#but bring out the snow and cold and wet and she becomes

[deaneyrs]

thinking about dany standing in the snow of the north for the first time, mesmerized and shivering as if she has the most violent of fevers. pressing her hand against cold stone and ice, her palm quickly turns from blood flushed to a light shade of blue. no amount of furs can keep the chill away. no amount of fire can warm her.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Evenfall

Imagine you wake up in Twilight as a random side character. (Part 2)

Nullification!reader Human reader! SideCharacter Bella! Isekai au! Edward Cullen X reader. Eventually Jacob Black x reader. (2 endings.) (All characters will be written less creepy and one dimensional than the ones in the books.)

Previous - next

Everything was moving and not in slow motion. The movies lied. Edward was standing at least six meters away from her, gawking in complete terror. Y/N wasn’t quite sure why his mask of horror stood out from the rest of the crowd or why her eyes were drawn to him.

The dark blue van was now skidding towards her, brakes squealing. 

It was the rain, it had turned the light snow to sleet causing the roads to become slick. Y/N was standing between a parked car and the skidding van. There was nowhere to move. It was going to hit her no matter what she did and Y/N didn’t even have time to blink.

There was no crunch, but something had knocked Y/N over. She had hit the ground hard, head smashed against the wet gravel. Something hard was pinning her to the ground and she had no idea where it came from. The van was still coming, still hurtling towards her, spinning, still about to collide with Y/N.

A recognisable voice let out a grunt, followed by long white hands that reached out defensively in front of Y/N, bringing the van to a shuddering halt, a ruler’s length away from her face. Y/N let out a gasp, watching the cold mist puff out, grazing the surface of the van.

‘Y/N? Are you hurt? Y/N?’ Edward’s low voice was panic-stricken. His eyes were wide, pupils trembling.

‘I, I’m fine.’ Her voice, raspy, and scratchy. Blinking, she tried to sit up, but Edward was clutching her in a vice-like grip against his body. 

It seemed like Edwards hands had dented the van.

‘Stay still, I'll carry you. You need to go to the hospital. You could have a concussion.’ His teeth were gritted, he looked, scared? How strange. It wasn't as if she was Bella. Her death wouldn't have changed the storyline. Why had he saved her/ And why did he look so upset?

‘Are you okay Edward?’ Y/N whispered, slightly breathless.

‘Huh?’ The boy blinked in surprise, gazing down at the (possibly) concussed girl. ‘You almost got crushed by a van and you’re asking me if I’m okay?’ His tone was incredulous, his jaw slack.

“I mean, you look terrified and you… You were the one who stopped the van..’ She gave him a shrug, before wincing, clutching her shoulder with opposite hand.

‘Ah, your shoulder, is it hurt?’ He cringed, picking up his pace toward his car, the famed Volvo S60. Edward was conveniently avoiding her comments. 

‘It feels iffy. I-’ Y/N grasped onto Edwards shirt after he shifted her onto his one arm to reach for his keys. 

‘Ow.’ She mumbled, fingers gripping onto his sleeve. She let her head rest on his chest for a second, eyes wrung tight. He was cool, like a popsicle except, dry? It was weird how no one else in the school had noticed they weren't normal beside the fact that they were devastatingly good looking.

‘Ah, sorry.’ Y/N released his shirt, flustered by her sudden vulnerability. ‘I didn’t mean to. I-’ The red cheeked girl rambled, waving her hands around.

‘We’re going to the hospital. Come on.’ He tucked the girl's body into the passenger seat and grabbed her seatbelt. 

‘Mm, you’re cold.’ Y/N blinked sleepily, head resting on Edward’s lingering hand on her seatbelt. His car had been running earlier, possibly ready for him to leave as soon as possible. Unsurprisingly the heater was not on.

‘Y/N?’ Edward frantically fastened her seatbelt, his was soft, and melodic. ‘Y/N don’t fall asleep.’ The boy was insistent, cold, marble like hands brushing over her face.

‘Just gonna close my eyes.’ Y/N mumbled, eyes closing,  relishing in the cold smooth skin brushing over her forehead. His touch was gentle, almost as if touching a polished, prized relic 

‘Y/N stay awake for me, come on.’ 

‘If I stay awake, will you drive me home?’ Y/N mumbled, blinking blearily at the concerned boy.

‘No, Y/N we’re going to the hospital.’ Edward reluctantly drew back his hand and closed her door before rushing into the driver's seat.  ‘I think you have a concussion.’

The grip Cullen had with one hand, seemed to be a hair away from crushing the steering wheel. His jaw was set and his eyes kept flickering to Y/N’s face. The other hand was firmly covering his mouth and chin with his palm. He looked anxious, his eyebrows were drawn together into a high pinch.

‘Hey, Why do you hate me? It’s my first day, I haven’t done anything yet.’ Y/N whispered, hey eyes closing again, laying her head on the car window. She opened one eye, glancing at Edward. His eyes flickered to hers, face contorting into a small frown.

‘You.. you elude me. I can’t figure you out.’ He grimaced, eyes now back on the road. ‘It’s like you make everything quieter. I can't hear anything when I'm around you.’ 

‘Hear anything?’ Y/N’s eyebrows twitched. ‘What do you mean? I barely talked to you. Not to mention you basically told me to fuck right off at lunch.’

She glared into the side of Edwards face, hoping he felt her points, figuratively and literally. Did this mean he couldn't hear her thoughts?

‘Ah, that. Forgive me, change is not something I’m used to. You had me quite confused.’ The boy tried for a smile that fell flat. He seemed to be trying to convince himself more than anything else. 

He pulled into the parking lot, rushing to the passenger side after parking. With an insistent arm around Y/N’s waist, he led her to the emergency room and sped off to talk to a nurse. 

‘Ah, Miss Y/N L/N!’ A smooth voice called her name. With the way he walked and his blonde hair and golden eyes, this had to be Carlisle Cullen.

‘Y/N/N!’ Charlie was charging towards her, barreling past Carlisle, who was going in the same direction. ‘Who the hell was it? Their licence is being revoked today.’ He was fuming, hands on his hips in a fatherly way. It made Y/N smile a little. It felt good to have a person care about her safety so much.

‘Uh, I don't remember. I didn't see the-’

‘It was Tyler Crowely. His ridiculous van went skidding in the parking lot. I think she could have a concussion, please Carlisle.’ Edward reappeared, putting a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. The hand on her shoulder did not go unnoticed by Charlie.

‘I didn't mean to-’ Tyler's voice came from the doorway. He was being rolled in on a gurney, someone had called an ambulance for him most likely. He looked to be in worse shape than Y/N in all honesty. His forehead was bleeding and his arm was in a makeshift sling.

‘It’s o-’ 

‘It’s not okay.’ Edward snarled, drawing the thin privacy curtain between Tyler and Y/N. Charlie nodded in approval, coming to stand beside Carlisle. 

‘So, I'm Dr Carlisle Cullen. I'm Edwards' father. I heard you were almost hit by a van? Do you have a headache? On a scale of one to five, how much pain are you in?’ 

‘It feels like a dull ache. I'd say two?’ Y/N smiled tiredly. ‘I just really want to take a nap but Edward wouldn't let me in the car.’ She nodded at said boy, who was gazing down at her in concern. It looked like Edward had filled Charlie and Carlisle in on the situation.

‘Well he was right. It’d be harder for me to assess you if you were asleep!’ Carlisle chuckled, taking a pen light from his pocket, ‘Okay, I’m going to do a few tests, it'll take a minute. Bare with me alright?’ He gave Y/N an easy going smile to which she nodded.

Edward had disappeared mid way through the tests and Y/N had a pretty good idea that he was being yelled at by Rosalie. As Y/N’s primary caregiver, Charlie had gone to fill out a few forms. Thanks to Edward, she didn’t have to pay any ambulance fees.

Seeing as she was discharged, Y/N decided to test her theory, walking down a corridor next to the Emergency Department she found Edward and Rosalie talking animatedly.

‘Uh, hey. You must be Rosalie.’ Y/N smiled nervously, breaking up the conversation that didn't seem to be going in favour of Edward. The blonde haired girl gave her a cold look. This would probably be the make or break whether or not Rosalie Hale would approve of Y/N. Hopefully Y/N was on her good side. 

‘I won't tell. I won't even ask.’ Y/N’s face became serious, coming to stand in front of the two.

‘I’m not stupid, I know you aren't human. I process fast, I'll save you from mopey, emo Edward.’ She glanced at him, giving him a playful smirk. Rosalie’s eyebrows were raised, with a surprised smile.

‘Excuse me, mopey and emo?’ Edward looked offended, arms crossing. Turning to look at Y/N.

‘Yeah, we talked about this in the car, remember?’ She grinned, nudging him. ‘He said that I eluded him and that he wasn't used to change.’ Y/N rolled her eyes. 

‘Huh, eluded?’ Rosalie tilted her head, suddenly interested.

‘Yep, honestly I have an idea of what that means but I’m not fully sure just yet.’ Y/N hummed, tilting her head to match the blonde girl. 

‘Y/N right? How'd you figure it out?’ Rosalie looked impressed and cautious at the same time. This was different, she hadn't seemed so reasonable in the books.

‘Well, a huge giveaway was when Edward went from being in front of his car to being next to me in under a second. That wasn’t human, and don't tell me that was because I was concussed.’ Y/N pointed a finger at Edward before he could interrupt. ‘Don’t make me go ask for the security camera footage Cullen.’

Edward, with wide eyes, raised his hands in defeat. 

‘She's a smart one.’ Rosalie hummed in appreciation. ‘Although I'd love to continue this conversation here,’

‘It’d be safer to continue this at home.’ Dr Cullen appeared behind Y/N, making her jump slightly.

‘Holy crap. That's not normal either.’ She huffed, putting a hand over her heart. Rosalie chuckled and put a hand on Y/N’s back, 

‘Edward will make a date, you can meet the rest of us.’ 

‘Sounds like a plan!’ Y/N grinned, happy that Rosalie seemed so accepting. It was probably due to the fact that Edward wasn't attracted to Y/N, seeing as in the books, Rosalie was jealous of Bella’s humanity. Honestly it was a reasonable reason to be jealous. Bella was able to do all the things Rosalie wasn't, grow old and have children. Rosalie was from an older time so that was the normal standard back then.

After agreeing to discuss the details at a later time, Y/N followed Edward back to the parking lot. Charlie had just finished the paper work, waiting by his police cruiser. He was stuck between giving Edward the stink eye and being grateful that he saved Y/N from the van debacle.

‘Everything alright?’ He gave Y/N a once-over, his hands on her arms.

‘I should be fine, i’ll let you know if I'm feeling unwell Charlie.’ She nodded, flashing him a reassuring grin. 

‘Thank you Edward, truly.’ Charlie nodded at the boy, sticking out his hand for Edward to shake.

‘No problems Chief. Would have done it again.’ Edward gave a warm grin. The one that probably caused all girls within a five foot radius to swoon. ‘I’ll see you soon Y/N.’ He said, as Y/N slid into the passenger seat, waving at him.

[catfern]

─ restless dreams.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader (?)

music: a world of madness - akira yamaoka

word count: 2.3k

summary: you're dead. with how ellie's been coping, she might as well be. that is, until she sees you, or rather, a woman with your face.

WARNINGS: heavy discussions of grief, illness, death. implied hallucinatory sequences, general themes associated with silent hill 2. smut, oral (r!receiving).

cat says ⎯ were ya'll waiting for pyramid head to show up?

if i could be … her.

but i’m not her

and she’s not me.

and you’re somewhere different.

on a different planet.

cold.

the merciless descent of winter had done nothing but bury ellie in a fog. a blur of forgetfulness, of numb reaction.

everyone had told her it would become easier. the festering pain in her joints would fade, the endless congestion in her head, like a dragnet of her slowed thoughts, would release.

“grief is just one of those things that you have to learn to live with.”

ellie wasn’t sure if she was learning. if she knew what that even felt like. what was it, to learn to love an absence? a gaping chasm, in one’s soul?

plagued. the sweetness of your voice lingered like stubborn molasses in her ears, a ghosting touch, nails scratching at her scalp, she could feel it. at least, for a few fleeting moments. in the sticky dark of her bedroom, memories of you clung to her back.

the pavement, slick with thin ice and dirty snow, echoed the song of her footsteps in the empty streets. she needed milk. a sick darkness had descended on the small space of her apartment, and her fridge stunk of something sour.

the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the bitter wind. she hadn’t been sleeping.

she had thought, maybe, the chill in the air would help her. that the light would snap her from this daze, bring her to see this delusional miasma for what it was. but the wet sun, shrouded in grey, granted no such reprieve. she still saw you everywhere.

the shine of the linoleum tile seemed blinding in artificial light. ellie squinted in the change, her skin dry, pale and discoloured from weeks inside. 

she can feel the clerk’s gaze burning her through her clothes. she shakes the dusting of snowfall off her shoulders, and sees the tracks of mud she’s pulled in from outside. oh.

she scrapes the soles of her sneakers along the peeling grout of the tile, and shuffles her way along the aisles. the rows of fridge doors buzz in the dim silence of the store, there’s something metallic in the air.  

it was a dying habit, beelining for the skim milk. something you had put her on to, with your endless buzzing about dairy. it was comforting, following a path well-trodden through the small grocer, one she had so often taken when she had a softness to return to. her footsteps fell, heavy and loud and ringing her ears, empty.

ellie grunts a hoarse ‘excuse me’ to the woman standing in front of the milk fridge. she wasn’t grabbing anything, just standing … watching the milk as if waiting for it to move. so, ellie figured it was okay to push past. the woman moved back without a word.

the jug felt cool, and almost anchored, beneath ellie’s fingertips. something to latch on to, tangible in this maze of wretched passing time.

“sorry! i didn’t see you there.”

ellie bit so hard into her cheek it drew blood. warm, foreign in her mouth, an iron taste.

your voice was not an uncommon ringing in her ears, in these hellish pastimes. the open world teased her, so often she heard you in a gentle ripple of water, the humming engine of a passing car. but this …

it was you. ripped from fresh fucking dirt.

well, ellie wasn’t sure. a ghost in the corner store was not something she was eager to find, if that’s what this woman was. what you were. she could feel her hand twitching in her jacket pocket, an obsessive itch to reach out, to feel the tangible, the absent real.

your name slips past her lips like a familiar groove in her tongue, and the woman laughs. it’s deeper than yours, jilted, not sweet.

