large, or otherwise as affluent and mysterious as possible. This fellow, A. Z. Fell, appeared to be of middle class, having inherited (?) his bookshop from his father (?), and evidently kept on quite well with the neighbors, if not his clientele. Each time Crowley had spotted his light head of hair in the throng of Londoners, the bookseller was stopped by someone for pleasant smalltalk (if such a thing existed) before moving along.

Fell kept his books tidy, or at least his financial books, from what Crowley could tell. From a brief peek through the shop windows, it actually seemed rather dusty inside. He might have gone inside himself, but the place kept the oddest hours, including remaining closed most mornings. Which could be suspicious, Crowley supposed.

There had been no unusual deaths in the area, or at least unusual to the area, but Fell also never left the shop until the sun had set, and even then often not for several days. He had a penchant for coming across as antiquated, which nearly every person Crowley asked had mentioned. In fact, Fell’s clothing was consistently out of fashion—Crowley hadn’t seen a cravat tied that way since 1875—though he certainly could afford better.

“Ugh,” Crowley muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Excuse me,” Crowley heard from above him. His scheming rudely interrupted, Crowley whipped up with a scowl and startled to see none other than A. Z. Fell himself standing stiffly at his little table.

When Crowley didn’t respond, staring slack-jawed like some kind of amateur, Fell huffed and invited himself to sit in the chair opposite.

“Thank you,” Fell said, not politely. “If you insist on following me, or investigating me, or whatever it is you would like to call it, you might simply introduce yourself instead of interrogating the neighbors and skulking about conspicuously at all hours.”

“It’s the insomnia,” Crowley muttered. All his alarm bells were going off and ringing in his ears against his headache. “Wait, conspicuously?”

Fell squinted, and Crowley realized he hadn’t denied the accusation. “You’re not the first to come around, though it has been a while. I shouldn’t be surprised, with the popularity of my occult collection in recent years. I can barely prevent customers from making off with even the most expensive editions.”

"What do you think I'm doing? Exactly?”

"Well, based on what you've been asking the neighbors, you're trying to find out if I'm a vampire."

"Oh, yeah. Are you?”

Fell sat back and blinked in surprise.

"Am I a vampire?" he asked, dryly.

"Might as well ask, since you're here and all."

"Well, since you asked, yes as a matter of fact. You are a hunter, yes?"

"Uh, yes. Sorry about that. How did you…?"

"Oh, please. I could smell the garlic on you from there blocks away."

Crowley winced. He managed to tamp down the urge to sniff himself, but only just.

"It's not effective, you know. It would completely put me off Italian otherwise, which would be a true tragedy." He looked wistful for a moment.

Fell's little glasses, apparently solely for looking down condescendingly at customers if rumors were to be believed, slipped down his nose. They were unfashionable, practically a crime, really, but in that moment Crowley realized he found them, and the man wearing them, unfairly adorable.

"Shit."

"Quite so," Fell said, apparently taking this as agreement.

He sighed. "I would prefer to not be murdered tonight, if you wouldn't mind. I've got quite a lot of reading and a few book repairs to do. If you would like, perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement?"

Crowley, who never much cared for the dirty work anyway and was coming to the rapid, horrifying realization that he would quite like to ask a vampire to have a drink of him—no, with him for Heaven's sake—agreed.

[sadaboutniall]

Without Fear

masterlist | tag | wattpad

Chapter One. January.

remember that first laugh? all it changed once I had that // like a hurricane, but I don't care where I land - rome, dermot kennedy 

The whole thing had started out as a joke. Or maybe a pipe dream. Or maybe a massive mental breakdown and a poorly thought-through trip to the passport office for a rush renewal and a visa application. 

No matter how it had started, Luna hadn’t actually thought it would pan out. Two and a half months ago, standing in her parents’ kitchen in New York, reading the lawyer’s letter, it had been a shiny, exciting, half-baked idea—an escape she could cling to while everything else was going to shit. It hadn’t been a reality. 

It was hardly a reality even as it began to happen: Luna, packing her bags on a Friday night, deciding which pictures of her ex to keep and which to toss; Luna’s dad, hoisting her bags into the trunk of the car for her; Luna’s mom, petting her hair as she hugged her goodbye at the airport.

