wails into the wind

s-is-for-stiles  asked:

For the prompt thing, one of my favorite tropes is Sterek forced bed sharing. If you feel inclined. ;) Thanks! Love your stuff. <3

thanks to carrie for the mix up earlier this week, which reminded me about this prompt. it’s…not really about beds, whoops. and i went over the word limit again (1246 words)

Stiles has never seen snow this heavy. In fact, before an hour ago, he’d barely seen snow at all; being so close to the coast, a winter wonderland Beacon Hills is not. If he’d been expecting it - if he was inside and warm, watching the snow fall through a window - he might be enjoying it, but an hour ago - was it only an hour? Maybe it’s been longer; he can’t tell, can’t unbend his fingers to find his phone - it was ninety degrees and sunny, and he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and the snow’s already up to his shins. He’s never been so cold in his life; he’s already lost feeling in his feet and he’s not sure which is worse - not being able to feel his feet, or the wet way his jeans cling to his legs, burning colder and colder with every step.

Derek’s there. They got separated from the rest of the pack when the storm descended, and the only reason he hasn’t lost Derek in the driving snow is because he’s got his fingers curled through the loops of Derek’s belt as they trudge through the woods. He can’t feel his fingers, or his arms in general, and he can barely lift his head against the wind. He can hear Derek breathing heavily over the wail of the wind; it’s a surprise to Stiles how hard it is to walk through the snow, and that’s with Derek in front of him, forging the path. He’s not sure where they’re going, not sure Derek knows either - to find the edge of the storm, or the road, or shelter, whichever comes first. He’s scared they’re lost - that they’re heading away from the road, that this magical storm won’t end. He’s heard you get warm when you die of hypothermia, and that’s the only reason he welcomes the sting of snow against his cheeks, but he’s getting tired, and he’s terrified of what’s going to happen when he’s too exhausted to keep lifting his frozen feet.

Derek stops so abruptly that Stiles, too tired to lift his head, walks into his back. Derek doesn’t even snap at him: not a great sign. Any other time, being so close to Derek might have made him hot all over, and he certainly would have welcomed that heat right now, but all he can think about is the refrain that keeps repeating in his head: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.

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So there’s this moment in 1D Day where Ziam are blindfolded and standing next to each other

And Liam (LOAM!) lifts his giant 19th century frontier’s man hands and reaches out to find Zayn

And when his massive paws make contact with Zayn’s tiny kitten man body, he breaks out into this HAPPY GRIN :’(

While simultaneously gently caressing Zayn’s waist and shoulder. Liam gets in a boob grab BUT ITS THE MOST GENTLE AND REVERENT BOOB GRAB

And he says “I’ve got Zaynie” with a smile made of the sun and my tears



“Thaht’s yew, Leeyum”

And I am a withered husk in the corner, my wails carried on the wind and used as a renewable energy source 

Little Sister [1]

Characters: Sam Winchester, child!sister!reader, Jessica Moore

Words: 2100

Summary: Let’s just say that Sam being surprised was an understatement of what he felt when he finds you in his hall, looking a whole lot different than you did the last time he saw you.

A/N: *Me trying to write something that isn’t angsty for once*

Originally posted by eternalwincest

Your name: submit What is this?

The apartment was completely quiet as Jess stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, taking in her tired eyes and her ruffled blonde locks. Why couldn’t she sleep? All she had done so far was listening to the howling wind outside the bedroom window. 

She sighed, and continued washing her hands under the water tap. 

A few minutes later, the tall woman walked across the hall towards the bedroom, where her boyfriend was asleep. But then, she heard a soft sound from the direction of the front door. Jess froze in her step, even holding her breath as she intently listened, debating if she should just ignore it or not. After a moment of silence, she continued making her way over the room, when the sound was heard again, this time more evident.

It was a knock, for sure.

