#cold weather hacks

[aphony-cree]

Cold Weather Tips for Broke People

I’m seeing mutuals worried about the price of heat for the winter, and I’ve seen a lot of posts about bundling up. But as someone who grew up broke in the Midwest with frequent power outages I have some tips I haven’t seen yet

If you can feel cold air coming in from under a door or window, roll up a towel and put it at the bottom. If the door is a high traffic area you probably can’t do this all day but doing it every night will keep your place warmer

If one part of a room is particularly cold, hang a blanket up. Make sure there are no outlets or other things that could catch it on fire and then nail an old blanket right to the wall or hang it over your window curtains. There’s a reason castles were full of big tapestries, they provided insulation

Sleep in a hat, maybe even gloves. Sleeping caps used to be a thing because people couldn’t keep their homes heated at night. If you bundle up at bedtime you can turn the heat down a bit more

Adjust your cooking habits if you can. The microwave may be faster than the oven but that oven will also help heat your place. Even cooking on the stove top provides heat, especially if it’s something you boil low and slow like homemade soup

Close the vent in your bathroom. You’re usually in there for short bursts so it doesn’t need to be as cozy as your living room, and it will get some heat from showers

Close doors to rooms you’re not in. If you’re hanging out in the living room you don’t need heat wafting into your bedroom, most of that will be displaced by the time you go to bed so it’s just a waste

If you’re having people over, turn down the heat. More bodies means more body heat, it takes less fuel to keep a room warm if it’s full of people

If you live with other people, encourage group activities. Watching TV in separate bedrooms means you’re heating and powering all those bedrooms. Watching TV together in one room will cut costs and you get the bonus of all that body heat helping to keep the room warm

If you’re coming in from the cold, don’t crank the heat right away. Your body needs time to adjust to such a drastic change in temperatures and you’re a very poor judge of what you need right then. Shake your arms and legs to get circulation going and wait a few minutes before deciding if the temperature needs to be adjusted

[fenesst]

We visited the shops on our way home, we live westpac :-)

[nicxxx5]

if you live in a cold area and get cold easy i highly highly highly recommend wearing fleece lined leggings/tights under your pants, skirt, shorts, dress, whatever you’re wearing. i wear a super long coat that's pretty well insulated so my top half is fine, but the remainder of my legs sticking out always get so cold. also sometimes the inside of buildings are just cold as well because some buildings are cold and not well insulated.

[techdriveplay]

What Are the Best Tips for Camping in the Rain?

Camping can be an exhilarating way to immerse yourself in nature, but when the weather turns wet, it’s essential to know what are the best tips for camping in the rain to ensure you stay comfortable, dry, and enjoy the experience. Rain doesn’t have to ruin a camping trip; with the right preparation and mindset, it can add a refreshing element to your outdoor adventure. Whether you’re an…

[gilburt-ellam-1999]

[medicosutra]

सफल बनने के लिए सुबह की शुरुआत

सुबह की अच्छी आदतें बनाने के लिए आज से सैकड़ों सालों पहले जब उस वक़्त गुरुकुल हुआ करते थे, वहां एक नियम था की शिष्यों को प्रत्येक दिन सूर्योदय होने से पहले उठना अनिवार्य था, और सूर्योदय होने से पहले उन सभी शिष्यों के द्वारा सभी नित्य कर्म व जरूरी काम करवा दिए जाते थे जो उनकी जिंदगी में बहुत गहरा परिवर्तन लाते थे, इसके साथ वह स्वस्थ जीवन जीने के लिए जरूरी भी थे।

और अगर आप सूर्योदय से पहले नहीं उठाते तो आप अपने जीवन को गर्त में धकेलने का कार्य कर रहे हैं, सूर्योदय से पहले जागना मनुष्य को सभी प्रकार से सुखी रखता है, यह वह सुख होता है जिसे आप पैसों के द्वारा नहीं खरीद सकते इसलिए अगर आपको सच्चा सुख चाहिए तो आपको सूर्योदय से पहले उठना शुरू कर देना चाहिए Read more..

[thesulliedone]

I appreciate that we're mostly water an all, but the amount of mucus that has been expunged from this decrepit form is ungodly.

[banklady]

Truth or Trash? The Whataburger Cup Freeze Hack Under the Microscope

The buzz about using Whataburger cups to insulate pipes during winter might have caught your eye, but don’t let the regional twist fool you! You don’t have to go by a Whataburger in Texas or Oklahoma for this DIY hack. While the familiar cups and their particular design are a fun spin on the hack, the real hero is the air insulation found in any Styrofoam cup. Ever wonder why you can hold a hot…

[1000-year-old-virgin]

It's been about 3 weeks since my local Weather Network channel got hacked.

I hope they return to regular service soon as this is the time of year that my tropical plants need to know the exact temperature.