And it wasn’t real when she got to Inis Mór either: her snug little apartment above the coffee shop, the smattering of mismatched furniture that her Great Aunt Niamh had left behind, Ruairí, the black cat her new neighbor had been feeding, the mess of her suitcases, exploding on the floor, markedly different to the seemingly ancient chairs and quilts and sweaters that Niamh left for her. 

Or, just left. It’s been hard for Luna to tell what’s for her and what isn’t. 

And even now, nearly a month into living here and it only half feels real, the way she gets up every morning and putters down to the shop to open up, the cat following behind her, meowing for breakfast and Siobhan, the baker, already well on her way to done with the morning’s pastries, the smell of cinnamon and dough and vanilla and the cold air outside wafting through the shop to wake Luna up sweetly; the way old Mr. Whelan is always her first customer, never deviates from his order of a black coffee and a croissant, toasted; the rush of cold air every time someone opens the door, feeling like it’s flaying the shop open, sending napkins fluttering to the floor, causing Ruairí to hiss in protest and curl up closer to the fireplace. There’s nothing real in the way the sun sets at 4pm these days, quick as a wink over the hill outside the window, a flash of orange and purple the only reminder that day once broke in this place that always feels dark, under cover. There’s nothing real in the way Luna needn’t worry about anything here—her rent is paid and there are no deadlines anymore, no screaming bosses, no one angry with her for dropping an artist file or fucking up a coffee order. It’s not real, not even when she calls home and talks to her parents, when they tell her about her brother Sam’s new PhD research and his girlfriend Mary’s trip to Honduras. It’s not real, any of it. And it works. It’s fine. And so is Luna. 

It’s hardly real on a Monday night at the end of January, either, after Siobhan has already left for the day and Luna is quietly closing up, tucking mugs into cabinets and dropping bits of pastry on the floor for the cat. She’s not thinking about much of anything—in the month she’s been here, Lu’s found the very start and very end of her days to be the most relaxing, the way she can clear up the shop or fire up the coffee maker without having to talk to anyone, think about anything. It’s so markedly different from what feels like a lifetime ago: bustling into the office at 8:30 and still feeling like she was late, a tray of coffees balanced in one hand, someone’s dry cleaning in the other, 12 voicemails already waiting for her, 30 emails, more coming through as her phone vibrated in her pocketbook. This is quiet and slow: Ruairí is weaving between her legs, meowing gently when he wants more treats, and outside it’s dark and still and cold, despite it being only 7pm. Luna is tired but not wiped—a feeling she forgot existed before leaving New York—and it occurs to her that she can have a slice of cake tonight in front of the TV, and maybe a glass of wine, while watching Law and Order until she falls asleep. 

She’s lost in that thought—and the already building annoyance at the fact that she knows she’ll inevitably wake up on the couch at 3am and have to stumble to bed—when the door creaks open, nighttime wind rushing in, a boy stumbling after it. 

“So sorry,” Lu looks up from where she’s been wiping down the counter behind the pastry display. “I’m closing up. But I still have a few leftover slices of cake if you want—”

“Oh, erm,” the boy stills, maybe surprised, and Lu does too. He’s—well. Lu hasn’t seen anyone here who looks like him. 

He’s a mess of hat hair, dark at the roots and an unnatural blonde at the tips, curling over his ears and flopping over one eyebrow. He’s bright blue eyes, wide when he looks at her, and cheeks flushed red to match the tip of his nose, and a smattering of stubble along his face, darkening in the dimple of his chin, his pink lips chapped where his tongue darts out to soothe them. He takes her breath away for half a second—or maybe that’s the rush of wind that crashed against her chest when he opened the door. 

The boy is clutching a guitar by its neck, gloved hand wrapped almost reverently around it, and his white high-top sneakers are mucky where the rubber soles have been sludging through the perma-mud outside. He looks like something out of a dream, maybe, Lu’s heart catching a little in her throat. 

“Hi,” he says, finally, looking just as out of sorts as Lu feels. She’s not sure if that’s good or bad, but he carries on. “I wasn’t expecting—I didn’t think you would be so… uh. American? Uh,” gently, he tucks the guitar under his arm and tugs off his navy blue gloves, the cotton pilling from wear. “I’m Niall,” he reaches out a hand. It’s cold when Lu takes it to shake, when he wraps it gently around her own. “I live Kilronan.” 

“Hiya,” Lu’s voice comes out softer than she expected it to. “I’m Lu. I work here.” 