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Signs in the night
  • Aries: The pitter patter of rain hitting roads and colliding with your windows, invisible in the blackness of night but soothing to the sleepy soul whose head rests on a pillow that has been fluffed one too many times.
  • Taurus: Smiling at the vast expanse of an ocean of constellations spattered on a charcoal sky. Pondering the frighteningly infinite size of the universe but thanking your lucky stars that you're able to witness and contemplate such a feat.
  • Gemini: The constant thrumming of something in the distance, perhaps its a siren wailing or cars passing or the wind howling. The perpetuity of this is familiar and endearing.
  • Cancer: Streetlights illuminating faces, transforming smiles into diamonds but forming and lengthening shadows. Snowflakes or motes of dust in the evening sky seem to stop to bask in the dim flickers of lamp posts, floating for eons. You crave that pause in time, not just to smell the roses, but to be in awe at life.
  • Leo: A candle's wavering flame casting warm rays into an otherwise dark room. A tired soul easing oneself onto a bed, feeling their spines meld to the mattress, staring at the blank ceiling above; wishing it were spattered with stars.
  • Virgo: Windows standing in the way of you and the sky. You trace the glass, pretending you're really tracing the craters of the moon. Swirling galaxies swim in your eyes as you enter a haze, your finger still and your mouth parted. You think of THEM. They and the moon are the last thing you think of before falling asleep.
  • Libra: A child's vision blurring in the back seat of a car and watching as all the harsh tail lights, traffic lights, obnoxious neon signs and headlights all turn into harmless spheres of wonder that linger when they blink.
  • Scorpio: The feeling before a firework goes off, the liminality of the wait for the thundering presence of the sparks. As fireworks colour the sky, you marvel at the vibrations that your heart hurdles through.
  • Sagittarius: A fire crackles, sputtering out cinders and pushing the aroma of smoke into flared nostrils. Glowing embers pulsating beneath stacked logs are hidden gems. A watchful eye regards the dancing flames with admiration and wonder.
  • Capricorn: Weak hands tug at a blanket and pull it just above their ears, a cocoon of cloth is formed as feet fumble for something cold to touch in contrast to the warmth the blanket provides.
  • Aquarius: Being woken in the dead of night, your heart pounds away in your throat and a hand settles on the chest as if to sooth it. The remnants of a dream are quickly fading and make your heart race faster. You try to latch to the slivers of fantasy, but your caught in a landslide that's headed straight for reality. So instead, you just go back to sleep.
  • Pisces: Words mean more at night. You notice this as a song plays, lyrics and verses imbedded with the fractals of a broken heart. The shards have seeped into the melody and rhythm, into the floor and up your legs, and it stays in the left side of your chest. The song is your secret, and you keep it in your heart.

anonymous asked:

Hey! For your halloween celebration! :) "My hot neighbour has been looking for her black cat since yesterday and I just found out that my kid stole him for her witch costume. Well, this is embarrassing"

It doesn’t even occur to Clarke that something’s amiss until she hears it: the unmistakable sound of a soft, plaintive meow, coming from beneath her desk.

There’s actually a moment where she thinks, it’s just the cat before memory and coherence all comes rushing back, and she realizes, with a impending sense of horror, that they don’t actually own one— before she’s scrambling off her seat, dropping into a crouch to get a better look.

And, yup, there it is— a cat; all sleek black and amber eyes and staring at her a tad reproachfully.

“Shit,” she mutters, bringing her palm up to rub at her face. “Shit, shit, shit.” There’s a moment when she actually entertains the possibility of it managing to sneak in, somehow, locked doors and all, when it dawns on her that there’s a lot more of a plausible explanation.

Specifically, one involving Madi.

“Madi!” she thunders, hauling herself upright. “Get in here, now.”

A beat, the sound of footfalls growing louder until she emerges at the door, jaw set and arms over her chest, as if braced for a fight. “Yeah?”

“Tell me that this isn’t Mr. Blake’s cat.”

She shrugs, the motion flippant. “I don’t know. I just picked her off the street, so I guess it could be a possibility.”

“Madi!” she huffs, pressing her fingers against the side of her temples, where she can feel a headache rapidly forming. “There are missing posters plastered all over the neighbourhood. The guy’s probably freaking out, and you’re telling me that you took her?”

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I love the transition periods. They are like their own secretive seasons where magic happens as the world transforms. Dying November, Greening May, Abundant August and Slushy February are so magical and I feel like they go so unappreciated. Especially November. No one takes the moment to appreciate the fall of autumns decline from its zenith. The leaves that coat the grown in a fiery death leaving the trees brown and bare, the ghostly winds and the constant rain and fog. It’s so haunting and magical and very goth. As Samhain prepares us for death and the coldness of the darker half of the year this is definitely the secret season it highlights. November when the brown corpses of leaves turn to skeletons that crumple into dust under your boots, the crows that cling to bare branches being the last ones left as all the other birds have departed, the wailing winds that make the house creek and crack, the frail and dried up spines of herbs in the sleeping garden that surround the porch like ghosts.