“are you confusing me with someone else?” she asks. no, no, she can’t be. it’s your face, every mapped detail from the haze of her dreams, ripped from your coffin and supplanted here. on this body, obscure.

it could be a mask. ellie could dig her fingernails under your pretty, unblemished skin and tear it off this creature, this … offence. would you bleed the same?

“i-“ the milk jug suddenly felt too cold, burning into the skin of her palm. she hesitated, joints locked, body aching. whatever frantic obscenities ellie had wanted to hurl at her, at you, for the affront of your very existence, dripped back down her throat, made her choke.

the woman tilts her head in anticipation. you don’t do that, you didn’t do that.

it’s not you.

“ellie? you told me you weren’t coming today.”

she can still hear the wheezing undercurrent in your voice, a haunting possession of the brilliance in your body. you weren’t meant to exist somewhere so … clinical.

“i .. wanted to see you.”

your hand ghosts her cheek, the prickling of neglected texture along the bone. she refused to touch you. not like this.

ellie’s breath comes heavy in the heady air of her apartment. she can smell the stale rot in the walls, consuming her with every struggling heave of her lungs.

she had left the fridge door open when she left, the flickering cold light leaving a staggering crack along the darkness. she slumps against the wall of her kitchenette, pressing her hands into her muddy hair, as if trying to hold herself together at the seams.

she was going crazy, wasn’t she?

you’re haunting her. ellie supposes that she knew you would. a spectre, a shadow tethered to her feet. she had hoped, she could push past it, cradle your tenderness close to her heart, lock away the rest. naive.

she had become too complacent with the shell of you that malady had created. she’d forgotten how angry you could get. even from beyond the veil of death.

but it wasn’t you. no, no, ellie reminds herself. that … woman, was a coincidence. a trick of the flickering, sickening lights. her grief had muddled her mind, made her see things that weren’t there.

maybe she so desperately wanted to see you. deep within the dairy aisle. maybe, she no longer had the strength to turn away from you, like she once had. maybe, she just craves something you can no longer provide.

three raps knock the wood of her door, and ellie shakes. visceral.

she doesn’t remember answering, but the threshold was there, her hand warming the cool bronze of her doorknob.

this was just cruel.

“oh! it’s you again!” her smile is a wicked caricature, something hollow. snow sits in her hair, and ellie is blighted with your warmth, ghostly in this empty winter. “sorry, my phone’s dead. i’ve been asking around, is everyone on vacation? you’re the only one that answered the door.”

“wh - what?” ellie couldn’t listen. 

you had broken your nose, as a child, a detail never lost on her in the intimacy of your nights together. she would trace her fingers over the bump the accident left, the irreverent flaws that endeared her, magnetised ellie to your person.

she studied this woman, her … perfections. the faultless slope of the bridge of her nose.

so … she was different? this wasn’t you. ellie wasn’t sure if the constant reminder was her anchor or her chain.

“can i use your landline?”

the question was simple, and ellie ached to oblige. invite her in.

“uh, sure.” it was a hoarse, quiet agreement. she shuffles to the side, carves a path for the stranger, who smiles at her sweetly, tight-lipped, in thanks.

her perfume was different. heavier, something darker. red fruit and earth. it caught in ellie’s nose, unwelcome. your name is a phantom on the dry ridges of her lips, and the woman snickers, the fur collar of her snow-dusted coat ruffling as she turns to meet ellie’s foggy gaze. the glory of what was once your gaze, now shared, was lost on this cheap copy.

“you keep calling me that. what, do i look like your girlfriend?”

ellie chokes on something that is not there.

“n-no, my late wife.” ellie could feel her gravity changing, re-centring. she crosses the floor slowly, listening to every creak of the old floorboards. reverent steps. “you … you could be her twin.”

she laughs, distant and deep, like a joke. like she couldn’t see the lines of desperation, of reaching hope that haunt the withering skin of ellie’s face. couldn’t she see? was she not aware of her own part she played in ellie’s torment?

or was she seperate from it all? was she simply passing through, a tourist in this purgatory?

the woman hangs up the receiver of the phone, having never called anyone. her eyes splay pity on this platter between them.

“i don’t look like a .. ghost, do i?” the teasing lilt in her voice was familiar. it was yours. she purses her lips. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. you’re clearly going through something.”

ellie’s hand darts out to ground itself on her skin, pressing into the bone of her wrist, the base of her body.

“ellie.”

she shook the molasses of your voice from her ears, pressed her eyes shut in beseeching of something free.

“please.” her voice was barely there, small in her throat, but enough to hear in the absence of wherever this was. wherever she has ended up. “you have to tell me who you are, if you’re real.”

the woman pouts, the way you did when you wanted something. her touch is soft, leading, like yours was, as it slips from ellie’s rusting grip and falls back, unceremoniously, onto the leather armchair in the living room. plumes of dust greeted her, only added to the stench in the air, the musk of unforgiving.

“it doesn’t matter who i am.” she says, and ellie almost stumbles after her, her knees aching as she falls, devout, ready to worship, if only this spectre gave her answers. “i know what grief’s like. and … i’m here for you.”

ellie breathes unsteadily, her hands shaking, cool sweat dripping down her back. the woman reaches out in the growing silence between them. her nails were bumpy, bitten down to the quick, covered poorly in thin, pink nail polish, as they scratch gently along ellie’s cheek.

“see? i’m real.”

an illness lined ellie’s stomach. wanton belief … this was real. there was a simplicity in this, in the dream that you had come back to her, after all. flesh warm and alive beneath her fingers, untainted.

“don’t you want to touch me?”

the image of you, of her, bleeds in ellie’s brain. you were asking with a sweetness you knew she could never ignore. temptation rots the soul, but hers had died with you. in your final breath, you had clawed it out of her.

there’s a certain cruelty to her touch, the way ellie splays her decay of passion upon this blank body. control is lost to her here, although a mirage of it echoes in her grip on your thigh, her nails ripping into the stranger’s skin, hoping to study whatever is beneath.

“please, please…” ellie’s voice is soft, chasing a dead docility up the woman’s inner thigh, her tongue pulling a cotton trail into familiar warmth. “i’m sorry…”

your head falls back against the edge of the armchair, soft, sweet whines dripping from the woman’s lips like honey, ellie’s nose pressing into the silk of your cunt, her tongue dazed and ever desperate to taste you. to feel you like you once were, broken, made whole again in the creeping twilight of an oncoming snowstorm.

a low rumble pulls through both of you, her lips a current on your clit, a tremor in the key of her voice. she has to pull herself up on her knees, push herself into your presence, to keep herself there, within this second chance. her body shakes beneath yours, in wait, for something that had long since disappeared.

she groans, something deep and distant below her throat. her tongue dances along the warmth inside you, painting her apologies, her dying grievances along the soft expanse of whatever lay inside, forever unheard. her fingers grip bruises into your stolen skin, a rough yank pulling you towards her.

you had hated when she was rough with you, but were you really here to complain?

“please, i…” her voice is something dark, muffled against your skin. “i need you, i.. you shouldn’t have left me. i’m sorry.”

“that doesn’t matter now.” firm and bitter, dry, calloused hands pull ellie up from her home between your legs. she could nearly whine at the absence of warmth, if the vitriol freeze wasn’t something she had so long deserved, so duly needed. ellie’s touch softens.

“nothing matters now.”

your gaze, her gaze, is scrutinising, painful to hold in her eye. but she needn’t look away, she shouldn’t. otherwise, she was sure you’d disappear. she couldn’t let you, never again. she could keep you alive, deep within the ire of her eye, she could, she was so sure.

something stings within her. feeling, it prickles back into ellie’s body like she’d been long asleep.

“i miss you,” ellie’s voice breaks against the cool, unwavering hand of the strange woman, the absence of mercy she so desperately sought. a sob shakes, sore in the column of her neck. the pain was welcome. “so, so much.”

tears run hot, her spine crooked as she falls back, looking up at you with a newly discovered vulnerability. you look at her, your eyes cold with pity and hate.

“i love you.” she chokes, begging like you’ll listen. “come back to me, i love you still.”

you shake your head. you won’t. ellie doesn’t deserve that kindness. no longer, anyway.

your wife slumps forward, pressing her face into the softness of your thigh like that would mean forgiveness, like that would bring back the innocence she had sorely stolen from you. your hand, with jagged nails, runs through ellie’s hair. brick wall comfort.

when you speak, your voice lingers in her ears like a bad hangover. it’s not yours, not anymore. whatever was left of you was rotten, spiteful.

“are you afraid?”

ellie sobs, loud in the impending silence.

there was something here. it’s gone now.

tag list: @r3starttt

[finxwrites]

strange & grimm, which btw sounds like an urban fantasy affectionately parodic hardboiled detective agency. probably queer.

It was a hot, muggy night in the Enchanted Forest. Everyone with a lick of sense was down in the fairy glens, hoping the Winter Court would put in an appearance and bring a breeze on with them. Lucky me, I’m the sucker who fingered the Snow Queen for the missing persons case last winter, so I’m persona non grata in the fairy glens these days.

Just as well. I couldn’t afford to leave the office, not when it’d been so long since my last case. Though on a night like this, I might as well not bother. It was too hot for crime. Even the leaves on the enchanted trees were drooping in the heat. 

I was just about to call it a night when a dame walked in my door. Tall, blonde, legs for days, with an air of tragedy that could put an unloved stepchild to shame. I looked her over suspiciously for any cheery woodland creatures hidden in her golden ringlets. If she was a princess, I’d turf her right back out of the office, case unheard. Princesses paid well, but they were more trouble than they were worth.

No mice poked their adorable little noses out of her pockets as the dame sank into a chair and fixed me with a hard look. “I hear you’re the best in the business,” she said without preamble. “And I need the best.”

I leaned back in my seat. “Baby, I’m the only one in the business. It’s not a good genre for private dicks.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, far too child-friendly for any sort of dicks.” Before I could recover from that little gem, she went on, “It’s a child I’m here about. My sister. She’s…she’s gone missing.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Please, Detective, you’re my last hope. The royal courts won’t hear me out, they think she’s gone on the lam!”

I nodded grimly. “One of those Bo Peep situations, huh?” I get a depressing number of those. All it takes is one wolf in sheep’s clothing—you’d think the kids would learn.

The dame glared. There was enough cold iron in her gaze to put a fairy off her ambrosia. “On the lam, Detective. On the run. My sister has…something of a record.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Your sister the child? She some kind of crime prodigy?”

The dame fidgeted, looking away. “She’s…” She sighed explosively. “My sister is Goldilocks.”

I whistled, low and long. Crime prodigy indeed—Goldilocks was wanted in five kingdoms for the most impressive string of burglaries the Enchanted Forest had ever seen. No one could ever prove she’d done it, but the circumstantial evidence had piled up higher than mattresses on a pea. No wonder no royal court would take this case.

The dame’s shoulders hunched defensively, but she bulled on without trying to defend her wayward sister. “She’s gone missing, and I know it’s not another one of her sprees. Something is wrong this time.” She turned back to meet my eyes, her lovely features harsh with poorly-suppressed fear. “It’s her first crime come back to haunt her, I just know it is. They’ve always wanted revenge—especially the baby of the family, and he’s all grown up now. What they’d do if they got hold of her—“ She cut herself off with a watery gasp; her eyes were wet with tears. “Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about!”

I handed her a handkerchief and gave her a minute to compose herself. It gave me a minute, too, to decide if I was really going to be this stupid. You don’t tangle with the big predators, not if you know what’s good for you, and especially not a whole family of them. Families are a dangerous thing in any genre.

But I was her last hope, and I’m a sucker for lost causes. And if I didn’t get paid soon, this business would become a lost cause itself. I said a silent farewell to my good sense as it packed its bags and left for kinder climes. “Alright,” I told the dame, “Give me the facts. We’ll see what kind of a story they tell.”

[tagsecretsanta]

From @janetm74

From @janetm74 to @the-original-sineater

Dodecuplet: 12 musical notes performed in the time of the same value.

Or: 12 Christmas Eves over the years.

With much help from @mariashades

Prompts: 1) SCIENCE!! 2) Holiday in the Tropics  3)Odd family food traditions.  

One:  Scotland

Lucille Charlotte Evans met Amelia Candice Barclay on a wet and windy day in late August on the steps of a large house in St Andrews.

It was an inauspicious meeting. Lucille – Lucy to her friends – had just climbed out of a taxi and was about to drag her suitcase up the stairs when a gust of wind blew it out of her hands and she suddenly found herself racing down the hill after it.

Amelia happened to be the one who stopped it, or rather, was sent flying by it, and the two women, both strangers to Scotland, found themselves seated together in St Andrews Community Hospital Minor Injuries Unit while waiting for Amelia’s ankle to be x-rayed.

It turned out to be only badly sprained and a very guilty Lucy offered to take Amelia back to her home only to find out they were neighbours, sharing the same student accommodation only on different floors.

They quickly became firm friends by the end of the day, fuelled on the rather unusual local delicacy of deep-fried pizza, chips and cheap red wine.

Lucy was studying Astrophysics and Computer Science. Amelia was studying Economics and Social Anthropology. None of their classes overlapped but they had sections of time that did, and they often sat together in the University library or camped out in one of the museums in an out-of-the-way corner.

That first Christmas they both should have spent with their respective families but heavy snow grounded airflight and so they holed up in Amelia’s room and ate the only food they could scrounge up on Christmas Eve – haggis, neeps and tatties with  a dessert called cranachan and good whisky.

It was the weirdest feast both women had ever eaten. And the beginnings of a tradition they both tried hard to keep while in Uni together – Christmas Eve was always holed up in one of their rooms with their Scottish feast.

Two: Kansas

Ruth bustled around the farmhouse, singing at the top of her voice. The radio was blasting the top 100 tunes from the 80s and she was bopping as she plated food and wrapped them ready for the party.

‘Grant, hun, do you want a drink?’

‘Thanks, Ruthie, that would be lovely.’