“Right, right,” Niall nods, swallows thick. “You’re Niamh’s niece? I was so sorry to hear about her passing—she—”

“Great niece,” Lu rushes over Niall, exhausted, even a month later, of every introduction on this island starting with a condolence. “I actually only met her once. But it sounds like she was a force.”

“You—once?” Niall shoves his gloves into the pocket of his puffer jacket. 

“Yeah,” Lu shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. Was there, uh,” she doesn’t want to get rid of him,  but doesn’t know where to go next. “Did you want one of those slices of cake? I’m sorry for you to come all the way from Kilronan for nothing.”

“Oh,” Niall looks like he’s only just remembered where he is. “No, I didn’t come for cake. I, uh, I have a… a question? An idea?”

Briefly, Lu worries if she should be nervous—but crime doesn’t happen here, not like this, and Lu knows the statistics when it comes to stranger attacks. Either way, Niall keeps talking before she can spiral, the words tumbling out like he knows he has to speak before he thinks better of it.

“I, uh, I was wondering if there’s any chance you were looking for someone to, like, play guitar and sing a bit? Like, live music in the shop for a couple hours a week? You don’t have to pay me or anything, ‘m not asking for that, but I could maybe leave my case open for tips? I can do covers or requests or—whatever you want, really. And I can give you my work schedule and we can work around that; I’m free on the weekends mostly, except for when I coach football, but also on weeknights if you’d prefer that and if you want to split the tips I understand, we can do that too, and also—” 

“Niall,” Lu can’t take it. He’s speaking so fast it’s shuttling her toward an anxiety attack, and throwing up on the shoes of the first cute boy she’s seen in a month was not on her agenda for today. Meeting a cute boy in general was not on her agenda for today, but Lu’s been learning that things don’t tend to pan out the way she plans them. “I like the idea. That sounds cool.” 

“I totally understand if—wait, really?” Niall pauses, hand halfway up to his face, like he was going to cover his mouth, or rub his eyes, or bite his nails. His brow furrows and his mouth drops open a little, like he didn’t expect it to be that easy. Like he didn’t accept Lu to be agreeable at all. 

“Yeah,” Lu shrugs, then nods at the guitar still tucked under Niall’s arm, “but you’ll need to audition for me,” she bites back a cheeky smile, watches Niall do the same. “I can’t have a crap singer driving away all my customers.”

“Ah, fair play,” the left side of Niall’s mouth pulls up into a smile, and Lu pointedly ignores the kick in her chest. “What would you like to hear?”

She shrugs again, as if “casual” or “easygoing” were ever words people would’ve used to describe her back home. “Your favorite song?”

“My favorite—” Niall scoffs, but there’s no malice in it—it’s playful, inviting, fun. It makes Lu feel like he wants to keep talking to her. Like he wants her to keep winding him up. “You think I can narrow it down to one favorite song?”

“I can,” Lu smiles, soft, “I’m good at making decisions.” 

“Go on, tell us then.” 

“You first,” Lu gestures toward a table, the only one in the shop that isn’t rickety when there’s too much weight on it. “Then I’ll tell ya.” 

Niall hums under his breath, approval, and settles himself on top of the table easily, feet perched on the chair, guitar natural in his lap. He strums once, to check that everything is in tune, and then glances up through the bit of hair that’s fallen over his eye. He’s striking—bright blue eyes, a shock of blonde at the tips of his hair, a lone dimple digging into his filled out cheeks—and Lu feels her stomach swoop and kick again. She takes a deep breath, crosses her arms over her chest. Niall sits up straight. 

“Alright,” he says it so quietly that Lu thinks it might just be for him. She’s suddenly struck with the notion that she’s intruding on something, a moment between Niall and his guitar and himself that isn’t for her—that, maybe, this isn’t something a lot of people get to see. 

And, if that’s true, Lu realises the second he starts strumming, it’s a damn shame. 

It takes Lu a second to recognize the song, but it doesn’t even matter. With a guitar in his hand Niall is even more mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. Completely, incomprehensibly, irresistible.

And then he opens his mouth. And Lu feels sick. 

It’s “With or Without You”. 

But there’s none of the corniness, none of the playful groaning and eye rolling that usually accompanies a U2 cover. Instead, Lu feels frozen to her spot in the middle of the shop, Niall, seated atop the table, eyes down, an anchor in the middle of this island. His voice, lower than she expected, and raspy in all the right places, is somehow vulnerable and confident at the same time—somehow makes her want to simultaneously hold him and be held by him, to protect him and let him protect her. It’s real. It’s vulnerable. It’s terrifying. Lu doesn’t know what to do with it. 