I have so much to look forward to in November. Finalizing my fire ciders, drying all the garden herbs, making wreaths of herbs, making final oils, preparing things that could potentially make great winter gifts like infused herbal honeys; also I can focus on more meditative crafts like embroidery since it’s usually cold and wet which also can make great magical winter gifts. I’m excited for Yule but I appreciate the space in between.

If I had you what
                would I write about
If I had it all
               what would be my reason to shout
And wail to the wind,
              and search for a gleaming jewel within
To prove that I am better
              than what you might think.
—  smokeinfreshair
The Price of Freedom Ch 1

EDIT: Changed the title to “The Price of Freedom” since I like that title better. It fits more with the theme of the story, I think.


Finally got the first chapter of the Ghostblossom fanfic I’ve mentioned up! Hopefully more chapters will come soon and it’ll be good. Hope you enjoy it! ^^ 


CH 1

 Cagney Carnation was not happy. Then again he was never happy most of these days for several reasons. Either the amount of rain was not to his liking, or the weather is dull, cold and cloudy, or it had something to do with the flower sitting next to him, Nathan Nightshade.  Right now it was the third and there was nothing else he could do but sit in the passenger seat of a 1932 Adler Primus while staring out the window watching the buildings go by as Nathan continued on prattling about the bar they had just left.

“Entertainment stank,” The purple flower went on, “but hey the gin was nice and cold just the way I like it.”  He glanced over at the yellow carnation and frowned. “What’s the matter with ya’?”

“You acted like a total asshole back there.” The yellow flower muttered.

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Pastel Blue - Taeyong x Reader - Superpower [Reader] Royals!AU

Pastel Blue ; Taeyong - Red & Grey ; Johnny - Rose Quartz & Serenity ; Doyoung

Dedicated to and requested by: the one and only amazing babe @taeyongbelviso ; have the happiest 18th birthday, darling! i love you so much <3

Word Count: 2329

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death and emotional parental abuse, Poverty

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Superpowers, Royals!AU

Your parents were afraid for the kingdom’s future.

When you had been born, you had brought joy to everyone, and they all couldn’t wait until you grew up.

You were going to be the best heir to the throne; everybody knew that your mother, the Queen, could no longer bear any children, leaving you to be the only one left to rule the lands when the time was to come.

Then came your ninth birthday. 

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Wrote another Halloween thing for my writing class...

I think my Professor is going to start thinking there is something seriously wrong with me from all these witing exersises deticated to Halloween. 

I thought I would share this new one:

“The October Country. A mythical place where Autumn is forever. Where every tree is decked with gold, red, burning orange, and vivid yellow. The mist always creeps and clings low to long pale stalks of grass, and coils around the old, cracked trunks of ancient trees. The moon is always full. A ghostly galleon on the floating, sinister clouds that paint the sky and shroud the stars.

           Graveyards are plentiful here, and they sprawl out over hills like disease. The tombstones pock the ground like strange shaped boulders. Ghosts are seen floating, there macabre wails join the whispers on the wind to form a song to the dead and lost. What homes there are and decayed things, mere skeletons of their former Victorian glory. Rusted iron, weather-beaten, splintered wood. Decrepit staircases that no longer lead to anywhere, and the ghosts haunt these places, too.

           Black cats, bats, and spiders and seen creeping through this world with sinister eyes that seem to see right through your skin and down to your bones.  Monsters reside here as well. Dark, disfigured creatures from every black corner of your deepest, most horror-filled nightmares.They await you behind doors, corners, and places where the light never touches. Jack O’ Lanterns provide the only comfort with their orange, welcoming glow. Their ghastly grinning faces beckoning you to come closer, grip them tight, and cling to their light. Ancient watchers and soul protectors. They are your only friend in this fiendish world. Keeping all the terrors at bay.

           This creepy land where every day is Halloween. Where every hour is the witching hour. Where the Hessian soldier gallops headless atop his deep black steed. A darksome country that only those who live and breathe Samhain could ever love and find joy in. This is the October Country, and it is not for the faint of heart.”