She took out a bottle of root beer and watched with a fond smile as he turned the ribs in the smoker. No one cooked meat like her husband did, and while his Kansas BBQ beef was legend locally, so good that even Miss Ella had said she’d buy any leftovers off him – there were never any leftovers with her husband and son – but what Grant was really famous for was his Sweet Southern Slow-Cooker Ham.

Giving him a quick squeeze from behind Ruth returned to the kitchen to finish prepping all the cold foods they would need. It might be winter and cold here in Kansas but their Christmas wouldn’t be complete without the mounds of potato salad, coleslaw, soul food macaroni and pickles to go with the ham and burnt ends.. They’d never really been a turkey kind of family, reserving that bird exclusively to Thanksgiving.

Once Ruth had wrapped all the sides and packed them away she set about cleaning the house from top to bottom. A spick and span house she could do, cooking not so much, not unless you liked burnt as a flavour and a texture.

The day passed on and as it did so did the excitement in the household. Jeff was coming home today from NASA and he was bringing his best friends Lee Taylor and the Caseys. They hadn’t seen Jeff since the spring and as the sun began to go down the sound of a truck in the driveway heralded their guests.

Christmas Eve had become the traditional day they ate their meal and had done ever since the day they had married, with Ruth’s commitments at the local clinic they had always put other families ahead of their own, letting the workers have Christmas Day instead. Jeff had grown up knowing no different and loved having their celebrations a day early.

Arms snaked around her waist as Ruth put the kettle on and a head rested on her shoulder.

‘Ma, I swear you get younger every year.’

‘Flattery will not get you out of the dishes, Jefferson.’

‘Mmm, I’ll happily wash the dishes if Pa’s made his Ham and Burnt Ends.’

‘Stop asking stupid questions and take the coffees through.’

Jeff laughed and took the tray his Mom indicated.

Three: Kent

Lucy and Amelia’s friendship lasted long past University. It lasted the distance of the Atlantic Ocean.

NASA had snapped up Lucy once they’d seen her dissertation but despite the distance they chatted regularly and met up at least once a year, and always on Christmas Eve.

This year was going to be different.

This year Amelia had married.

It Amelia’s turn to host Christmas Eve dinner, and Lucy had brought her fiancé. They hadn’t been going out long but from the chats the two women were having Amelia knew this was the one.

She was eager to see her best friend again and hopeful that Lucy would get on with her husband. She’d laughed a good solid 10 minutes when she’d found out that Hugh was actually Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward, 11th Earl of Kent and that plain old Amelia Candice Barclay was to become Lady Amelia Creighton-Ward.

Speaking of her husband, she put down the spoon she was using to mix the swede and carrot mash and went to find him. It came as no surprise that he was holed up in his office – that Stanley the butler insisted on calling his ‘study’ – even on Christmas Eve. Her husband’s work for the Home Office didn’t stop just because it was an international holiday.

Knocking, she waited for his call before entering, and Amelia broke out into a grin at Hugh’s rueful face.

‘You caught me, Me!’

‘I did, Hugh. Are you done? Our guests should be arriving shortly.’

‘And you want me front and centre. Understood.’

‘I want you to be your usual witty self, my love.’

Hugh laughed and put his file back away in his safe before following his wife out to the kitchen. He pulled up a seat at the table and watched his wife putting the final touches to the meal they would shortly be serving.

He couldn’t believe this beautiful, amazing woman had agreed to marry him. He was ten years older, in a stodgy job and a member of the elite British aristocracy. The day his chauffeur accidently crushed her bike while parking was the day his life had changed. She’d been like a spitfire, giving first Grandy and, when she found out he was ‘just the chauffeur’ Amelia had turned to him and given him such a mouthful.

No one had ever spoken to him like that and by the time the lecture had finished he was smitten. They were engaged by the end of the month. Amelia had been a breath of fresh air to the estate. For a start off she worked closely with the staff to bring them more in line with the 21st Century and after some sweeping changes life had settled into a new routine.

Amelia loved to cook and Hugh had suddenly found that he loved to be in the kitchen, a place he’d never really frequented even as a boy. He loved watching her at work. She danced and sang unreservedly and created magic. He’d never eaten such food, and some of their meals had a distinctly Scottish flair on certain days, and his introduction to the national dish of haggis had been…interesting.

Now he was being inducted into another of Amelia’s traditions, the Scottish Feast on Christmas Eve. Amelia’s best friend Lucille was coming over from America with her partner Jeff. He’d met Lucy a couple of times but he knew Jeff by reputation.

Jefferson Tracy, first man on Mars. Everyone knew him. And now Hugh was about to have the man stay at the house with him. It didn’t faze him, he’d hobnobbed with the cream of British aristocracy and foreign diplomats, he was sure he could handle a hot-shot American.

They were going to eat relatively quickly after they arrived, it was late already and just as Amelia placed the last prepared dish into the aga a knock sounded on the door. She grinned at Hugh, grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind her as they made their way to the door.

Opening it the two women may have squealed – not that either were going to admit that – and the two men shook hands before Jeff pressed a bottle of Pappy Van Winkles Family Reserve. Impressed at the gift, Hugh stood aside and allowed them entry.

‘Good evening. Hugh Creighton-Ward. Please call me Hugh.’

‘Jefferson Tracy. Please call me Jeff. Thanks for invitin’ us.’

‘My pleasure. I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

‘Lucy has been talking about nothing else for weeks.’

They settled into the kitchen rather than the dining room and Amelia passed around the hot toddies she’d prepared.

By the time dinner was over both men were firm friends and a new tradition had been created, with the invitation for the Creighton-Wards to come to Kansas next year.

Four: Dibrugarh

This Christmas Eve was going to be different.

Jeff, Lucy and their four children were off to Dibrugarh in India. Hugh, Amelia and their daughter Penelope had moved out early in the year ostentatiously to take on a job overseeing a tea plantation. The heat wasn’t really agreeing with Penny, but the ten-year-old was being a trooper.

The plane ride was long but enjoyable. They had flown from Kansas to Chicago and spent the day in the Windy City before sleeping overnight and taking the longest flight the boys had ever been on, 14 hours from Chicago to Delhi. With any other children it would probably have been difficult, but all boys had grown up flying, Scott starting at two months old. From Delhi to Dibrugarh, the last stretch being a little over three hours.

Hugh met them at the airport and drove them to a large villa on the outskirts of the town. It was obviously a new build but it was light and spacious and airy, just right for the temperature.

Drinks called Sherberts were given out and rather than collapsing in a tired heap Jeff and Lucy watched in amusement when the boys got a second wind, following Penny out and exploring while it was the adults who collapsed in a heap.

‘God, Hugh, I thought it would be hot in India!’

‘Not at this time of year.’

They laughed over drinks and chatted while the children ran in and out the rooms, even Penny coming out of her shell to join the boys in a game of tag.

Christmas Eve this year was not the Scottish Feast but an Indian one in the style of a Thali. Bhaat (steamed rice), Dal, Bhendir Sarosi (okra in mustard sauce), Lau Tenga (bottle gourd), Aloo Pitika (potatoes), Xaak Bhaji and the sides Kharoli – a papaya chutney and Assamese pickle, all washed down with a drink called Khar.

None of the Tracys were expecting a mild but highly spiced vegetarian meal, but they all enjoyed what was put before them, the boys in particular loving the open nature of the food and that they not only could help themselves from the central tray but that they could eat with their fingers. The meal was finished off with a selection of Indian sweets and glasses of Mango Lassi.

Scott declared that Indian sweets were almost as good as apple pie to the laughter of all. Lucy spent time with Amelia and the two woman who had helped cook the feast, taking notes and looking forward making some of these dishes once she’d returned home.

The evening ended with presents as usual and a happy puppy pile of Tracys and Creighton-Wards wrapped up tightly in blankets as fireworks lit up the sky.

Five: Fiji

Lucy rubbed her bump. She was getting big and pretty soon she’d have to stop flying. This was going to be their last holiday before baby number five was born.

Their Christmas vacation place this year held a double purpose. Not only were they holidaying in the tropics to give Lucy and John some much needed summer sun after both had been hospitalised with severe pneumonia, but they were here for a surprise Christmas present.

Jeff had been so secretive, the only indication of what he’d been up to was the location. Lucy looked out the window of their private jet as Jeff brought them into land. The ocean was so clear and sparkling!

Fiji was hot in comparison to Kansas, and for that first day Lucy just rested on the beach and baked. And boy did she feel better that evening! John too had some colour to his cheeks and Jeff relaxed a little, seeing that he’d made a good choice.

They had three days before the Creighton-Wards would join them. There was sadness at the thought. Penny had returned to England after a year in India, citing the weather as a reason, although Jeff and Lucy had their suspicions as to the real reason, but they would never ask and put their relationship under strain. It would be the first time Hugh and Amelia had seen their daughter for two years.

The boys understood to give the family room, and after an afternoon spent swimming and exploring the beach they returned to the villa to find the Creighton-Ward’s in their own puppy pile, evidence of tears long dried on all faces.

That evening they rested and just reorientated themselves around each other after missing last year.

Christmas Eve began with more swimming and sun lounging, with a thirteen-year-old Scott trying out some waterskiing for the first time. Lunch was going to be their Lovo Feast. Plates of Kokoda, Palisami, Fish Lolo and Vakalolo for dessert.

The food was some of the strangest they had ever eaten. Gordon’s face when he saw the raw fish made everyone laugh. But soon they had eaten their fill and rested and then Jeff was chivvying them all to the airport for his surprise.

The jet had been refuelled and was ready for them all but Jeff refused to say where they were going. He banned everyone from the cockpit…and that was when the Tracy family realised that the windows had been blacked out.

They had no way of knowing where Jeff was flying them…

It wasn’t too long a journey and they had soon landed. Jeff let them out and held Lucy close as she looked at where they were.

It was an island. Behind them a mountain rose up, in front and below them was a cove and a small patch of sandy beach. There was a gasp from every individual as they stepped off the plane onto the tiny runway. Her husband pulled her close and kissed her head.

‘Jeff?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Like it…? What have you done?’

‘Done? Why, I’ve bought us an island to holiday on and eventually retire to.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh? Is that all you can say?���

Lucy turned in his arms and kissed him soundly to the whistles and catcalls of their boys.

‘Was that enough words?’

‘Yes. Boys, Hugh, Amelia, Penny – welcome to Tracy Island.

Six: Kansas

This year Christmas was cancelled.

Scott tried his hardest but no one had the heart for it. With Alan still only a baby really at 21 months old there didn’t seem a point as he wouldn’t miss Christmas if they didn’t do it, and none of his other brothers had been able to muster up enough…drive, desire, want – Scott didn’t know what to call it – to do anything this year. And he couldn’t blame them.

They were never going to be whole again.

Seven: New York

It had been a battle Scott had lost despite fighting bitterly.

Jeff had sunk himself into Tracy Industries since their Mom and Grandpa’s death and the business had gone from strength to strength. And then earlier in the spring Jeff had hit a milestone, opening his headquarters in a new skyscraper in New York of all places as the first of many in an empire that was now beginning to go global.

This year had also seen changes at home, with both Scott and John leaving for their respective colleges and Gordon beginning to become a serious contender with his swimming. The Squid was going to go places – namely the Olympics – and he’d been pestering his Dad to let him attend a residential school that catered for Olympic hopefuls.

This Christmas Jeff had put his foot down. It was the first one since his boys had left and he was going to make the most of it.

Unfortunately, ‘make the most of it’ meant that instead of celebrating in a relaxed atmosphere at home they were all dressed up – suited and booted – and at Tracy Tower for the staff Christmas Party.

Scott had had words about dragging his brothers here, how it was unfair of Jeff to schedule the party on today of all days, but Jeff had held firm and dismissed him with a wave of his hand and the cutting remark that Scott didn’t know what he was talking about.

They had stopped talking for the last two days, but Scott was determined to give his brothers the best Christmas ever and had taken them all to Central Park that day and spoiled them rotten.

The staff party itself was actually fine, and Scott began to relax as it became clear that this was not one of his Dad’s networking meetings. A small band was playing Christmas pop tunes and people were dancing.

The food was…well, the food was delicious but there just wasn’t enough of it. Aware enough that if he ate as much as his stomach was telling him he needed to he’d probably get into trouble, Scott nibbled sadly as he wandered the room and looked out for his brothers.

John had brought a book and had curled up in a chair in the corner, resolutely ignoring all attempts at conversation. Virgil was currently under one of the tables, his sketch book out and another page being filled with whatever took the artist’s eye. Gordon was on his best behaviour, their dad making it absolutely clear that any discussion about him leaving home depended on his ability to show he was mature enough for it. And little Alan was with John, sitting under his chair and playing with the build-a-rocket kit that Scott had bought him earlier that day.

A hand on his shoulder had him freeze until a familiar voice sounded in his ear. Grinning, he turned and took in the sight of Penny, dressed in a…a…well, in a pink dress. Scott had no fashion sense; he had no idea what she was wearing.

But she looked stunning.

He took her hand and kissed it before offering her the floor, and at her slight nod Scott swept her up in a dance.

Maybe today wasn’t going to be a total loss after all…

Later that night the three eldest and Penny lay sprawled over the couch munching pizza and drinking pop as their fathers chatted over whisky in the kitchen. If Scott had his arm around Penny and if Penny was snuggling into his embrace well no one was going to mention it.

Eight: London

Penny hopped from foot to foot, much to Parker’s amusement. And he hoped that this Christmas would be a turning point for his ward.

They had buried Lady Amelia Creighton-Ward that spring and it had hit her daughter harder than expected. After spending so long apart, the news that her parents were moving back to England had filled Penny with hope for the opportunity to get to know them all over again, but they’d barely been back when her mother got sick.

The family that Penny was expecting had been instrumental in helping her through, and in particular the eldest, who would be arriving before everyone else since he was currently based in Germany.

She’d be lying if the thought of having Scott to herself hadn’t sparked something in her heart. Ever since that Christmas in Fiji they had been getting closer, and Scott had been calling her regularly since her mum…yeah, he knew how she felt, what she was going through. They would talk for what felt like hours even though each call was only around 30 minutes.

And there he was!