The song lasts forever and is over in an instant. Eyes closed, Niall carries out the final, desperate, confident, terrified, “I can’t live, with or without you,” as he stops playing and lets his voice take over. The whole shop shakes with it. Or maybe that’s just Lu, trembling. 

His eyes don’t open for a few seconds. Lu can feel herself breathing, she can feel her heart beating, she can feel the wind, outside, throwing itself against the shop’s ancient windows. She can feel it when Niall opens his eyes. 

“Was it that shite?” 

Overwhelmed, Lu exhales an unstoppable, lovely laugh. Niall’s cheeks are red and his eyes are a little glassy and he runs a hand through his thick hair, his bicep flexing just a millimeter. Lu already knows there’s no way this can last.

“Terrible,” she smiles. “Worst I’ve ever heard. When can you start?” 

####

They work out the schedule together, leaning over the only good table, comparing planners. Lu still keeps her old Moleskin, dark purple, embossed with her college seal and the year she graduated. She hasn’t needed it much lately—after years of her work, and eventually her social life, revolving around Google Calendar, she feels a freedom in being able to jot down appointments and approximate times in a messy journal. Niall’s got a battered leather one—doodles on the front, his name in script on the first page. He flips through it quickly, keeps it close to his chest. 

He works at a local furniture and home goods boutique most days, as a design consultant, and coaches the middle school’s co-ed soccer team on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons, with games on Saturdays. Lu tells him not to overbook himself but he does it anyway, and they settle on Monday, Thursday, and Friday nights, as well as Saturday mornings, starting the next week. He says he’ll have a friend work up posters to advertise, and tries, again, to tell Lu he’ll split his tips. 

At 10:30, he notices the time, his cheeks pinking up, his chapped lower lip caught between his teeth. They’d been splitting the final two slices of cake, and there’s a tiny glob of chocolate caught in the corner of his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he says, looking reluctant, “I’ve got to go, I’m meant to be at work at 8 tomorrow morning.” 

“Oh, God,” Lu feels a bit like she’s coming out of a daze, that feeling she gets, sometimes, when she’s been reading a book or watching a movie and then has to reimmerse herself in the real world. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.” 

“No, no,” Niall rushes, “you didn’t. I—thank you. For the chocolate cake. And the, uh, opportunity.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Lu presses her lips together, resists the urge to lean forward and thumb at the chocolate on his mouth. “You’ve got, uh, a bit of chocolate,” she touches the mirroring spot on her own mouth, “right there.” 

“Right,” he smiles, tongue darting out to catch it. “I won’t. Thanks.” 

Lu gathers the plates and cups and totes them to the sink while Niall gets his things together. When she turns around, he’s bundled in his coat and scarf, hat pulled low over his brows, free hand shoved into the pocket of his puffer. She doesn’t know how to look away from him. 

“I guess I’ll see you next week, then?” He asks, fiddling with the zipper on his puffer. He hasn’t got all the chocolate—Lu wonders what it would taste like against his lips.

“Next week,” she echoes. “Yeah.” 

“Brilliant. I’ll, uh—I’m excited. Have a good week.” 

Lu’s “and you” gets lost in her throat as she watches Niall head toward the door. His hand is on the knob when he turns back around. 

“Wait, Lu.” 

The sound of her name in his mouth makes her heart stutter. She hopes her raised brow will pass for a response. 

“You didn’t tell me.” 

“What?” She gets that out, at least.

“Your favorite song of all time,” Niall smiles, dimple prominent. “What is it?”

Looking back, Lu has no idea where the sudden confidence comes from. But, somehow, it does. She smiles, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not sure I want to tell you yet,” she says, kind. “I want to see if you figure it out for yourself.” 

####

taglist: @missy14us @coconutdawn @ficnarry @okaaayniall @theresnooneheretosave @niallgolden @tinyfelthat @adoremp3 @thelifeofbo @crocodileniall @niallsguitarthings 

Join the tag list here.

[poke-entomology]

74?

Fave Alolan version of a Kanto pokemon, I'd have to say Grimer!

I know Vulpix has it's fans, and it is very pretty when it evolves, but I just really love the appearance and skills Grimer and Muk have! I used them in my first playthrough and it was surprisingly fun to use! Always felt invincible with my shiny, mucky friend.