Originally posted by theworldisworthagif

anonymous asked:

I am crying and also request more Natsyuu child AU, as Natsume getting happiness as soon as he can is the best thing in the world. (also does he meet the Natsume Protection Squad in this are they children or teens who adopt him as their smol friend/little bro)

Part 1

I’m glad you enjoyed it ^^

Anyways yeah, the Natsume Protection Squad are also children in this one. In this au, everything is the same, it’s just that the Fujiwaras find Natsume earlier than they did in canon. So unfortunately Natsume won’t be meeting Taki and Tanuma for a few years, but he does befriend Nishimura and Kitamoto early on, since they go to the same school.

Nishimura and Kitamoto are actually the first ones to figure out something isn’t quite right with their new friend actually.

At nine years old, Natsume is just beginning to figure out that he’s not supposed to tell other people about the things he sees, so he’s able to hide it for a while. But Nishimura and Kitamoto are just so unerringly friendly, and they’re always dragging Natsume around with them to hang out and spend time at each others’ houses. 

And at first, Natsume’s all reserved and tries not to get attached, right? Because he just knows all this is going to end. These two friendly boys are going to start hating him and not want anything more to do with him, and the sweet couple that he’s staying with (the ones who feed him lots of yummy food and let him sleep in their room and don’t even get mad when he wakes up screaming from a nightmare - the ones comfort him gently and croon sweet lullabies into his ear until he falls back to sleep) will realize what a burden he is and will send him off to another family.

But then, when it all finally comes spilling out, it doesn’t happen anything like Natsume was expecting.

They’re walking home from school, the three of them, talking and laughing about something or other. When suddenly, a youkai jumps out of the bushes at Natsume, causing him to jump in alarm.

He can tell right away that it’s not one of the nice harmless ones, so he quickly makes an excuse to his friends, and starts running towards where he knows the shrine is.

But for some reason…Nishimura and Kitamoto follow him. They’re still laughing as they ask what kind of game this is, and Natsume is too breathless with fear to answer them. By the time they arrive at the shrine, Nishimura and Kitamoto have noticed how scared Natsume is, and they’re looking around with wide, terrified eyes, huddling close around Natsume to protect him and looking warily out at the forest around them.

Natsume calms down almost as soon as they’re in the shrine, and Nishimura and Kitamoto take their cue from him. They start bombarding Natsume with questions about what is going on. But before Natsume can answer them, a sudden gust of wind and an eerie wail startles Natsume into stumbling a few steps back, and breaking a seal.

And right before Nishimura and Kitamoto’s disbelieving eyes, the door to the tiny shrine bursts open with a violent gust of wind, to reveal an ugly lucky cat statue, staring at them through narrowed eyes.

Everything is completely still and silent for a few moments, and just as they’re beginning to think it’s nothing, the statue suddenly comes alive, and the ugly, fat little cat throws itself onto Natsume, knocking the child to the ground.

It sniffs at the child’s hair, batting at his cheeks with an inquiring paw, and studying him from every angle.

And when this impromptu inspection is over, the cat sits back, and says quite decisively, “You’re not Natsume Reiko.”

Nishimura and Kitamoto jump about a foot into the air in fright, while Natsume just tilts his head to the side inquiringly.

“She was my grandmother,” he offers, and something like understanding (and maybe even pain?) flits across the calico’s features.

And before the cat can ask anymore questions, Kitamoto and Nishimura descend upon their friend, asking him question after question about what the hell is going on, and why isn’t he surprised, and omg did that tanuki really just talk???

The cat just sits there, watching, as Natsume explains everything to his friends.

It takes note of the enraged youkai pacing menacingly around the perimeters of the shrine, and it realizes rather quickly why the children have come here.

And something about the situation just doesn’t sit right with him - a child running for his life from a monster, just because he can see it? 

So while the brat’s friends are wowing excitedly about how cool it is that Natsume can see spirits, the cat approaches the Natsume brat, and introduces himself as Nyanko-sensei.

“And in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep, I will do you the honour of becoming your bodyguard” he offers generously.

Natsume is surprised at the gesture, and maybe a little wary, but before he can think to refuse (“I don’t the Fujiwaras will-”), his friends interrupt him, saying that he definitely has to tell his parents about this. Because these monsters that he’s told them about seem dangerous, and you have to tell adults about dangerous things, so that they can protect you.

And truthfully, Natsume is still hung up on them calling the Fujiwaras his parents, so he doesn’t protest too much.

And in the end, that’s how the Fujiwaras find themselves sitting at their dining table, facing three scruffy children who look like they’ve been rolling around in mud all day, and a talking calico telling them he’s their foster son’s new bodyguard.