A head higher than everyone else, Scott strode confidently across the airport, looking for Penny. A shift in the crowd drew his attention, and Scott grinned as he saw Penny standing there, oblivious to the way the crowds parted for her – assisted in no small part from the grim expression on her guardian, Parker. He saw the moment she saw him, her smile lighting up the atmosphere.

Scott quickened up and, dropping his duffle at her feet, he caught her about the waist and swung her up and around, cherishing her laughter as she rested her hands on his shoulders.

They were staying in what Penny had called ‘the town house’. That term had not prepared Scott for the four-story house in the heart of Knightsbridge. Parker took Scott’s bag to his room and made his way to the kitchen where he prepared tea as slowly as he could. His Lady needed Scott right now.

He found them in the front drawing room, seated on the sofa. Scott was holding a sobbing Penny and he offered Parker a small smile as he tightened his hold. Parker sat the tray down and made a tactful withdrawal.

The next morning Parker drove them to the airport to pick up the rest of the Tracy family. He watched his ward and the boy through the mirror. She was looking brighter, and something loosened in his heart.

Parker watched as the boys gave his lady hugs and surrounded the pair before they swarmed through the airport to the car. They filled the space with a comfortable noise, both in the car and in the house, and they helped Penny relaxed even more.

Lil had made a light lunch so that the dinner could be the Christmas Eve feast Lord Hugh had asked her to prepare. After lunch Parker had taken Jeff to go and collect Hugh from his office and the rest settled down to watch some Christmas movies.

Scott and Penny were on one sofa, with Alan sitting on his brother’s lap and leaning back against him. John was sitting on the floor between Penny and his brother while Virgil and Gordon were curled up on the other sofa. All four brothers were asleep before the movie was even halfway through, their body clocks not yet adjusted to all the time they’d spent flying, and Scott and Penny let them snooze on so that they’d be fresh for the evening.

The smells from the kitchen soon roused the boys, and there was much amusement when Scott returned from there with red ears, red cheeks and a red hand. He slid back into his seat just as their fathers arrived home. There were more hugs and some chatting and then Parker returned to announce that dinner was ready.

Lillian had been given a very specific feast to create, a mixture of the family favourites. It was one of the most eclectic dinners she’d ever put together. It shouldn’t have worked, but for some reason it did. Lil reckoned it was because of who they all were, Parker wasn’t so sure, muttering under his breath about ‘boys’ and ‘cast iron stomachs thanks to Mrs Tracy senior’.

Haggis held court with baked ham with glazed vegetables. Plates of Fish Lolo sat next to Xaak Bhaji and sides of Kharoli and steamed Bhaat and to top it all off there were several desserts.

The families didn’t quieten down at all as food was consumed. And Parker was pleased to see his master and mistress begin to smile genuinely for the first time in a long time.

Nine: Germany

Jeff sat in the chair and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before stretching as much as possible while still sitting in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair.

He must have made a sound he was unaware of as a low moan came from the bed and Jeff sat forward carefully, picking up Scott’s hand as carefully as he could, mindful of the canula and the still-healing digits.

But Scott didn’t wake fully and after he settled back to sleep Jeff sighed.

A nurse entered with a tray and set it down on the table before pulling out her pad and recording details from the machines still attached to his son.

He took a deep breath.

His son.

His son was here.

Scott was here, alive.

Scott was alive.

Jeff still couldn’t believe Scott was there, and he gently kissed his son’s hand and placed it back on the bed.

‘Mr Tracy?’

‘Uh…yes?’

‘I brought you a meal.’

‘A – a meal?’

‘It’s Christmas Eve, Mr Tracy. We don’t have much, it is a military hospital after all, but we have a little. I don’t know what you eat but I brought some ham, turkey and some vegetables. And I’m sorry but I could only get green Jello for dessert.’

‘Nurse…?’

‘Abby. Please, sir, call me Abby.’

‘Abby, I am very, very touched by this.’

‘You are more than welcome, Sir.’

He eyed the tray, not inclined in the least to try and eat anything and turned back to watching Scott. Jeff didn’t pay any more heed to the nurse, but as she left she paused in the doorway.

‘Colonel Tracy, I just want you to know that your son is in the very best of hands and we’re proud to be looking after him.’

‘Thank you, Abby. That – that means a lot.’

‘I know you don’t want to eat, but Scott needs you to be strong so please try and eat something.’

‘I – I will.’

The door closed quietly and Jeff looked at the tray again. Green Jello had been the dessert Virgil had loved the most, fighting his brothers for it, invariably being rescued by Scott snatching it out of Gordon’s hands. Scott’s was always the red one, much like Alan. Stifling a sob at the memory, Jeff picked up the Jello and ate it slowly as he watched his son’s chest rise and fall.

Ten: Argentina

It was a heavy feeling of déjà vu as Jeff sat at another bedside and held the hand of another son who he’d believed was dead, but turned out Tracys were determined people, for which Jeff thanked his Irish ancestors.

Another bed, another military hospital, another Christmas away from the rest of his boys as he tried to keep one alive.

He’d never believed that anyone could come back more injured than Scott. His eldest had been held and tortured in a supposed POW camp for three months and had his arm and leg bones broken. Many had healed incorrectly and Scott had needed multiple surgeries to reset breaks. But that had needed to wait until he was better – if the double pneumonia, sepsis and malaria didn’t kill him first.

But Gordon, in typical younger sibling energy, had outdone his eldest brother.

The hydrofoil crash had claimed the lives of all the crew, and for almost half an hour Gordon too, but the paramedics had been able to bring him back from the dead. And when Jeff had finally managed to get someone to talk to him he had found out that Gordon had broken almost every bone, including his spine.

Even as he sat stunned at the news Scott had corralled everyone he knew to try and look for a solution to get his brother walking again, refusing to believe that their Squid could lose that ability.

Brains had come up with the solution, working closely with the spinal surgeons and physios to replace the broken sections of vertebrae and nerves with a Cahelium scaffolding framework.

Gordon had had the first surgery yesterday. He was still under; the operation had taken all day and most of the night and the anaesthesia was yet to wear off. Jeff began massaging the hand he held, humming one of Lucy’s tunes as he did in an effort to both stir Gordon and comfort them both.

‘I haven’t heard you hum that tune for a long time.’

Jeff looked to the door where Scott stood, a bad in one hand and two coffees in the other. His cane was nowhere in sight and he frowned at his son. Scott half-shrugged, completely unapologetic and Jeff sighed in exasperation.

‘How is he?’

‘Same as he was before you left for coffee.’

‘Yeah…’

Scott trailed off. Being here in these circumstances…it was bringing back unwanted memories. He’d bolted a couple of times, but he was getting better at staying. Having a younger sibling who needed him was helping him cope better with the trauma he’d been through himself.

This time he’d left willingly, for coffee. And returned with more. He took something from the bag before handing it to his Dad. Jeff wasn’t surprised to see an apple Danish in Scott’s hand and one in the bag for himself.

They solemnly tapped their cups together.

‘Merry Christmas, Dad.’

‘Merry Christmas, Scott.’

‘Do…Do you think you can keep it down? How’s a Squid supposed to sleep?’

It was the first genuine smile either man had smiled for a long time.

Eleven: International Rescue

There was an air of festivities on Tracy Island the like they hadn’t had for a long time. Everyone was here, both family and friends.

International rescue had been operating for almost eight months, and in that time their reputation had gone from strength to strength. Lee Taylor, Tim and Val Casey and Jeff had been the founders, but the last four months Jeff and Lee had been training Scott, John and Virgil to take their roles in the organisation set up in honour of their Mom.

Christmas on the island was polar opposite to Kansas where they had grown up. December was quite warm – around 70°F compared to about 25°F in Kansas – and although they’d officially lived on the island for a few years now, this was the first Christmas all the Tracys, the Creighton-Wards, the Kyranos and Brains were together. Only the Caseys and Lee were missing, Tim and Val unable to get out of work at the GDF due to some top-secret test (that Scott and John absolutely did not know about, no sir, they did not know about the Zero-X at all) about to occur and Lee because he was back on Alphie, trying to persuade NASA not to destroy their beloved base.

Virgil had been acting oddly all week, and once John had come down he’d joined him, they immediately stopped whatever they were doing every time Jeff walked into the same room. He’d caught whispers about something lost, but to be honest Jeff was just revelling in having all five boys and Tanusha under the same roof for once.

Their Dad wasn’t the only one who had noticed John and Virgil’s odd behaviour. Both Scott and Gordon had, but Scott had his hands full with Alan, the eight-year-old had clung to his eldest brother like a limpet, not that Scott minded, but that meant leaving Gordon to find out what was going on…Gordon promised that he would behave but Scott knew better than to trust that kind of promise – there were many shades to “behaving” when it came to Gordon and Scott was well versed in his prankster brother’s ability to create loopholes. Both brothers would vehemently deny it, but when it came to finding loopholes in something John and Gordon were identical. Scott himself would deny that he and Gordon were the same when it came to pranks, but he’d be lying just as much as John would be…

Whatever they were trying to do also involved Virgil’s studio. The place was a strict ‘invite-only’ place, but Virgil had taken to locking the door – both when he was out of the studio and when he was inside – and had lived up to his “bear” reputation when Scott had tried to find out what they were up to. He had backed away quickly when Virgil literally growled at him.

As the week progressed the smells coming from the studio were mouthwatering, though, and as time passed more and more Scott found himself wandering past trying to work out what the two were up to.

All anyone could work out was that it was definitely *ham* that was being cooked, but why it needed such secrecy was anyone’s guess.

Christmas Eve dawned clear, bright and hot. Breakfast was a riotous affair with so many people, an eclectic mix of traditional American, English and Malay foods meaning everyone had something they enjoyed.

Dinner was due that evening, giving everyone all day for whatever activities they had planned. Games were played, films played in the background. Lunch was a spread of finger food for them to help themselves as they so wished.

Virgil and John disappeared back into the studio. Out of the kiln Virgil pulled the latest attempt at recreating Grandpa Grant’s Baked Ham. This was their fifth attempt but, as tasty as the ham was, it was missing something. Virgil sighed despondently as John’s hand landed on his shoulder and gave him s squeeze.

‘I really wanted this to be ready for tonight but – *sigh* – it won’t be.’

‘It would have been nice, I agree, but you’re really close!’

‘Not close enough, John.’

‘We can do this, Virgil! It’s just a matter of using science and all our taste and memories to work out what Grandpa’s secret ingredient was!’

‘The secret ingre….’

The klaxon drowned out whatever else was going to be said and both men legged to the lounge where the command centre had already been engaged.

‘There’s a problem with the Zero-X launch. Scott, suit up and meet me in One. John, can you return to Five and direct us from there?’

‘FAB Dad.’

‘FAB, Dad.’

‘Kyrano, you have the command centre. Thunderbirds are go!’

Later on, when Scott finally came home, dinner had been forgotten as had all thoughts of food. Once he returned to the lounge Alan all but launched himself at Scott, his other brothers following suit. The four collapsed in a huddle in the middle of the floor, with John’s holo looking on. Pretty soon they were joined by Penny and Kayo and then the older adults surrounded them.

For the second time in their lives Christmas was cancelled.

Twelve: Tracy Island – Together Again

‘What about this?’

‘No – I’ve looked in that box. What about that one?’

‘Hang on…yes! They’re in here!’

This year promised to be their best Christmas ever!

In early spring the five of them with Brains had done the impossible. They had flown to the Oort Cloud, rescued their Father and returned home. Jeff had spent the remainder of the year in a specialist rehab centre, but now he was due home.

Due home on Christmas Eve. What could be more perfect?

So Tracy Island became a hive of activity as everyone prepared for his return. Scott got busy making sure iR and TI could survive the day without them, Gordon and Alan took it upon themselves to decorate the lounge. Brains had muttered something about snow and Kayo was busy in the kitchen with her father and Parker cooking up a feast. Even Uncle Lee had been picked up from Mars earlier in the week by Alan and John.

Virgil and John took it upon themselves to spend the week perfecting Grandpa’s Baked Ham recipe in celebration of having their family all under one roof again. The villa soon filled with the delectable smell of ham.

Every day they tried a new combination in their quest. John had suggested using science to work out what they were missing.

So they started at the beginning by asking the question – AKA ‘interrogating’ Grandma.

Unfortunately Grandma knew nothing. Her husband had been protective of his recipe, not because he didn’t trust her, but because Grant knew what a terrible cook his wife was. It had been a joke that Sally could burn water for their entire married life, and she’d proved that to be the case so, so many times. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that there would come a time when he wouldn’t be around anymore…

So the two brothers formed a hypothesis and theorised that Grandpa would have used ingredients to hand, so they thought long and hard about the kinds of food flavourings they had seen around the old kitchen farmhouse.

Based on that hypothesis they gathered groups of flavourings to try as the predictions part of the scientific method.

Testing the hypothesis had been fun at first. They had mixed flavourings like some kind of kitchen wizards, testing combinations out.

Their family had appreciated most of the ham results. At first. After three days and seven hams even Gordon had begun to complain, but Scott remained oblivious to the amount of thick-cut ham sandwiches he was consuming as he worked.

Tests complete, they analysed the data and drew some conclusions. Nothing matched. They had come close a couple of times, but there was still one key ingredient they were missing, so they tried a different method.

They began searching for their Grandpa’s secret recipe.

They tore into the storage room in the basement, looking through old boxes of stuff that hadn’t been opened since they had moved here from Kansas. They had had to stop for the rest of the day when they stumbled on the one filled with pictures of their Mom and them growing up.

John picked up a heavy box to place it on top of another to make it easier to look into. He’d been down almost the entire week and so gravity wasn’t its usual problem, but the box was heavier than he had anticipated and in manoeuvring it he caught the bottom box. It was enough to make the bottom of the box he was carrying split open, spilling books all over the floor.

A particularly heavy tome flattened his toes and John yelped. Virgil abandoned his box to come and make sure his brother wasn’t too badly hurt, picking up an old tractor manual. It was for Grandpa’s old Deere, the tractor both he and a tiny Virgil had adored both – it was a giant green machine after all…

A feeling of nostalgia washed over him as he flicked through the well-thumbed pages, some still with Grandpa’s oily fingerprints on. As he browsed a yellowing slip of paper full of Grandpa’s neat, careful writing slipped out from between the pages.