Guess it's not a huge reason, but I can't help but feel nostalgic thinking about that pokemon. (now if only people would stop wondertrading them to me...)

[hughiecampbelle]

Wildflowers (Shelby!Reader × Bonnie Gold Oneshot)

Character/s: Bonnie, Aberama mention

Word Count: 1,365

Inspired By: Silver by Nim Nim

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomimagines @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan

A/N: Another Bonnie fic! Though he's still not a character I write for, I couldn't stop thinking about this plot. This has been sitting in my writers block folder for weeks!!! I really did love my original idea, but I also think what it turned into is pretty good, too :) I haven't been feeling confident at all in my writing, which is part of the reason why I haven't posted a fic lately. I do love some paragraphs, but others I just wanna throw in the trash. It can't stop me from posting it though because I really do wanna get through this block. I'm thinking of doing a part two? Lmk if you'd want that! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

Beneath the clouds, so grey, so sad, sunlight blessed the trees, the leaves dancing in the breeze. Grass, overgrown, free to sway. Birds, bugs, everything seemed so alive, so eager to breathe and shout and let their presence be known. Unapologetically there, in their own skin. Going home, all of them, awaiting the impending storm. Static hung in the air, a heavy curtain, a blanket on your breastbone. Too thick to breath. The wind picking up. Brushing the leaves, the petals and pollen, across the stone pathway, down the dirt road, through the fields of wildflowers. You sat in the heart of it all, the warmth of the bright morning wrapping you in a it's arms, cupping your cheeks, holding all your broken pieces together. The heat in the air tracing your skin, kissing your face, as if it wanted to thaw every bad thing that had ever happened from your bones, stripped of what used to make you so angry. A warm step beneath your feet, your spine arched, in between your palms a mug. Eyelids heavy, wary of the bright outside growing dim, welcoming the day with a soft, cautious hello. Thunder rumbling, warning, threatening, baring it's teeth at the world. Lightning would follow soon, more timid, dancing on its toes, reminding you of the baby of the family, your youngest brother How you missed him. In no time, just as the storm, they would be here, and like the bugs, the babes, the blossom, you would be ready.

Prick and pinch your flesh all you wanted, this was no dream.

A home in the countryside. Tall, lopsided, full of warmth, of love. Standing on its own, reminding you so much of him, of what you were together. Defiant. Stubborn. Strong. Chipped bowls, and baskets of fruit, the sweetest stuffed between sugar and pastry. Patchwork quilts and holes in socks. Timid smiles, light touches, the faint smell of vanilla, lavender, of the bouquet he plucked on his way back. Honeyed kisses, promises of sweet dreams, of perfect mornings. Fireflies like fallen stars, a moon to sweet not to nibble at. A sleepy breeze, urging you to bed. This was your escape. Your hideaway, as far from the city as you could get. A place to yourselves, where time froze. The seasons changed, throwing you into the icy grips of the winter, the sweltering heat of the summer, but you, and him, together the same. Together safe, happy. Free.

It wasn't always like this, though.

Blood splatter. Silver jewelry. Broken bottles. A haze, all of it. The story torn apart and sewed together, limb by limb, coming to you in flashes, in nightmares, waking in a cold sweat. A time of regret, embarassment, of a pain so deep the wound never stopped bleeding. Still hasn't. Covering up a sadness no one cared to see, to acknowledge. A family only in words. Invisible, ignored, wanting to be seen, your screams of help falling on deaf ears. You were an object to them, and the rest of the world. A toy. The city lights bright, blinding, drawing you in on their own dark vices. Blacking out. Drink after drink until you were stumbling, fumbling, forgetting your own name. Falling for strangers. Skin on skin, their hot breath melting your neck, starved kisses up and down your body until you lay beside them, crushed, wanting to scrub yourself clean of this routine. An escape. A search for a home that never belonged to you. Drown out the thoughts, the fears, the misery. Putting your trust into their words. Once a Shelby, always a Shelby. Theirs to carry was also yours. A gun by birthright. A shallow grave you'd fall into too young, but just as guilty. Slip from the covers, one last swig to carry on. They wouldn't see you for days. A bender. Come down slowly, step by step, until you were light enough to face them, face the job, face the body behind the barrel. It was all the same.

This wasn't the life you wanted to live.

You didn't want to live at all if it meant going through the motions.