Surprisingly, the talk goes over pretty well actually, and Touko warmly welcomes Nyankichi into their little family, bowing and saying, “We leave our son in your care.”

Alone 1/?

Summary: Helen has lived her entire life lonely (despite her six siblings). The entire world seems to be rigged against her, or maybe she’s rigged against the world. Aline is the first person in years who simply exists and doesn’t demand anything of her. The first person who makes her feel less alone.

(Alternatively the angsty haline fic no one asked for)

Chapter 1/?

Chapter One:

Helen sighed and flicked the cigarette butt off the roof. It spiraled down, trailing a thin wisp of smoke, and landed on the concrete below. A breeze flew through the streets, blew into Helen’s hair and under her skin. She shivered. Maybe if she stayed out here long enough she’d freeze to death.

She leaned back, palms planted flat on the cold ledge of the building she sat on.  The wall in front of her was red brick, moss growing out of the mortar like a skin infection. Helen wondered if anyone would ever find her used cigarette in the alley that smelled like what every big city smells like under the surface. She breathed in the rank garbage smell mixed with the fading acrid cigarette smoke. The wind blew again as if to whisper run.

What was Helen running from? The mother who lay shaking and vomiting and dying? The father who was like a ghost inhabiting a man’s corpse, wandering the path he used to know but can’t seem to find? The city where the smog blocked out the stars and Helen felt as if she were suffocating under responsibilities and the concrete was pressing down on her…slowly…slowly choking her?

Run. The wind whispered.

And then who would take care of Helen’s siblings? The ghost father? She wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t leave.

Run. The wind whispered again, but it was faint, diluted by the twisting alleys and exhaust filled intersections of the city.

Helen stood and stuck her hands into the pockets of her worn denim jacket. She’d had the jacket since she was sixteen, sometimes she wondered why she hadn’t gotten a new one, she was eighteen now.

She climbed down the fire escape. The rust peeled off and left smeared brown stains on her hands. The metal rattled like the bars of a prison.

Helen pulled the window to her room up. The window made a squeaking sound as it slid open. Everything in the apartment squeaked, the windows, the doors, the faucets.

She swung her legs into the room and then ducked in. Two bunk beds with maybe three feet of space between them took up most of the room. Her brother Mark was sitting on the bottom bunk to Helen’s right.

“Back so soon?” Mark’s voice was shaky, a  wire stretched thin and about to snap.

Helen crossed to the dresser that was wedged beside the door and began to change into the faded cotton shorts and T-shirt that passed for her pajamas. She saw that Mark was reading a book, the pages rustling under his thin fingers. “What’re you reading?” She asked.

Mark groaned and ran his fingers through his curling golden blonde hair. It was the same hair as Helen’s. She remembered hating it when her mother screamed that she hadn’t asked for two kids that weren’t even hers, but the product of a seven year affair. Helen remembered holding Mark behind their bedroom door while their parents yelled, feeling isolated and very much other.

“Edgar Allan Poe.” Mark said, holding the cover up so she could see it. “It’s super depressing, listen to this-”

Helen crossed to his bunk and sat down on the faded blue comforter, curling her knees up to her chest, listening to what Tavvy called “Mark’s reading voice.”

“ From childhood’s hour I have not been

 As others were—I have not seen

 As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring-” Mark broke off suddenly and glanced up at Helen, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He leaned back against his pillow and wedged the book into the gap between the bed and the wall. Helen knew what trying not to cry looked like, hell she’d been trying not to cry her entire life.

“Hey you didn’t finish the poem.” She murmured, tapping him playfully on the knee. She had the faint suspicion that the reason Mark was sitting on his bed in the dark while their five other siblings ate, was because of the ghost father.

Well maybe he was a poltergeist father. Made of red smoke, hurling heavy objects in the form of words towards the people he blamed in his twisted ghost brain.

“What’d he say this time?” Helen whispered.

Mark lifted his hand in the air and studied his fingers. “The usual.”

Words about him not being Andrew’s son. Words about Mark being one of the reasons Eleanor had started smoking and therefore the cause of her impending death. Words Helen had heard often enough herself.

She lay down beside Mark and tried to hug him. He pushed her away, almost laughing. “Nope you smell like cigarette smoke.”

Helen grinned at him and he wrinkled his nose in concern.