With slightly shaking fingers John bent to pick the page up and read it aloud:

Sweet Southern Slow-Cooker Ham

“Ingredients:

1 bone-in fully-cooked ham, about 5.5lb

1 cup apple cider vinegar

½ cup of dark brown sugar

1/3 cup of Kentucky bourbon

¼ cup of honey

¼ cup Dijon-style mustard

4+ sprigs of thyme”

Virgil smacked his forehead. Bourbon? The missing ingredient was bourbon?? He picked John up and swung him around. Both men were laughing before carefully packing the box and putting it back away and returning to the studio.

Several hours later and Virgil was bringing Two into land.

They were all there to bring their Dad home and Jeff was revelling in just being here. He still used a cane to walk around, but he was so much more than the husk of a man they had rescued ten months ago. He’d put on weight, had almost got used to gravity again and was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed with his own children, his Ma and his friends all around him.

Christmas Eve. What a special day to return home. There were so many Christmas Eves that had been special for various reasons, but today was going to be the best ever. As they arrived in the lounge to the cheering of those who had stayed behind and to the smells of food ready to be eaten.

Jeff watched as his children and his friend’s children orientated themselves around him and each other. Huh…interesting. He’d known Scott and Penny had a bit of a thing for each other before…before that time, but now to see Penny sitting with Gordon he realised that ship had sailed. Instead, Scott had gravitated to Kayo, an unusual pairing to be sure, Jeff thought, seeing that they were potentially too similar in temperament, but if it worked then he’d be more than happy for both boys.

Ma, Kyrano and Parker were busy laying the table when John and Virgil brought in a covered dish. There were a few groans from Gordon and Alan which had Jeff raising his eyebrows at them and they quietened down.

The ham was uncovered with a flourish once everyone was seated and ready to help themselves. Scott, recognising the smell of Grandpa’s secret Baked Ham, insisted that Jeff have the first slice and that everyone wait until their Dad and friend had pronounced judgement.

The smell hit Jeff like a thunderbolt. He’d not smelt this particular aroma for…wow, was it really almost twenty years since they had lost Lucy and his Pa? Water welled but didn’t fall from his eyes as Jeff fought to keep his composure.

And then he tastes it.

Tears fell as memories of home, of being a child growing up on the farm, of that first Christmas he’d introduced Lucy to his parents, of the time a two-year-old Scott had managed to pull the tablecloth off the table and was busy hoovering up the food that had fallen, heedless of the adults’ cries of panic over the broken glass and China.

That first time Hugh, Amelia and Penny had come over for Christmas and then Kyrano and Kayo had joined them…and Brains too vied with thoughts of the dried astronaut food he’d sustained himself on when alone out there in the Oort Cloud.

All these memories rushed upon him and Jeff suddenly realised he’d dropped his fork and was just sitting there staring into space, his family looking on with worried faces.

Jeff cleared his throat and wiped his eyes.

‘Thank you. Thank you all. This is without doubt the best Christmas Eve I have had in a very, very long time.’

[lvllns]

She is falling.

This is not new, the sensation of weightlessness as the ground slips from beneath her bare feet. Slick rock, wet from the river that pours behind her back, and an unsteady gait are a dangerous combination. She has not quite yet mastered how to maneuver the wilds with one less arm. Constantly reaching out to steady herself with a hand that no longer exists in flesh and bone.

(Sometimes she still feels the fingers. Tendons and ligaments desperate to feel the weight of her bow between them once more.)

So when Navain becomes unsteady and extends her left arm, she finds herself staring at the stump beneath her elbow as the world vanishes.

“Shit.”

She is falling.

Fast, too fast even. Smooth rock gives way to sand gives way to dirt gives way to water again. Navain inhales, gulps of air before her head is submerged. Swallowed by the sea.

Wait.

The sea?

Navain blinks. Opens her mouth and inhales. Air floods her body, scattered bits of saltwater on her tongue. She is no longer falling. She is swimming, or, well, treading water. Eyes on her. She can feel them, she knows them. They are familiar and if she would turn to look, she is sure there would be a brief flash of purple before inky black devoured them.

She is falling.

Up this time at least. Out of the water, cresting the surface and there is sand beneath her feet. Fine grains warm against her soles as she sighs. Runs her left hand through her hair and ah. Navain holds her arm out in front of her. Wiggles her fingers. Swallows hard as she feels her eyes go a little bit wet. It has only been four months and the adjustment, if she is being kind to herself, has been…rough. The hunter, the assassin, the archer who could pin an enemy to the wall through their eye socket has been defanged.

Harding has spoken to her about a prosthetic, something laced with magic that pulses and moves, but Navain cannot bring herself to do it. To wear it. So she embraces the wound, the missing part of her, and sometimes sits in her dreams to look at her whole hand. The bumps of her knuckles, the freckles that dot her skin, nails a bit longer than they should be because she was always terrible about keeping them in shape. Even her pinky turns in at the top and she cannot do this.

The waking world burns in her throat and the dreaming world envelopes her in warmth and she knows it is him. That familiar warmth of his magic draping over her like the furs he would lay over her when they were out and she began to shiver. Huddled in a tent, frowning and reading missives and forgetting to layer up and forgetting to eat because the world watches her waiting for any kind of misstep. Shivering, teeth clattering, jumping when a wolf pelt (it was always the fucking wolf pelt) settles, tickling her ear lobes and sticking to her back. A gentle hand to the top of her head, fingers threading through her hair for just a moment, so fast she believes she imagined it and—

She is falling.

The tent springs up around her, a small pile of letters and guttering candles. Wind whistling, Navain can smell the cold sharpness of snow outside. She does not know where she is, when she is. Deep breath. Another. One more before she pokes her head out, glancing around camp and she sees him.

Broad shoulders shift as he moves, turning away from her—away—and she chokes on his name. Honey thick, it is stuck in her throat. Her tongue does not remember how to form the vowels, the consonants, the word for pride has been lost to her.

His ears look the same. The tips sharp enough to cut her finger on. His waist, his hips, his thighs. Green breeches, linen shirt, his feet wrapped in leather. He looks the same and so different and she knows she will not get another chance to see him. That this has been a miscalculation on his part. He lingered a moment too long, just a split second of indecision, and he revealed himself to her.

Time is odd in dreams.

He explained this to her. A few times. She never truly understood but she does now. Watching this moment take fifteen years as neither of them move nor speak. Her breathing goes shallow, unsteady, soft and quiet. He is so stiff and unmoving and everything hurts. Her heart hurts. Her eyes hurt and she is crying, she can feel the tears on her cheeks.

“How am I supposed to let you go if you never let me be?”

Cracks and breaks and the way your voice goes thick with unshed tears. Navain’s voice shatters the moment. Vase exploding on the kitchen floor and—

Wolf fur tickles her ear lobes.

She is falling.

[sofya-fanfics]

Your hands are so cold

Fandom : Fruits Basket

Relationship : Hatsuharu x Rin

My 2024 12 Days of Christmas Challenge contribution for the prompt : “Your hands are so cold.”.

I’m sorry for the mistakes, English is not my native language. I hope you like it.

Summary : Rin went out the house and walked in the garden. The air inside seemed more and more oppressive to her. The whole clan was celebrating the new year. It was a tradition that the Junishi could not escape. Yet, she would give everything for not attending it. The weight of the curse and Akito’s presence made the Christmas and New year holidays unbearable for her. Fortunately, Haru was there. If she managed to hold on, it was thanks to him.

Disclaimer : Fruits Basket belongs to Natsuki Takaya.

@12daysofchristmas

AO3 / FF.NET

Rin went out the house and walked in the garden. The air inside seemed more and more oppressive to her. The whole clan was celebrating the new year. It was a tradition that the Junishi could not escape. Yet, she would give everything for not attending it. The weight of the curse and Akito’s presence made the Christmas and New year holidays unbearable for her.

Fortunately, Haru was there. If she managed to hold on, it was thanks to him. Even if they were forced to hide so that no one would learn of their relationship and especially not Akito. Everyone knew what the head of their family was capable of. Especially Hatori who had been the victim of Akito’s anger during his relationship with Kana. Rin did not even dare to imagine what Akito would do to Haru.

Rin shivered and put her arms around her. She had not thought to take a jacket before going out. It was cold, really cold, but she did not want to go back inside yet. Oh well, she thought. She could stand the cold for a little while.

She heard footsteps behind her. She did not have to turn around to know it was Haru. She knew him by heart. Every part of him, even the sound of his footsteps.

“That’s where you’re hiding,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”

He was exaggerating, she had not been there for an hour.

“You’ll to catch a cold,” she said.

“You can talk.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair, embarrassed. He was dressed warmly and she had forgotten to take her jacket.

“I don’t want to go back,” she said.

“You’re wrong, you’re missing out something. Yuki and Kyo didn’t come.”

Rin opened her eyes wide. They had the courage to disobey Akito ! Kyo had always wanted to be part of the Junishi, and Akito had done everything he could to destroy Yuki psychologically to keep him by his side.

“I’m sure they wanted to stay with Tohru,” Haru continued. “Kagura is exploding in anger and Akito is brooding over his own.”

Tohru. Rin frowned. In a short time, Tohru had become the center of conversation among the Junishi. Those who had not met her yet wanted to, and those who knew her immediately befriend her. Even Haru. He had described her as someone special.

“She’s saving Yuki,” he had said. “To me, that’s all that matters.”

Rin wondered what was going to happen. No matter whether Tohru was special or not, Akito would not stand by and do nothing. Especially if Yuki distance himself from their clan. Rin hoped that Haru would not get caught in the middle trying to protect Yuki.

She suddenly felt something cold and wet on the tip of her nose. She looked up. It was snowing. The first snow of the year. Would this bring them luck for the coming year ? Haru wrapped his hands around her. She had not seen him approach. She looked at him. He was only a few inches away from her, staring at her intensely. No matter how much time passed, that she knew him by heart and that he knew everything about her. She loved him like she had never loved anyone before. She loved him more than her life. She would do anything for him. To protect him from the cruel world the Junishi lived in. To keep his kindness and light from ever fading.

“Your hands are so cold,” he said.

He brought her hands to his lips. Rin felt the warmth of his breath, which warmed her a little. He pulled her towards him and took her in his arms. She immediately snuggled up to him. Haru's warmth wrapped her. It was only in his arms that she was happy. He put two fingers under her chin and made her lift her head. They kissed, expressing all the love they had for each other. He pulled away slightly and rested his forehead on hers.

“It's time we go back inside.”

Rin groaned in displeasure. Haru could not help laughing. He kissed her one last time and took her inside with him. She followed without protest. She knew she had no choice. Even if she wanted to run away with him. Away from the clan, the curse, and Akito. Haru let go of her hand once inside. He sat down next to Momiji, while she sat down next to Kagura who was still angry because Kyo was not there. Rin looked at Haru who was smiling at her.

This year will be different, she told herself. She would find a way to break the curse and she and Haru would be free to love each other forever.

The end

[arcsimper5]

The Return Missing Scene - I'm Sorry

A quick angsty drabble concerning Crosshair's reaction to event in The Return.

Spoilers for Bad Batch Season 3, Episode 5 (and prior).

No warnings except huge amounts of angst (and very little comfort).

“Crosshair?”

The sniper let out a deep sigh as he closed his eyes, fighting against the emotions swelling inside him.

Kneeling in front of the crate which now displayed Mayday’s battered helmet, along with those of Hex, Veetch and the other troopers the Commander had served with, he felt Batcher’s wet nose as she nuzzled his hand where it rested on his thigh, nudging him in a comforting manner.

“Omega,” he responded eventually. His voice was wavering, too quiet, tone too tight.

The young girl silently stepped towards him, dropping to her knees next to him, mirroring his position as he looked back up at the helmets, focusing on Mayday’s.

He’d wanted to tell them, he really had. Even seeing the outpost again had the words clawing up his throat, desperate to be heard. He wanted to tell them about Mayday, about how he’d saved his life, about how hard he’d fought, about how the Empire had betrayed them both.

But Hunter already thought he was dangerous. And dangerous was better than weak.

Would he even believe that he, Crosshair, had befriended a reg? That he’d fought for hours in the bitter cold, through snow and hail and biting winds to bring them back, to try and save his life?

Of course he wouldn’t. He still saw him as nothing more than a murderer. A traitor. The reason Tech was dead.

He didn’t say it, but the glare that narrowed his gaze, the way it flicked pointedly to Crosshair whenever their fallen brother was mentioned, was evidence enough.

“Who were they?”

Omega’s soft question broke him out of his downward spiral, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, fighting the lump forming there.

“The solders who manned this outpost,” he forced out quickly, fighting the tears welling in his eyes with every fibre of his being, “they were killed.”

“Oh.” 

Omega’s response surprised him a little. He’d expected more questions, pointed ones. Ones like ‘did you kill them?’ Instead, she remained silent, turning her gaze to the helmets, taking in the details of them.

Guilt and grief scrabbled inside his chest as he waited for another question, another accusation, anything, getting nothing in return. Instead, Omega simply bowed her head, closing her eyes as she adopted the same pose he had been in when she found him, a simple gesture of respects being paid.

The sight broke Crosshair, a single tear slipping down his cheek as he swallowed again, his hands tightening into fists.

“Mayday,” he croaked, drawing Omega from her reverie, “the one at the front. His name, it was Mayday.”

She simply nodded to indicate she’d heard him, waiting for him to continue.

“We were sent to retrieve supplies,” he murmured, unsure where this urge to tell her was coming from. Unable to stop, he simply let it all flow, the hurt becoming more and more raw as he spoke, “under a Lieutenant called Nolan. The locals attacked, and his other men were killed. We were sent on a suicide mission to get some stolen crates back.”

Memories flitted through his head, as vivid as the day they were made. He could still feel the cold through his armour, hear the ‘click’ of the mine he’d stepped on in the cavernous tunnels below the mountain, smell the old leather of the extra layers Mayday wore.

“We tracked them, got the supplies, but… there was an avalanche. We were caught in it. He… saved my life.”

Admitting it was like dunking his head under ice cold water, more tears following the track made by the first, welling under his chin and splashing onto his gloved hand below. 