Calling him. One night, from someone else's phone, their body breathing shallow, steady, wrapped in nothing but grimy sheets. Another handprint on your thigh, another nameless face you'd wonder about. On the edge of the mattress, begging, desperate, scared. A noose like a necklace hanging around your neck. Dainty, delicate, dangerous. You needed someone, anyone. If they answered, it wasn't too late. That's what you told yourself. He wasn't the first number you dialed. Sibling by sibling, your brothers first, then sister. The bar, the shop, even your aunt too busy. You weren't quite sure why he was next, that he was there at all, Aberama giving you it for emergencies. Maybe it was the last number you could remember. Maybe you wanted a second chance, maybe you wanted to live after all. You barely even knew him, or his brown eyed boy. The few times you spoke he was warm, inviting, at times a little akward in a way that made you smile. But he picked up. His voice rusty, raspy, woken too early in the morning. A hint of panic. No call came with happy news at an hour like this. You apologized for waking him, regret pooling in your gut, spilling out into words like the vomit on your chin, but he stopped you, cut you off, not wanting you to hang up. There had to be a reason. So, he listened. A boy with big dreams listened until the sun came up. To the shakes, the sobs, the grief in your voice for the person you lost, the person you wanted so desperately to kill. To finally put an end to.

That was almost a year ago.

The Dark Days. They had a name, a date, a birthday, and a time of death. Those were the months, years, mere seconds, flashes of time you had a hard time remembering, that you wanted so desperately to leave behind. Hazy, drunken, angry. You wanted to hurt yourself more than anyone, and you did. But now, you could move on. He was there when no one else was. At first, as a friend. Then, something more. Someone more. The one to catch you when the floor fell through, when your body lay broken after time and time again hitting rock bottom. You loved Bonnie, and he loved you. It was simple, effortless, the only thing that ever made sense in this big, twisted life. The city too enticing, the bloodline too polluted, there was no way you could have shed your shadow in a place like that. So, you found this place together. Scraped together paychecks, pocket change, selling what you could. Taking solace in the comforts of one another. Making it your own.

Not a drop since.

The thunder clapped, applauding, warning you. Rain pounding on the roof, plopping in deep puddles, watering the wildflowers. A dreary grey tint cast overhead, illuminating the greens of mother nature. Lightning striking, slicing the sky right down the middle. You watched from the kitchen window, Bonnie behind you, his hand grabbing yours. One last second of peace before the storm ripped you apart. Windchimes bawling, crying, begging you to run. Now. The animals quiet, listening, anticipating the threat yet to come. Not the storm, though. But them. A black car drove softly through the mucky waters, mud splashing on the shiny black paint. Closer, closer, stopping short of the lopsided fence either you or Bonnie had yet to finish painting. He always promised he'd get to it one day. Long coats and caps with blades stitched with thread and blood. You hadn't seen any of them since. Leaving without a goodbye, without another word, disappearing in the night with a promise of a home of your own. You weren't sure how they found you, why they came at all. Whatever they said, or did, would never make you change your mind, make you go back.

Not to the Dark Days.

You weren't interested in being a Shelby anymore, you were a Gold now.

[serpens-scharaga]

Silent in the Trees

Author’s Note: I LOVE the marauders fandom, but the blatant disregard of Peter as a marauder sets my soul ON FIRE. So this is a marauders fic centered around how I think Peter became a death eater

Word count: around 1.2k

Warnings: it’s kinda agnsty and could have potentially frightening scenes. also grammar because I’m dyslexic

Peter limped through the dense wilderness. His throat as raw as his bloodied cheeks. His pale skin bruised and battered from battle.The forest went on for yards. Every piece of his vision was thick dark green. He couldn't make out death eater from his own form. His own gasps from predator. He couldn't beat back branches enough to save his own face.

His friends had to be out there, hearing his calls for help. Defense magic wasn't ever his strong suit. He didn't think it would need to be, he always had the boys to back him up.

When he got the chance to blink it was all red and gold. He was back in their dorms, or the dungeons pulling a prank on some unsuspecting Slytherins. He could hear Padfoot's contagious laughter, see Prongs' cocky grins, feel Moony's wool sweaters brush against his skin. He was home.

Then reality smacked him back in his face. Literally. He focused on the good for far too long. His eyes closed long enough to let him run himself into a tree and take him down. Then it was branches engulfing the sky. Blood pumping into his ears so loud it almost muted the laughter beside him.