As she crossed to the door on the way to brush her teeth Mark asked in a quiet voice, “Why do you even smoke anyways?”

Helen turned, the carpet scratching her heels. “Hm?”

Mark sat up. “Well you know it can give you cancer right?” His eyebrows were furrowed. Helen felt a tiny knot twist in the pit of her stomach.

“That’s the idea.”

And away she went, stepping softly over carpet so as not to disturb the poltergeist father or the dying mother. Stepping away from the bedroom where her brother twisted his blankets in frustration. Away from the fire escape and the rooftop where the wind wailed at her to run. Away from the ledge where she felt completely and utterly alone.


This was pretty short, but I’ll update soon (hopefully).

Son of Gotham

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

Wet cobblestones.

Wet nose.

Jason swiped his dripping nose.

Damn, wet hand too.

Wet everything.

Wet eyes as well, but that was no matter. Don’t look at the pain, that was his motto. At least, that’s what helped in the street.

He shook raindrops from his leather jacket, wishing dreadfully for a cigarette. Anything to take the edge off (that was also his motto). He lit one, hands numb and chapped.

The city breathed like a sleeping monster. He could feel it, Gotham’s life seeping under his finger nails.

Lots of people thought him crazy, but he knew–KNEW–Gotham was alive. She was thought a cruel mistress, and perhaps was. Gotham never let go. But Jason felt in his bones, like rust and decay, how Gotham ached. Her children worked, fought, died like infernal hands atop a clock. Claws of time.

Jason kicked a loose stone. They were all susceptible to time. They were all susceptible to loss. They were all susceptible to pain.

Gotham most of all.

Sometimes he could hear her crying in the night. A wail in the wind. A frozen sob.

He could hear Gotham.

And shit this car has been following him for a while. Can’t a man in a leather jacket walk in the rain alone without suspicion?

Wait, that mental image was creepy.

Even so, Jason’s hand crept into his holster as he flicked cigarette ash into the night. The car’s lights were out. The only distinction of sound was the roll of tires in puddles. The street vigilante stopped and faced an abandoned shop, miming the action of lighting a cigarette. Jason clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth in hopes of removing the chill. He rubbed the cigarette between his fingers. The old window reflected the red tip.

The car braked about two feet back.

Jason took a puff. His hand slid down and cocked his gun.

One mississppi.

Two mississppi.


He spun around and pointed the firearm into his stalker’s face.

Lightning flashed.

Batman looked back at him.

Thunder rumbled.

They stood for a long moment.

The rain trickled in the background.

Finally Jason blinked and lowered his gun, shifting on the safety and placing it back in his holster. “Nice night,” he greeted hollowly.

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The sea wasn’t always the sea, and the island wasn’t always the island.

The world had just begun forming, a goliath crash of a myriad of elements- fire, water, earth, air, and the horses. Always the horses. They tumbled through nothing, through everything, grabbing at what they could.

They found spirit, and wind, and they were that, but they were also earth and water and fire, always fire, a storm brimming on the edge of everything, of nothing. They were fierce, they were gentle, they were singers and fighters and lovers and gallopers, drinkers of the wind, and above all else, they were wild.

Slowly, the world grew tame. Women began to raise earth from water, began to build islands from the curves of their palms and shape them with the press of their bare feet on rich dirt. The men kept the sea, let it run wild but held it at bay, protecting the land that their shaking, new legs straddled.

And the horses grew frantic. They were at once the island and the sea, and the tumbled from the waves and onto shore, but then dove back into the water. They longed to run, they longed to swim. They sang their desires into the wind, and it curled around the humans, wailing into their ears.

And then the Time came. It was when the world began to turn bronze, the stars began to change in the sky, the days began to creep a little shorter, the nights a little darker, a little longer. The humans called it November. The horses called it the end.

And they were desperate for it, desperate for their everything and nothing, and they began to gallop, throwing the elements together.

Their race stirred up the winds, their hooves stirred up the ground. Their tails dragged through the ocean, and the fire in their heart, always there, tore the rest of the elements apart. Storms began to rip along the edges of the island and the sea, trying to join them again. To erase the line between them.

From the sea, to the sea.

One storm threw a horse ashore. She was smaller than the rest, scrubby, but she was beautiful, the golden color of the sand that swirled in the sea, legs black like kelp. The horse was the sea, but she was also the land, and she stayed on the beach, looking out to sea for a long, long time, and for once she found peace. The storm lingered off the coast, and though a gentle breeze ruffled her mane, she found stillness for the first time in a long time.