He remembered the roar of the wall of snow, the pressure, Mayday’s shouted warning and the shove of his shoulder, moving him out of the path of the mass.

“He wanted me to leave him, but I… couldn’t. We walked for two rotations, through the snow. Finally made it… back here. He was almost dead. Nolan refused to help him. So I shot him.”

It was all he could bear to tell her. Nothing could possibly soothe the memories of having Mayday huddled against him for warmth, of the way Nolan sneered down at him as he was dying, the way he spoke of them like they were nothing more than droids. It made his stomach twist awfully, nausea overwhelming him.

Just when he thought he couldn’t take another moment in that room, surrounded by the memories of the last true friend he ever made, he felt arms wrap around his shoulders, his breath hitching.

“I’m so sorry, Crosshair.”

The dam inside him broke, a choked sob escaping him as Omega pulled him into her lap, cradling his head and stroking his shoulder.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. 

Mayday’s words rang in his head over and over.

“We were good soldiers. We followed orders, and for what?”

For what, indeed. Crosshair knew, outside this room, there were three of his brothers who didn’t trust him because of what he’d done for the Empire, another lost forever because of his belated realisation that Hunter had been right all along.

“All you’ll ever be to them is just another number.”

Omega held him tighter as he gasped for breath, every regret he’d ever had spilling onto the floor of the cold storage room, beneath the gaze of Mayday’s helmet.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out, to no-one in particular. He knew Mayday was long gone, there was no way he would hear it, but he felt it in his gut, that he could have done more, than he should have realised sooner, “I’m sorry.”

Omega shushed him and continued to rock him gently, glancing up when she saw a flash of movement by the door. Shaking her head, she returned her attention to Crosshair as Hunter slipped from the doorway, his own expression twisted with regret.

“It’s going to be okay, Crosshair,” she reassured him as Batcher shuffled towards them, wrapping her large, warm body around Crosshair’s trembling form, whimpering in concern, “I promise you. We’ll avenge him. We’ll avenge all of them.”

[catchyhuh]

rainy days

this started as “what do i think they’d each grab to keep dry” and then that morphed into why would that be entertaining by itself. get into it get into opinions and and shit of whether or not somebody likes rain. so here we aaaare!

lupin:

lupin the third is an unstoppable, insane, hardened criminal. no he doesn’t need something to cover himself from the rain. bwuuhhh but its really cold now that he’s here and he can already feel himself getting sniffly from the air pressure and he would heal up if only he had somebody waaarrmmm and cozyyyyy and maybe only partially clooooothed,

it’s not like it BOTHERS him bothers him, but he’s not big on rain, or snow for that matter. if nothing’s going on, it’s fine, no biggie, but precipitation fucks with plans dude, and if you need to weigh down the back of the car to keep it less likely to hydroplane YOU’RE GONNA WANNA KNOW THAT AHEAD OF TIME!!

he usually spends rainy days, uh, kind of the same as he always does when he’s just got a day inside the hideout, y’know? just hanging out, doing whatever. the weather doesn’t really affect his energy too much, and he’s not looking out windows too much unless he’s expecting something/has a reason to be suspicious, sooo. just another day!

jigen:

well. he. already has a hat on. but aside from that, if it’s REALLY pouring down miserable, he’ll just tuck his arms out of his jacket and lift it over his head. just as good!

jigen isn’t big on rain. i mean it’s not like he bothers getting MAD over it, it’s-- it’s rain. he can’t do anything about it either way man but if you asked him “would you rather go out on a sunny day or a rainy day” he’d be like. sun’s too bright rain’s too wet. cloudy for me man. and what are you gonna do? argue the man?

jigen very much falls victim to the “it’s raining really hard outside and i bet a nap would be baller right now” phenomenon, but that’s not too unique considering that if he’s comfortable enough he can nap damn near anywhere. can he SLEEP easily? no, but he can nap like nobody’s business. just only for 30 minute increments. no wonder he’s always so cranky

fujiko:

an. umbrella? do none of the rest of you have an umbrella. christ. is this a rocky horror showing or something

it’s amazing how nothing rain becomes to you when you simply REMEMBER TO BRING AN UMBRELLA. 90% of shit she does happens indoors anyways, really the only time this would be a point of contention is during the walk from the car to the building. simple as. really, the only reason she has any opinion on it at all is because people tend to be crabbier during bad weather, and that’s annoying, which makes HER crabbyIT’S A WHOLE CYCLE! and since we’re talking about cars fucking NOBODY knows how to drive in the rain and that’s annoying enough riding in a 4 wheeled 2500 pound tank, but on a MOTORCYCLE?? she’d be safer just walking into traffic

if fujiko has plans and it gets rainy, whatever, she’s doing her plans. if she doesn’t? ehh. maybe she’ll just spend a day inside watching movies or whatever. she’s not usually a big tv person, but she likes picking up on trends and patterns throughout eras of entertainment. one time there was a storm for a weekend and fujiko came back telling the others exactly what year the transatlantic accent had been completely wiped from movies

goemon:

it’s just rain you pussies why are you afraid of it?? you gonna melt or something? why would you need anything covering your head oh god wait it’s hailing too oww oof oof owuch ouch

if you asked he’d be like “it’s just nature running its course. what opinion is there to have” but deep down he. really likes the rain IT’S JUST NICE! got a good smell, it’s pretty to watch the drops slide down leaves and window panes and everything else, it just makes everything outside feel a bit naturally cleaner. fresher! he loves rain. he was probably the kid who gasped and ran outside to play in it when he was little

goemon makes it a point to be outside, as you likely imagined, knowing him. you know when you get in the shower and turn the water pressure up and it feels nice on your back. it’s like a simpler version of that. feel the rain on your skin. in the summer this isn’t a big deal but as they get into fall and especially winter, the others are more and more resistant to letting goemon turn himself into a samuraicicle

zenigata:

just. whatever is nearby. sure he has that hat, but he doesn’t want his HAT getting soaked either! coat over the head, umbrella, his fucking hands if he’s movin quick enough, a newspaper! this IS rocky horror now

like a lot of things it depends on how his mood was already. if he’s in an okay mood, okay, no biggie, we’ll just quickly get outta the rain and carry about business as usual. if he’s in a bad mood the rain just. saps everything outta him. he’s sighing really big and slumping against the wall watching it come down. drama queen

again, dependent on mood, but oddly enough, rain usually gives him energy. you would think it would knock him out cold but something about it, something about the way OTHER people react to it, makes him twice as efficient! maybe its the fact most normal people are staying inside and not doing anything for the day, maybe its the implication that he has to stay in one spot because of it and that forces him to work with what he’s given, WHO KNOWS!! he gets too many ideas in the rain. the gang better fucking watch out if there’s a real downpour happening

[halowritesthings]

“Tout est nul, putain,” Remy said while stomping his way inside. He shook the snow off his body like a wet dog, specifically because he knew it would annoy Scott when he eventually came inside and saw the partially melted snow on the hardwood. “I hate de cold.”

He shucked off the winter cap and gloves he borrowed, but before he could bend over to unlace his boots, a southern drawl emitted from the doorway, “So Ah’ve heard.”

Looking up, he saw Rogue leaning on the frame of the entrance to the common area of the mansion, a blanket bundled in her arms. His mood suddenly perked up significantly, “Well, good ol’ North must‘ve finally caught me. Why else would such a stunnin’ ange be here t’greet moi?”

Rogue rolled her eyes as she got off the frame to stand up straight, “Quit bein’ a drama queen, Swamp Rat. Everyone has had to shovel the walkways at some point.”

Remy pouted, leaning down so he could get back to stripping off the boots, “You say dat, yet why is tonight de first time I seen Specs do his fair share, neh? Gettin’ down an’ dirty too much a hassle for Fearless?”

“Ya know that’s just because ya always hightail it out of the room before the drawing of straws can begin,” Rogue said. “Ah think he’s already maxed out his shoveling duties for the season, but he joined ya tonight anyway, specifically to make sure you would do yer job for once.”

When Remy got both boots off, he looked up at Rogue with zero guilt in his eyes. His pout might have gotten bigger, actually, “So mean to Remy.”

He was quick to slip on his moccasin slippers that he was forced to abandon just an hour prior. If he wasn’t feeling so stiff, he would honestly be willing to bend over even further to place a kiss on the tips of each of them. Plus, he already got called dramatic once in this conversation; even though it was true, he would like to keep the factual observations to a minimum tonight.

As he stood back to his full height, he was suddenly assaulted, darkness enshrouding his vision and his movement becoming restricted. He struggled for a second before remembering what he was just looking at and held himself still. He was swiftly rewarded when a pair of gentle hands messed with the covering at his face and adjusted it so he was snuggly wrapped everywhere that didn’t impede his line of sight. 

Once he was able to see again, he was met with Rogue looking at him with that same fond exasperation he loved to bring out in her. “Don’t chu’ worry,” Rogue began, finalizing the details of her current attempts to encase Remy where he stood. “Jubilee went and made us a bunch’a different kinds of hot coco, and knowing yer daily sugar intake, you’ll be reawakened in no time.”

With a lopsided smile, he grabbed one of her hands, using his blanket-covered fingers to wrap excess blanket around her knuckles before placing a kiss to the top of the hand while looking her in the eyes. She was of course wearing one of her nighttime pair of gloves that she wore when they hung out after hours, but recently he had been making sure to add extra layers between them whenever he could to ease whatever leftover anxiety plagued her mind, “Mon sauveur, what would dis scoundrel do wit’out chu?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rogue said with another roll of her eyes. “Love ya too, ya greaseball.”

woe 🫴 halo x-men fic be upon ye shout out to the 4 people who unanimously voted "yes" to the poll on my main asking about whether or not i should post this WIP snippet to tumblr lol. i have zero idea as to when i can get this completed due to a.) the dreaded blockage of writers as per usual and B.) the dreaded schoolwork which is in a constant revolving state of "maybe i won't have too much work this weekend" and "holy shit i'm falling behind so hard i'm gonna die-" this snippet is rather contained tho so it can work as a standalone pretty well. maybe i just need to embrace shorter ficlets as my main form of writing. certainly would be a nice break from the "can't make a oneshot less than 6k words" train i've been riding since day one LMAO anyway feel free to ignore my yapping; i hope you like my first foray into this fandom!

[cherriesncinnamon]

calm during the storm / coriolanus x lucy gray

synopsis: camping out at the cabin during a storm before their adventure the next morning, coriolanus and lucy gray become closer than they both could ever imagine.

warnings/tags: handjob, unprotected sex (don't try this at home), coriolanus x lucy gray (lucy gray has been aged up to 18 for the purposes of this)

word count: 1.2k.

a/n: i've been obsessed with them since tbosas came out, how could i not? fyi - i don't want to romanticise snow, i just like this narrative.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

“It’s too stormy out there, I’ll go tomorrow. Gather some katniss then. Once the rain dies down.” Announces Lucy Gray, moving strands of wet hair away from her eyes as she places the rose scented clementine scarf Coriolanus gave her over the back of a chair to dry. Coriolanus nods in response, using the collar of his t-shirt to wipe the raindrops from his face. Their bodies shake from the bitter nip of the cold, worsened by the lack of insulation in the run down cabin.

“We should change clothes, it’ll only make us colder; sleeping in wet clothes.” Coriolanus says, digging through her bag to bring her a fresh set of clothes. He turns around while she undresses, eyes set on the floor out of respect. She taps his shoulder gently once she’s done, a clean shirt and linen shorts placed neatly over her forearm to hand over to him.

The bed was comfortable enough to bear, and just wide enough to fit the both of their bodies. Coriolanus suggests sleeping at the foot of the bed, top and tail, but Lucy Gray persists he lay beside her, chest pressed up against hers, sharing the heat to prevent dying of hypothermia. He complies, bringing himself up to the headboard. 

For the first few minutes, they lie in silence, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, hoping that the other will say something. Just one word before they enter what could be the most monumental day of their lives. The day that brings them life outside the grip of the Capitol. A life of freedom and hope.

Coriolanus turns his body on its side, facing Lucy Gray, watching as she does the same. He can feel her cool exhales on his chin; they’re paced faster than usual. His fingertips explore the roots of her curled hair, stroking circles on her scalp. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, feeling sleep come over her in waves, the comforting floral scent of Coriolanus rocking her like a lullaby. Lucy Gray reaches out, settling her head in the space between his chest and his neck, listening intently to the rhythmic beating of his heart.

Tearing through him without warning, Coriolanus felt the unbearable urge to kiss her. So he does. Grabbing the sides of her small face, he tastes the sweet honeysuckle on her peach lips, the same taste he thought about every second of his days. Lucy Gray is flustered, gasping through every kiss before he ravages for more, but she doesn’t stop him. His palm makes contact with her breast, almost primally without the confirmation from his brain.

“I’m sorry.” He says, lips red raw and throbbing, quickly retracting his hand.

“It’s okay. Here.” Lucy Gray replies in a whisper, lowering the nightdress she has draped over her skin, taking his hand and delicately positioning it on her chest, nipple hardening under his touch. He doesn’t say a single word, taking time to admire the beauty of his songbird, and how hard he is fighting his thoughts. He didn’t want to seem desperate - needy - so he holds back, going slow with his kisses, so slow that it begins to give him a headache.

His hand lingers down her nightdress from her breast to the bend in her waist, fingers slipping to her lower back. He presses his fingertips against the sensitive skin, dragging her body closer to his, as close as humanly possible. Lucy Gray wraps her leg around him, resting it on his hip. She can feel heat between her legs growing increasingly unbearable by the second, intensifying with the sensation of his barely clothed member dangerously close to her inner thigh. 

Bright moonlight seeps through the sheer curtain, shining beams of white into the dark room. Coriolanus basks in the beauty of Lucy Gray’s features illuminated by light, from her pretty eyelashes fluttering with every gentle rock of her hips, to her nimble fingertips stroking the nape of his neck in a way that electrified his nerves.