"You made it easy on us!" The man came into his view, as Peter tried to scurry away. "Didn't even have to hit you!"

"Please" Peter shook his head, trying to hold out for one of the boys. "Please! I'm not ready to die, not yet!"

He could pull himself out, he could disarm or distract the opponent long enough to apparate. He couldn't abandon them, he wouldn't abandon his brothers. Maybe he could transform into his animagus self. They couldn't catch a rat.

The man raised his wand on him, his body flinching in to keep himself covered. It wouldn't work, he knew that deep down. He couldn't face it head on either.

He was barely twenty, alone in the woods. Forgotten and waiting on his family that would come just a little too late. His death, not much more than one of a rat in a gutter.

"Wait.." another voice came, another death eater when Peter peaked. "This one could be useful!"

Peter realized then it wasn't just another death eater. The man, if he could really still be called a man, shiny and translucent. His face was veiled different from the others, not by a mask but a shade of magic. One minute he was visible and the next just a void.

It was the very human eyes that came through that shook his sternum. Dark brown similar to his own. A human still latching on.

Peter couldn't speak, maybe it was fear or maybe he was being strangled invisibly. It didn't matter, the splitting pain rushing through his head was worse. It ran through his body like a cold splash of water. Overtaking his being like a crash of a wave against a rock. Peter knew then he couldn't go back from this moment, if he did survive this moment.

Glimpses of his friends playing behind his skull or being ripped, he couldn't pinpoint the difference now. Not the wet grass beneath him that his fingers dug into as he contorted in agony. He didn't have the strength to cry out, only whimper and thrash.

"So strong yet always the weakling! They never saw your true potential!" The man's voice echoed through each ear.

"They’re my friends" Peter willed, a marauder to the end.

"Where are they boy?" He whispered out loud. "They've long forgotten you. Rushed out of the wood for their own safety."

"No" he cried, shaking his head into the ground. "James wouldn't do that!"

"James Potter can't protect you" Voldemort spoke with his chest, it was a commandment.

It was spoken, therefore it was so.

"He will join me" Voldemort confirmed, ignoring Peter's whispers of pleas. "Or I will kill him. The same options fall for you, Wormtail! You have an opportunity to step out of their shadows, an opportunity to free yourself that so many strive for."

It tempted Peter. Everything tempted him beside these woods. It had been long, too long. They weren't coming for him, and all he could see was the forest ground. He could die here, loyal to friends who had abandoned him.

Feel the bed of the earth as the pain became his nerves and ushered him to whatever lied beyond this life. He could will the thought of his three friends into his mind and only see their laughter for forever.

"What is it?" Voldemort urged him to answer.

"You" he breathed, the pain easing from his aching bones.

"You'll see it was the best option" Voldemort agreed.

The forest thrashed around him, shouts and zips of spells clattering off vegetation. His body knew it was Sirius, his heart raced at the thought of him. The scene unfolding upon him. He couldn't retrace his steps to backtrack before light brushed past his head.

"You get away from him!" Sirius shouted out, unyielding.

They shot into the air in black smoke, his eyes following as his ears picked up the sound of Sirius moving towards him. When he came back down, Sirius was smiling, outstretching his arm.

"There you are, Wormtail! Are you alright?" He let out a breath, unknowingly to everything that just unfolded.

Peter stared at his hand. He felt sick. Yet his dirtied hand took it, letting him pull him into an embrace. Sirius patted his back, cupping his check as they pulled away.

"Knew they couldn't mess with us, huh? Let's get out of here, alright?" Sirius motioned forward.

The sickness was thick, mucky, and overbearing. What did he just do? If he held out a moment, waited each other out, waited off death another moment. Silenced her violent knocking.

He couldn't turn back. No matter how many times he looked over his shoulder. Yet, he couldn't back out. That signified his death quicker than the forest would. He couldn't tell Sirius either.

Sirius would have waited. Sirius would have spit blood in the villains face and greeted death like an old friend. Like he did James after a summer with his estranged mother.

Sirius wouldn't have understood. He couldn't have. They were the marauders, but they were also Remus, Sirius, James and Peter. He would never be Sirius, he could never be James, or Remus. He'd always be Peter.

Part of Peter... Wormtail died back in the grass. Shedding his skin, rising to the title of rat bestowed upon him. Peter the cowardly lion. The best of him, lied in the shape of his silhouette molded into the forest floor.