And so she stayed, on the island.

The horses grew tired as the days grew longer. They slowed their storms, stopped them, and raged restlessly along the coasts, along the line that gradually brought the island and the sea close enough to kiss. And when the days grew shorter again, they raged, but there was new desperation to it, for their lost sister on the island.

But the little dun mare was content. She had the wind in her mane and the earth on her hooves and the fire in her heart, and though she missed the sea, she could do without it.

So the years passed on the island, and she had her foals and they, too, grew to love the land, knew to be wary of the sea and it’s storms. They had earth and wind and fire, and if something wasn’t quite right, if they weren’t complete, then they would busy themselves. They helped the humans, they carried the women and pulled the ploughs for the men, and in turn they got hay in the winter and water in the summer. And all was okay.

Then November broke across the island again, and there was a mare on the shore when it happened, sand and kelp like her mother. Unlike her siblings, who were bays and grays and pintos and roan, she could not shake the longing for the sea from her mane. It was there, and so was she, when one of the wild ones from the sea tumbled ashore.

It was a stallion, red like blood, but it was not like her.

He was not a horse made for the earth. He did not have gentle, round ears and soft whiskers and wide, trusting eyes. He had long, wicked ears and teeth sharpened by screams and eyes that were narrow and filled with spite for the people that took what he was away from him. He had his fire and his water and his wind, but there was no earth beneath his hooves.

Except now there was, and he and the island pony were nothing alike, yet they were everything the same.

The fire. The wind.

The island was not home for the stallion. There was no shifting of the waves sucking at his hooves, no undulating calls from his kind echoing in the back of his mind. It eased a part of him that he knew he’d been missing, but opened up a great new chamber instead. So, frantic for the sea, the stallion leaped back in. He wanted the island, he needed the sea.

The mare stared out after him. She wanted the sea, she needed the island.

The stallion came back next November. He shook the surf from his mane and raced the mare along the shore, and though she was fast, she was little, and his long strides easily outpaced hers. There were other differences, too- he ate meat, and she could not tolerate death. Her whinny was for honey and oats and the response of her humans. His was a cry for battle.

But they were both made of wind and water and earth and fire, always fire.

He came back next November. And the one after that. Slowly, the other horses began to come back too, the other capall uisce. Their storms were still there, but they began to grow less frequent. Novembers were for the earth beneath their hooves, and it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t enough.

They always slipped back beneath their waves come December, as the world grew colder. They never stayed for long. They couldn’t. Their need for the sea was greater than their love for the island.

And come springtime, when the capall had long gone, the island pony stepped into the sea.

astro: the Earth

if astro were things that made up the Earth, mj would be the sun. he’d be the sun yelling at you through your curtains when you refuse to wake up for breakfast, the warmth kissing your cheeks on days you need them most. mj is the sun peeking behind the clouds and waiting quietly for his chance to shine on rainy days, and is the soft rays of the sunset casting everything in an orange glow.

jinjin would be the blue, blue sky that encompasses everything. he’s the sky not a lot of people spend enough time looking at but will always, always be there, welcoming every change in weather and patiently listens to their wails when it rains or when the wind howls. he’s the vast sky that takes care of the earth as best as he can and watches over you day and night.

eunwoo would be the oceans that wrap the earth. he’s both the calm surface on bright days and the rough waves during stormy nights: he’s the feeling of the sea washing up on the shoreline and caressing your ankles. eunwoo is all the layers of the ocean, the deepest, darkest depths and trenches still waiting to be discovered, quietly glimmering in the light of the sun and moon.

moonbin is everything in the sky at night. he’s the moon in the far distance that shines brilliantly on clear nights, listening to you when you cry yourself to sleep at 3am. he’s the dance of the infinite stars across the sky that captures your attention when you see him; he’s the moment you decide to sit back and watch the night sky, the chilly wind giving you goosebumps across your skin.

rocky is the earth that holds you up and the mountains in the distance you can’t touch. he’s the cracks in the concrete you always feel like slapping a sticker on  and the feeling of soil between your toes. rocky’s the grand canyon that stands tall and proud, the deserts that change during the day and night, the volcanoes in the ring of fire and the push and pull of plates deep underground. he’s the many layers of the earth right down to its core.

sanha is nature, from the unexplored undergrowth in forests around the world to the little, dainty flowers sitting on your window sill. he’s the grass that tickles your bare feet and the daisy pushing itself through the ground to take a peek at the world with big hopes and dreams. he’s the sturdy tree you lean on outside your house and the vines crawling up fences to get what they want. he’s the field of flowers you’ve always wanted to frolic through.

this is astro, which means star in spanish, but really they’re the things that make up our world.

anonymous asked:

Do you may have some tips for writing about bad weather? Like storms, thunder and lightnings (at night). Btw, I really adore your blog!