Breaking the waistband of his thin shorts, Lucy Gray’s warm touch against his navel made him shudder. He would never think his little songbird would be so ambitious, but there she was, mere inches away from where he needed her most. His mouth lay agape against hers, too weak to kiss back as she softly takes him into her grasp, gradually increasing pace. Coriolanus buries his head into the crook in her neck, inhaling the intoxicating pheromones on her supple skin. He can feel his inhibitions slipping away with every stroke, the muscles in his abdomen tensing in pleasure. He wants to feel her. Not just her skin or her mouth. He wants to be inside of her.

He removes her hand from his length, riding up her nightdress to her stomach, unveiling nothing underneath. Lucy Gray feels slightly embarrassed at her aesthetics; she’s a lot thinner than the other women he’s probably been with, and more unkept, too. Coriolanus recognises her insecurity and caresses her cheek with his thumb, swiping it across her lips before diving in for another kiss.

Unsure if he can wait a second longer, Coriolanus, still deep in a kiss, climbs on top of Lucy Gray. She quickly welcomes him, spreading her legs to allow him to sink in the space. As he slides himself inside her, she gasps at the ambiguous sensation, wrapping her arms around his neck for support. He groans out in euphoria, his thrusts deep and gentle. After a short amount of time, mild pain turns into pleasure for Lucy Gray, exceeding all expectations. Coriolanus peppers blue kisses on her chest, leaving marks where he once was. Their cold bodies transition to sweating messes within minutes, heat rising in the room. 

“Oh, Lucy Gray. Lucy Gray…” He whispers in her ear, climbing closer to an anticipated release. Lucy Gray shuts her eyes, high off of the feeling she thought she’d never enjoy. 

With her walls tightening around him like a glove, Coriolanus struggles to hold himself up, groans echoing the empty walls. He bites her lower lip playfully, drawing out a small amount of blood that mixes in their mouths. Her hands snake up his neck and face, fingertips grazing sensitive skin, sending goosebumps through his whole body. His muscles twitch relentlessly as his climax hits him like a gunshot. Lucy Gray moans sweetly, the pressure inside of her bursting open simultaneously. 

Coriolanus collapses to the side, oxytocin coursing through his blood that transports him to a paradise. He turns his face to gaze at his beautiful songbird, who is struggling to catch her breath. They both want to say something, but decide against it. There are no suitable words. Lucy Gray turns away from him, scooting back into the shape of his body, their frames fitting together like a puzzle.

Coriolanus wraps his arms around her tightly, resting his nose on her head. As she drifts off into unconsciousness, he spends most of the night awake, grateful to call her his. If only he could keep her forever, locked away for her to only ever be his. He will not confess this, but will fantasise about it when they run away together. He hopes she will change her mind; agreeing to live the rest of her days with him in the Capitol. But he knows she will not. Coriolanus wonders whether it’s best to trust your heart, or your mind.

[elementclangen]

Moon 226-Leaf-bare

Flowerpaw (10) is dead.  Is it wrong that Creekstar (80) almost feels relieved?  The apprentice snuck out in the snow and was later found cold and dead. Even her fire magic was not enough to keep her warm.  Primcrest (68) wonders if was trying too hard to prove herself so that she could one day become leader.  She misses her daughter and hopes that she’s happier in StarClan.  Dawnpaw (10) is also feeling a little out of place without his sister.  His powers are weaker than hers, and he’s less ambitious.  If she couldn’t make it, how can he?  Dawnpaw remembers his time in the nursery with his sister fondly.  Things were so much easier then.  He’s a little jealous of Palekit’s (5) life. Echopaw makes sure to support Dawnpaw and is letting him share his troubles with him. Rubbleheart (22) worries that Skipkit (1) is going to kill some cat.  She doesn’t have great control over her powers.  He tries to bring it up to her, but she gets mad and sends a burst of flame at him.  He just barely manages to turn it away with some wind.   The Clan is a fan of Archkit (1).  She’s just so sweet and charming, it’s impossible not to love her.  Primcrest is a little worried about her, though.  She remembers how close Yuccawillow came to killing her when she was just a kit.  A cat’s powers aren’t enough to determine character.  Xhosa (94) is still proving that she thinks she can, in fact, judge a cat based on their powers.  She is insulting Echopaw (7) and Auburnpaw (7) steps up and stands up for her brother. Shinekit (1) is very excited to be an apprentice.  But she worries that she never will be.  Will the Clan even let her stay if she can’t stop flooding the camp?  Eaglekit (1) is impatient to get out of the constantly wet camp and tries to sneak out.  Smokefoot (15) catches him. Palekit is almost old enough to be apprenticed, and Safariaster is grateful for that.  She’s not sure how much longer she can handle caring for the whole Clan on her own. Sadly, while on a patrol with Rubbleheart, Goldenpaw (7) is killed by a large dog.  It’s proving to be a harsh, cold winter and Charipeak (92), already chilled from the flooding in camp, dies during a storm.

[tierra-paldeana]

☠🌏– ''And... the Walking Mountains? Are they your friends?''

She had gone back to the pond in Glaseado. The way there was a breeze, even without company, and the day was slightly warmer than usual, meaning she wasn't shaking every few seconds. She was squatting by the shore, talking with the pond's Sire, the mother Clodsire she saw last time with Grusha. Behind her, the countless members of her pond, from elders to pups and everything in between, had dropped whatever they had been doing to gander upon the human capable of understanding their speech.

At first they had been wary of her presence, and only calmed down when they saw she was accompanied by a Clodsire of her own. But hearing a human able to engage in conversation with their kin truly surprised them.

Oh yes, dearie, why wouldn't they be? They're so large and imposing they make all Three-Claws and Round-Beaks scatter, and not only that but they bring us all berries. In turn, we bring them morsels we hunt from the pond or riverside. They're so friendly, too. You said you come from a land far beyond the snow, right?

''Yeah... waaay down south. There's a pond in a warm area near the sea. That's where I come from. My father was a blue one, got scars on his face from a Three-Claw. Strict but very lovin', heh. He taught me to speak in your language, swim, stalk... I wish I could show you, but we don't fare well in the cold. Yer rather resistant to it, huh?''

As long as we stay in the warm water and don't stray away too far when on land, we're good, dearie, don't worry. And... that sounds lovely. Your father sounds like a lovely Sire, I'm sure he's very proud of you.

As Rika smiled fondly to her words, warmth rising in her chest, she heard the wet pitter-patter of a curious pup approaching.

Mama, mama, who's this?

She's a friend, my son. A human that was raised with fellow Clods in a land far away. Her name is Rika.

Woah, cool! Rika Rika, you wanna see a trick?

And before Rika could answer, she watched as the little pup began chasing his own tail before getting dizzy and falling on his behind.

''Nahahah! That's very cool!'', she laughed before helping the little pup back up on his little feet. ''But don't do it a lot or yer tummy will get upset, right, squirt?'' And she took an Oran berry out of her pocket, giving it to him.

Yaaaay! I got a berry~ Thank you Rikaaaa!

And off he ran with it.

Pardon my son, he's very energetic to say the least...

''Heh, 's alright. My bud here and I were kinda like that growin' up. I'm sure yer pup will be a great Sire someday.''

Thank you so much, dearie... And before you go. Here. Keep this, it's a gift.

Momentarily, the wild Clodsire descended into the murky waters, before coming back and spitting a Smooth Rock out of her mouth.

''A Smooth Rock! For me?''

We have no use for it, but we know those from faraway lands might appreciate it. You can visit us whenever you like, dear. It was a pleasure.

Deeply moved by what she had learned, and after bidding farewell to the Sire and her pond, she walked the way back with her own Clodsire, happy to having become acquaintanced with more of those she considered family.

[synkqngel]

HEAVY SNOW.

↳ winter x f!reader

if you hadn't moved to busan, minjeong's heart would be incomplete. / the ways in which minjeong shaped you, your worldview and your heart.

warnings. making out at some point, mentions of xenophobia, not proofread 💔🙏🏻

wc. 2.3k

tags. timeskips, first love, separation at one point 💔💔, plot heavy, open ending, loosely based off the movie heavy snow

seoul. october 2016.

you were not ready for the life of fame.

sure, it was promising. the luxury, the thrill of everyone knowing your name. a life able to be lived without the fear of being forgotten.

you had been thrust into the entertainment industry at a young age — you were maybe four-ish when you starred in your first movie. you are 15 now and you still won't be able to live that down.

enough is enough — you decide, packing your bags without another word or protest when your parents announced you would be moving to busan. yangsan is big enough that you won't be the only person in high school that's your age but small enough that you won't be bombarded with news reporters or the tabloids.

you leave school without a word.

the day before, you were chosen to clean the school grounds— once your job was done, you went home. you didn't say goodbye to your teachers, and friends were out of the question.

yangsan girls highschool, yangsan. november 2016.

the air is cold, but not as cold as it would be in seoul. when you entered your new class, your home room teacher asked you to sit next to a student named kim minjeong, black, bobbed hair, snowy skin, and large eyes.

“hey,” the girl greets you in a hushed whisper, voice casual. she recognises you, and it's evident in her eyes, but she treats you like a normal person, offering to give you a tour around the school. you sit next to her in all your classes, bringing snacks to share with you.

minjeong doesn't have too many friends, with only a small group she's truly close with. you hang out on the rooftop together each day, talking to each other about life. hopes, dreams, your future; your past.

“i wanna become an idol,” minjeong states one day at haeundae beach, plainly, looking off into the distance. she turns to face you. “but i don't think i have the looks, unlike you. you're pretty, yn.”

a gust of wind causes you to shiver and your hair to blow wildly into your face. staring at her, you quickly refute her modest description.

“what? of course you have the looks! don't be so humble about it. everyone knows you're pretty, min.”

she giggles at your defensive outburst, turning to the ocean. you don't catch it, but her cheeks are a slight red due to the nickname. but why? everyone else calls her that, too, so whys it different when it's you?

“one day, you'll become a trainee under some well-known company, and the whole world will know who you are.” you tease.

minjeong rolls her eyes. “then i'll remember the child actress who randomly moved to yangsan and showed up in my life.”

“what about you?” she asks.

“huh? oh, i'll think about it.”

a beat passes.

“yn, do you know how to surf?”

songjeong beach, busan. december 2016.

that day, minjeong thought it would be the perfect opportunity to take you to the beach, begging her parents for weeks to let her take a train to busan. it wasn't like she was perfect at it, but she was decent enough to not embarrass herself infront of you.

it was cold, cold enough that the two of you were shivering before you reached the water. not to mention the weather was overcast and gloomy with high winds, rendering the beach much colder than usual.

your toes dig into the wet sand, feeling the sting of the cold water as the waves crashed against the shore. you squeal, clutching minjeong's hand tighter than before, pushing your bodies together as she giggled. the surfboards you had rented drag through the crisp water, attached to your wrists by the string. in a way, this feels intimate. looking into her eyes, you catch a glimpse of how her dark pupils glittered and caught the sunlight.

chest deep in the water, you both mount the boards, sitting on the epoxy material to stay afloat. the waves are calm, without the wind, all you could do was wait until the waves picked up again, shivering like crazy. however, when the waves do pick up, minjeong pays close attention to you, making sure you don't hurt yourself, or in her words, ‘that you don't drown and die and i have to pay for your funeral.’

you squeal again, finally able to stand on the surfboard without falling into the cold, almost freezing ocean and getting the seawater in your nose. your unexpected shout causes minjeong to get distracted, lose balance, and for the first time that day, fall over.

“it's cold!!” she whines, her cropped black hair and bangs sticking to her face.

“not so fun now, is it, winter?” you retort, hanging onto the edge of your surfboard and resting your chin against your crossed arms.

you don't notice, but the nickname causes her face to redden and heat up, making the surrounding water slightly more tolerable.

minjeong quickly composed herself, sticking her tongue out at you before splashing the salty seawater at your face.

“hey! minjeong!”

after hours of what one couldn't even consider as surfing, you grow tired, dragging your surfboards across the sand before you both collapse with a thud, your hair sticking to your skin and your wetsuits moist with the smell of the sea on them. at the same time, you both look at eachother, two pairs of eyes boring into each other's before minjeong sneakily undoes the strap that connected the board to her wrist, climbing on top of you before throwing wet sand at your body, initiating a play fight.

“minjeong! i hate you,” you whine, attempting to peel her off of you, giggling and grinning like an idiot.

the light-hearted banter was over as quickly as it began, with minjeong returning to her spot on the shore beside you, the tan sand littered across her dark head of hair. a beat passes before she speaks up.

“ynie, let's run away together.”

“what?” you turn, staring at the girl as if she had grown a third eye. “run away?”

“i mean, not like that. like, we should go to seoul for a night, without our parents knowing.” she offers. “we'll be back by the morning.”

yangsan. december 21st, 2016.

in all honesty, your parents didn't care whether or not you were out of the house. sure, they'd be worried and concerned about your whereabouts, but if you made an excuse such as staying at a friends house, they'd be alright with it.

your backpack is essentially empty, with only your phone, charger, train ticket, wallet and headphones inside. minjeong is the opposite. one peek inside her bag would make any sane person believe that it belonged to a parent with a young child — the things you had in yours, hand sanitizer, tissues, sunglasses, two hoodies and a raincoat.

when you tease her for it on the train, minjeong swats you on the shoulder; stating; “you're just under-packed.” (“we'lil be there for six hours at best. you're overpacked.”)

seoul, december 21st 2016.

the train ride to seoul was surprisingly peaceful, you both slept the whole time (only you did, minjeong spent the entire ride making sure you slept well). it was dark out now, the winter sun having set hours before. “it's okay,” you reassured her, “we can enjoy the nightlife.” you found yourselves at the han river soon after— the bank was practically empty due to the harsh winter air.

you grin triumphantly. “now it feels like a real, romantic date like in the dramas.” turning to look at minjeong, you sit down on a patch of grass not too far from the river itself. minjeong chuckles, shaking her head before pulling out some snacks you had purchased at the nearest cu.