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

FIC: ‘tis the damn season II

---

It was just dreadful weather. All grey and wet and covered in the greyish muck that come from the streets and turned the puddle-water a sickly color. It was truly just horrible. It was absolutely the worst.

Letting out a loud squeal as a bicycle riding by splashed up a wave of dirty water onto her white leather Oxfords, Ombre stepped back a few feet, shaking her foot about. It was so unlucky. White was one of her favorite colors, and once the leather was dirty it took forever - far more time than she had the patience for - to clean them. And now they were mucky and gross.

Dancing around the many glittering puddles on the stone street, the blonde quickly found the covered alcove of a closed doorway to get out of the path of any more errant splashes as she fetched her handkerchief from her petticoat pocket. Slumping down, Ombre pulled the shoe off and began quickly dabbing at the pristine white leather as she stood with her stockinged foot on her other shoe with a sigh. Pressing the soft fabric to the shoe, she pulled a face as the dirty water marked the pastel pink silk before she kept rubbing to get as much of the dirt off her shoe as possible.

“Laisse-moi t'aider, mademoiselle.” The voice startled her, and as she fell against the brick of the wall beside her, Ombre blinked widely before nodding with a smile at the old man that had appeared beside her. It was barely a moment before her shoe was returned, almost it’s original pristine white and the Frenchman had a bunch of tissues shoved into a pocket as she popped her shoe back on. “Ta da!”

“Merci! Thank you, thank you.” “Ah - American?” “Yes- oui, I suppose?” “Well, you are very welcome.”

“Thank you, merci boucoup,” Ombre nodded her head repeatedly as she clicked her heels together and bounced happily when she couldn’t see from afar which shoe had been so unfortunately dirtied. “Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.” The stranger smiled for a moment before a harried looking woman with two children held by each hand appeared beside him. There was a brief and rapid fire of French from the pair that Ombre struggled to follow but could tell from the emotions that the man’s wife’s attitude went from unhappy and angry to confused and then finally to bemused as they gestured at her shoes and the older husband took the hand of their nearest child. Clearly he was known for helping any and all who looked in need of trouble. A kind person. Ombre smiled to herself picking up the husband’s pleased and kindly nature as the pair talked before the man turned back to her with a rueful grin. “We must be going. Enjoy Paris, mademoiselle. Bonsoir.”

“Au revoir, nouvel ami!” The shadow chirped back quickly, smiling widely as she waved off the small family as they hurried away along the wet footpath towards where ever they called home.

Watching the group disappear along the dark streets, Ombre found herself standing patiently under the alcove as she looked about the streets before she set off in the opposite direction herself following the lights of the city.

There were no stars above in the light pollution in the city’s heart of course, but that didn’t stop the place looking magical as she began moving through crowded streets. The trees lining the streets, strung and drew in tiny, sparkling fairy lights, looked like something out of a fairy tale. The sparks danced in the breeze and her eyes would dance from branch to branch and tree to tree as she wandered aimlessly throughout the streets.

The wet pavers and puddles showed the same images like magical portals, reflecting and shimmering in the night’s lights and the faint patter of drizzled rain as she moved along still, burrowing deeper into the pale pink coat wrapped about her and the click of her white shoes through the glimmering puddles as she skipped between and around them.

Spinning about the crowds, her eyes were drawn to the shop fronts - still illuminated from inside and filled with beautiful things. The shoes glimmering with tiny crystals. The bags of shiny gold and pearls. The dresses with delicate lace and beautiful soft fabrics of lilac and pink and white and blue. There was an endless array of beautiful objects and details that would catch her eye.

As the hour drew later the lights inside would fade while the lights that came from the waves of energy from the crowds outside grew instead. Couples that would walk under the moonlight bright sparks of joy and nervousness. Families bustling home surrounded by love and the voices of all matching the cadence of happiness that came through them in passing. The darker corners as they moved through didn’t worry her at all, the dark spots matching the dark sky and now black store fronts as she moved along further.

It was one of those magical moments, wrapping her up in the beauty of the city, of life and the buoyant feelings bounced off the brick facias as the crowds bustled about in the beauty of a Christmas-lined street; and splashing a foot deliberately in a puddle as she crossed the bridge giving an inky dark reflection of the world she was in in it’s depths, with the bright sparks of golden light along it’s edges, the young shadow couldn’t imagine how she could have ever lived like before without such splendid images or love for life.

---