//As someone who has been through quite a few of those, I’d be happy to help. Fun fact: I’ve lived on the coast, where our wind got so bad it blew the roof off a restaurant in town! It took out a lot of the town’s power.

Starting with some basics (aka things you might already know about a storm).


I feel like people often underestimate how strong it can be when it’s storming and forget that it does more than just “howl”. It’s often knocked down trees around where I live! It picks up things like chairs or outside furniture, knocking them over, along with trash bins. It’s not uncommon to find someone elses’ things strewn across your lawn. Some people are advised to stay inside, because they can get blown over (it’s both sad and funny watching people try to navigate it, because they have to lean forward against the wind, sometimes to the extreme).


I think it kind of depends on where your characters live and how high up. I live in the mountains, so I’m closer, and the thunder can shake the house. It’s loud, aka why they’re called thunderclaps. Sometimes you can feel it in your chest, like a very loud stereo playing a bass heavy song.


Very quick flashes of light across the sky, in a way that reminds of a camera flash. The “blink and you’ll miss it” kind of fast. It branches out like roots. Never stand near a tree when there’s lightning out; do not stand near power-lines, either. It’s also advised not to stand near a window, but people tend not to really listen to that rule. I highly, one hundred percent, recommend looking up some cool videos of lightning (I’ll be linking some at the end of this post to help you out).


It doesn’t always rain when there’s thunder. There can be light sprinkles of rain, or a downpour of it. Sometimes it stops and starts again. I know you said night, but sometimes during the day, it can “sun shower” where it looks like there’s no clouds, but it’s still sprinkling water from the sky. The humidity in the air during a storm can remind you of breathing in the warm air at the end of a hot shower. The sensation of wet clothes is annoying and it’s freezing, like ice.


Hits your head like a) tiny pebbles being thrown at you by a rowdy child or b) hits your head like golf balls because someone decided to walk in the middle of the field. Cold (tiny balls of ice, pretty much), and actually hurt in a storm. Don’t walk outside when it’s hailing unprotected. 

Some general tips:

  • Remember to include the wind and the sound of it crashing things over, if it’s strong. It whips trees and bushes around. Wind is often not quiet in a storm (and as mentioned before, it does more than howl).

  • Watch some videos on storms; I know it’s kind of scary, worse even if you’re terrified of them, but it’s one of the best ways to get ideas.

  • Focus on the atmosphere you want to create. Spooky? Loud wailing winds, heavy thunderclaps, etc. Something more somber? Quick flashes of lightning, lighter thunderclaps, gentle tapping of rain at the window.

Now for some helpful videos:

People getting blown around by the wind.

After I went looking for it, I’ve realized that no one decided to record the differences between thunderstorms at the mountains and other places, like the sea or valley, so have some comps of thunder and rain, as well as a blizzard. I do not, in fact, expect you to listen to all of them. Enjoy that ocean one (2nd link), because as someone who has thalassophobia, when the video loaded into stormy black waters, I felt literally ill.

Have some cool lightning videos. It was actually kind of hard to find these videos where the lightning was just casual, for good reference, and not someOMG TOP TEN LIGHTNING STRIKEStype of video. Which, yes, I included.

Some hail videos, but not a whole lot. I didn’t really imagine you were talking about this or snow. Just in case.

I think that should cover it? I’m really sorry if I didn’t help!

Like an awkward-reaching cactus in dead earth
He waits for his missing soul

The scattered Joshua trees stand poised
Nothing breaks their stillness

No feral scream from the horizon
Cry of hawk, wail of wind

Only bones
And dusty rocks

Ashen remains
Wash out into the world

Strewn with life’s storm
Fossils all around

The liquid from the plants
Drips into rot

He waits
Dry cough, bitter laugh

Not even a worthless soul
Condemned to wander forever

He picks up a lifeless bird
And holds it close

—  dry bones (via @sassoonery)