“minjeong,” call out in a sing-song voice. “feed me a chip.”

you don't need to look over at the other girl's face to tell that she believes your idea is outlandish, swatting you on the back before yelling out with a laugh, “no! feed yourself, you lazy bum!”

after 20 minutes of sitting down and gossiping while eating, minjeong decides she wants to walk around and explore. standing up from where you were perched, you adjust your scarf and coat before extending a hand out for minjeong to take. “follow me! you don't have a choice, jeongie.” unsurprisingly, minjeong slings her backpack over her shoulder, accepting the extended hand and intertwining your fingers together.

about five minutes of walking led you to a random street in seoul, which was surprisingly empty for this time of year. the two of you used that lack of people to your advantage, running through the streets, hand in hand, giggling and shouting to the night without a care in the world. through your vivacious display of your friendship, you come across a poster of you— an advertisement. you smirk to yourself, pulling away from minjeong's grip to pose infront of the photo.

“what do you think? pretty?” you tease.

“mhm, very pretty,” minjeong replies, almost with no hesitation.

a gust of wind sweeps past you, causing you to shiver under your layers. despite this, you acknowledge how intimate this seems, before minjeong brings you out of your daze with a sheepish, “can i...kiss you...?”

you nod, allowing the short-haired girl to bring a short but sweet kiss to your lips, causing you to both giggle.

“again,” it sounds like a question— you cant bear meeting her eyes. minjeong grins, leaning into you, pressing her lips to yours ones again while drawing circles on your skin with her thumb. your lips move against each others in perfect rhythm, and when the need for air becomes too apparent; she pulls away, the corner of her lips tugged into a slight smile. “come on, let's keep walking?” she offers, this time being the one to offer her hand in a display of newfound bravery.

yangsan/seoul. june 2017.

minjeong had been your everything ever since you moved to yangsan, your best friend, your lover, your heart. which is what makes the sudden news that you'll be moving back to seoul even more devastating.

the day they brought it to your attention, you cried into minjeong's arms, your own wrapping around her lithe figure as if you wouldn't be able to go if you refused to let go of the girl. she holds your head in her lap, playing with the soft strands of your hair. “it's not your fault,” she tells you in a hushed whisper in attempt to console you (you don't dare mention that you can hear the hurt in her voice).

minjeong's soft. she's always been— for you— never raising her voice at you on purpose. you two never argued. so you feel at fault for ruining her day. your lips form a frown and you repeat yourself.

“i'm sorry, i'm sorry, minjeong.” you chant it like a prayer, hoping that minjeong forgives you for something that's not in your control.

the bell rings, signalling the end of term.

you left your heart in yangsan that day.

seoul, 2018.

it's spring now. the couples surrounding all the parks serve as mockery to you. you never got over minjeong. you never even tried to get too close to someone else. then it'll feel like betrayal. you couldn't do that to her, not to minjeong.

however, you still find yourself taking minjeong's advice: take your vitamins, don't get sick all the time, and that you should become a trainee. youre only close with a select few of girls within the large group of trainees which sm entertainment was planning to choose a debut lineup from. you're quite popular among the group— you can sing, you're pretty, and well-known already: you need to work on your dancing.

after practice, some days, you go walking around the city— a habit you picked up from minjeong. you're often accompanied by a girl named yizhuo: about your height, chinese, and your roommate. you recognise her as the girl from smrookies. the two of you often rely on each other for support when some people pester you for your reserved nature and some girls refusing to talk to her simply because she's chinese. she assures you it's okay, as she's already sharing a dorm room with you and another trainee.

you believe things are finally working out for you, finally going your way.

that's until monthly evaluations, when a new trainee joins the team. you don't think anything of it until you see who it is.

kim minjeong.

your heart sinks and the feelings you thought you had repressed long ago return like built up water to a floodgate. she's still minjeong, just older, with longer hair and a taller build. yizhuo and jimin sense the tension, tapping on your shoulder and mouthing a ‘you okay?’

you nod, offering a thumbs up before you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, hoping minjeong and her stupid(ly beautiful) round eyes didn't notice your departure. to your dismay, she does, following you out of the practice room after exchanging greetings with the rest of the girls.

minjeong catches and corners you in the bathroom, watching as you washed your face with cold water. “yn,” her face softens as you meet her eyes through the mirror, taking a few steps forward to your figure, drying your face with a paper towel.

the confusion combined with the thrill of evaluations caused you to speak without thinking, blurting out, “whyd you come here to confuse me?”

in a way, it was true. minjeong had come all the way to seoul, attempting every audition that the was eligible for just for the chance to see you again.

fate worked in her favour.

however, minjeong doesn't seem offended by your words. instead, she smiles, cupping your face. “i missed you! don't leave me again, you idiot.”

you pout, attempting to pry her hands off your cheeks. “my face is wet, minjeong. let go.”

“let's go back, i think they're waiting for you.”

[funky-sea-cryptid]

Hiya Tam! For the Cozy OC ask game may I ask for 5, 6, 12, and 24 for Elise, Jules, and Mila please 🥰?

hi lyra!!!! hell yeah of course!!! :D

5) It's cold and wet outside, your OC has just come in the front door. What do they do to get warm?

elise would probably stomp her boots to get all the snow off. she's a spade native, and she's probably covered in it. her favorite warm drink is a nice hot cocoa, which she will dump enough marshmallows in to suffocate.

jules does not handle the cold well. he'd probably go to sit next to the hearth immediately and leave a wet spot because they're too cold to take their coat off.

mila like her sibling would probably sit by the hearth, but she's very finnicky about temperature, so she'd probably go to the furthest couch in the room, and then, once she gets cold, she'd go to sit by the hearth again. and the cycle repeats.

6) What's your OC's idea of a cozy night in?

elise's idea of a cozy night in is probably sitting by a window and drawing with a cup of hot cocoa. she likes watching the snow fall, and she's a huge landscape sketch artist. she loves drawing the view out of the palace window - she can sit so high!

jules would prefer to spend his cozy night reading in the library. he loves to read and prefers isolation to anything else. they prefer stupid romance novels but pretend to like histories.

mila spends her cozy nights with people, but especially her parents. she likes hanging out with them. maybe they're playing board games and she's spectating. maybe they're all reading together. maybe it's just parallel play. she loves when people are around her, no matter what.

12) Does your OC enjoy a particular gesture of affection? Does it calm them?

elise loves hand holding. she likes the stability it brings, the comfort in people holding her hand. she likes to swing hands while she and her partner walk.

jules prefers forehead touches. they prefer the intimacy of it and how close people get.

mila adores hugs. she will hug strangers. she will hug anyone if allowed.

24) Where does your OC sit of there's not enough chairs at a gathering?

elise sits on the arm of someone's chair, or sits on the floor. she's charismatic, so people might join her on the floor (and that's her objective)

jules would stand. they don't like being obtrusive, so he just stands and makes it not a big deal. if he needs to sit, he would sit on the floor.

mila sits on people's laps. she's royalty. you will give up your seat or you will become a seat. (also she likes cuddling)

[littlewalken]

Going to bring back a plot bunny I used after the first season of Good Omens- Nanny Ashtoreth (Crowley) has some sort of accident that ends up with her wet and/or cold and Brother Francis (Aziraphale) has to warm her up in a human way so no one knows who they really are.

My citrus free take where nanny must get out of her wet things after the break.

Citrus free Husbands, Aziraphale/Brother Frances comes to the rescue when Crowley/Nanny’s duties to Warlock cause him some distress, woe be them if they are caught in a compromising position!

GOOD OMENS (I couldn’t figure out a title)

“Master Warlock I have told you to stay away from that pond! The ice is much too thin!” 

Aziraphale, in his guise of the gardener Brother Francis, hated scolding the boy, even if he was the Antichrist, but safety was safety, and he had heard the terrible sound of the ice breaking followed by a frantic splashing. 

I shall have to have a word with Nanny Ashtoreth about this, any excuse to see Crowley-eh? he chuckled to himself. “How about you make a snow fort? I’ll show you how…”

As Aziraphel neared the duck pond he saw Warlock and his friends running away from it. All for the better if you don’t want a scolding from your nanny! Where was she? Something was wrong.

At first the ice of the duck pond looked undisturbed. Then he saw the remote controlled vehicle Warlock had got for Christmas. Then he saw the umbrella.

“Oh help! Do help!” Aziraphale called as he made his way out on to the ice. “Someone help! The nanny’s fallen through the ice!”

Now, you should know there are a great many snakes who can swim. There are a great many demons who can swim. None of them however swim in icy water because none of them are the least bit built for the cold. For if you had taken any sort of notice in wildlife documentaries you would have noticed all the creatures of the arctic or antarctic are rather plump with a great covering of blubber. And if you were any sort of noticer of Crowley’s forms the words “plump” and “blubber” would not in the least bit apply to him.

It was by any and all means that Aziraphael managed to pull Crowley out of the icy water. “Oh! Poor nanny!” Aziraphael sighed, just in case anyone was watching. “You’ll catch your death a cold if you’re not warmed up!” 

The house was too far to take a human in wet quickly turning to ice clothes. The gardening supply shed was closer. Yes, get Crowley in there, put on the electric kettle, get him out of these wet things! So may wet things!

Aziraphale set Crowley on a pile of seed sacks in the gardening shed and plugged in the electric kettle. 

“Smudge pot,” he told himself. “I’ll light up a smidge pot!” Yes, even though that would be outside the door it would still put out a good amount of heat. “And then we’ll have to do something with getting you out of those wet clothes!” 

Always the angel was looking to see if someone else was coming, if anyone had heard his cries for help. How awful, just down right awful would it be to have the gardener be caught undressing the nanny!

Now you should assume two things about all of Crowley’s clothes, even in his guise of Nanny Ashtoreth. First they are all black, unless noted otherwise, and they are all made of artificial fabrics. That is, if they were made of natural fabrics such as wool, silk, cotton, or linen, their natural wicking motion might not have left the situation so cold and damp. 

To peel off the layers of the onion that made up Nanny Ashtoreth it was best to start with the outermost first. I hope we don’t have far to go, Aziraphale readied himself for the task ahead. First in removing all of Crowley’s wet things was the furry black muff with its red satin lining. This was hung up to dry. Finding a place to hang things up would soon become a problem of its own. 

Next came a felt cap, which didn’t look like a butter bowl, and a knitted scarf with just the slightest hint of red. The scarf was so wet it could be wrung out. Now it was time for the cloak with its little slits for one’s hands to poke through. The buttons for this were quite large and it seemed like each took a dreadfully long time. On being hung up upon a rake to dry the cloak began to drip as if it were going to worm a pond of its own.

“Here, now, miss Ashtoreth, have a nice warm cuppa.” Aziraphale said as he made a cup of instant tea for Crowley. He looked out the door at the flaming smudge pot. Oh please someone come and help me get her to the warmth of her bed. He put the cup in Crowley’s hand but the demon failed to grab it and the tea spilled to the floor.

The shoes had to come off. Leave it to Crowley to chose boots with countless eyes! The laces were quite frozen over and the boots were so tight the laces had to be pulled completely out to get them free and expose Crowley’s tosey-woseys clad in their stockings. 

One by one the fingers of the gloves were tugged on, loosening them up just enough so they could be removed. The removal of gloves could be a very sensual thing if done right. Done in a hurry they were bunched and pulled and dropped to the floor with a distinct splosh sound.

They were down to the winter version of the suit Nanny Ashtoreth always wore. Aziraphile liked the cut of the jacket, the slightly puffed sleeves, the wide cuffs, the little peplum in the back. It too was sopping wet. Fussing with the buttons the angel wondered if it was time to perform a miracle yet. 

Now it was time for the skirt. The cut of this Aziraphale didn’t like. It was too tight here, too full there, and the drape didn’t do any favors. Like the fasteners, who ever thought that a skirt needed a buckle? 

This would be the perfect time for someone to come upon us! Here is the gardener with the nanny bent over him as he fiddled with the zipper of her skirt! It would be nice if you could come to and help, dear Crowley. 

We must be nearing the end, the angel thought, how could you possibly be wearing much more? But Crowley was still wearing more. For being a demon and used to the fires of Hell he liked being warm and had been told the best way to keep a human body warm was to wear many layers. 

Aziraphale’s fingers went to the red silken bow of the scarf at Crowley’s neck. This was allowed to flutter to the floor because the blouse its self, wet, thin, see-through, and clinging to every inch of what lay underneath it, gave the impression of being real silk. 

“This I must be careful with,” the angel told himself as he cast a glance outside but no one except the smudge pot was watching. But by the third button he could tell the blouse wasn’t real silk and he allowed himself to rush along. 

By this time Nanny Ashtoreth was quite undressed but not completely. She sat on the pile of sacks, eyes presumably closed, looking half dead in a shimmering full length slip and stockings. If circumstances were different one might have found themselves distracted by the sight, admiring the human form that God had created in her own image. But a nearly naked and wet demon was turning a shade of blue that was not becoming to him. 

What few clothes that remained on Crowley’s body were somehow still soaking wet. The slip had to come off over his head, one of the satin ribbon straps was starting to fray, it would need to be replaced, that could be done tonight, nice and new by the morning. 

And still Crowley was wearing more! Under the slip there was a full and sensible brassiere and then some sort of girdle looking garment with suspenders that kept the stockings up. 

Knickers, were there knickers? Did Crowley even wear knickers? 

Yes, all these things seemed to be wet too but not as wet as the outer layers. These would have to remain on. As tempting as it would be to fuss with all the brassiere hooks and all the little clips holding up the stockings this layer of dainty underthings would have to remain.

Aziraphale quickly found a piece of burlap to wrap around Crowley. He thought he heard someone coming. If they were they’d find him outside at the smudge pot trying to dry his smock.

“How are you doing in there, miss Ashtoreth, feeling warmer yet?”

Warlock’s mother had come looking cold and quite worried, “Warlock said nanny Ashtoreth fell through the ice.”

“Oh, it’s not quite as bad as that but I’m afraid she’s quite cold,” Aziraphale said. “She should get promptly to bed though. I’ve been trying to warm her up, but slowly mind you, too fast might cause shock.”

***

Nanny Ashtoreth lay in her bed wearing a flannel nightgown under many layers of blankets. 

Brother Francis came in with a bouquet of winter flowers. “Feeling better are we, Miss Ashtoreth?”

“Yes, much warmer.” 

“I saw your clothes to the laundry for you.”

“Thank you, brother Francis.” 

Aziraphael looked around to see that they were indeed alone and leaned close to Crowley to whisper, “You could have lent us a hand with a few things there.”

“And deny you of all that fun?”