[eunoiaaaaaaa]

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✧.*𓂃ꕤ

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Against Lore

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

One of my favorite nuggets of writing advice comes from James D Macdonald. Jim, a Navy vet with an encylopedic knowledge of gun lore, explained to a group of non-gun people how to write guns without getting derided by other gun people: "just add the word 'modified.'"

As in, "Her modified AR-15 kicked against her shoulder as she squeezed the trigger, but she held it steady on the car door, watching it disintegrate in a spatter of bullet-holes."

Jim's big idea was that gun people couldn't help but chew away at the verisimilitude of your fictional guns, their brains would automatically latch onto them and try to find the errors. But the word "modified" hijacked that impulse and turned it to the writer's advantage: a gun person's imagination gnaws at that word "modified," spinning up the cleverest possible explanation for how the gun in question could behave as depicted.

In other words, the gun person's impulse to one-up the writer by demonstrating their superior knowledge becomes an impulse to impart that superior knowledge to the writer. "Modified" puts the expert and the bullshitter on the same team, and conscripts the expert into fleshing out the bullshitter's lies.

Yes, writing is lying. Storytelling is genuinely weird. A storyteller who has successfully captured the audience has done so by convincing their hindbrains to care about the tribulations of imaginary people. These are people whose suffering, by definition, do not matter. Imaginary things didn't happen, so they can't matter. The deaths of Romeo and Juliet were less tragic than the death of the yogurt you had for breakfast. That yogurt was alive and now it's dead, whereas R&J never lived, never died, and don't matter:

https://locusmag.com/2014/11/cory-doctorow-stories-are-a-fuggly-hack/

Hijacking a stranger's empathic response is intrinsically adversarial. While storytelling is a benign activity, its underlying mechanic is extremely dangerous. Getting us to care about things that don't matter is how novels and movies work, but it's also how cults and cons work.

Cult leaders and con-artists know that they're engaged in mind-to-mind combat, and they make liberal use of Jim's hack of leaving blank spots for the mark to fill in. Think of Qanon drops: the mystical nonsense was just close enough to sensical that a vulnerable audience was compelled to try and untangle them, and ended up imparting more meaning to them than the hustler who posted them ever could have dreamt up.

Same with cons – there's a great scene in the Leverage: Redemption heist show where an experienced con-artist explains to a novice that the most convincing hustle is the one where you wait for the mark to tell you what they think you're doing, then run with it (scambaiters and other skeptics will recognize this as a relative of the "cold reading," where a "psychic" uses your own confirmations to flesh out their predictions).

As Douglas Adams put it:

A towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Magicians know this one, too. The point of a sleight is to misdirect the audience's attention, and use that moment of misattention to trick them, vanishing, stashing or producing something. The mark's mind is caught in a pleasurable agony: something seemingly impossible just happened. The mind splits into two parts, one of which insists that the impossible just happened, the other insisting that the impossible can't happen.

You know you've done it right if the audience says, "Do that again!" And that's the one thing you must not do. So long as you don't repeat the trick, the audience's imagination will chew on it endlessly, coming up with incredibly clever things that you must have done (a clever conjurer will know several ways to produce the same effect and will "do it again" by reproducing the effect via different means, which exponentially increases the audience's automatic imputation of clever methods to the performer).

Not for nothing, Jim Macdonald advises his writing students to study Magic and Showmanship, a classic text for aspiring conjurers:

https://memex.craphound.com/2007/11/13/magic-and-showmanship-classic-book-about-conjuring-has-many-lessons-for-writers/

There's a version of this in comedy, too. The scholarship of humor is clear on this: comedy comes from surprise. The audience knows they're about to be surprised when the punchline lands, and their mind is furiously trying to defuse the comedian's bomb before it detonates, cycling through potential punchlines of their own. This ramps up the suspense and the tension, so when the comedian does drop the punchline, the tension is released in a whoosh of laughter.

Your mind wants the tension to be resolved ASAP, but the pleasure comes from having that desire thwarted. Comedy – like most performance – has an element of authoritarianism. You don't give the audience what it wants, you give it what it needs.

Same goes for TTRPGs: the game master's role is to deny the players the victories and treasure they want, until they can't take it anymore, and then deliver it. That's the definition of an epic game. It's one of the durable advantages of human GMs over video game back-ends: they can ramp up the epicness by "cheating" on the play, giving the players the chance to squeak out improbable victories at the last possible second:

https://wilwheaton.typepad.com/wwdnbackup/2009/03/behind-the-screen.html

This is so effective that even crude approximations of it can turn video-games into cult hits – like Left4Dead, whose "Director" back-end would notice when the players were about to get destroyed and then substantially ramped up the chances of finding an amazing weapon – the chance would still be low overall, but there would be enough moments when the player got exactly what they'd been praying for, at the last possible instant, that it would feel amazing:

https://left4dead.fandom.com/wiki/The_Director#Special_Infected

Critically, Left4Dead's Director didn't do this every time. As any showman knows, the key to a great performance is "Always leave 'em wanting more." The musician's successful finale depends on doing every encore the audience demands, except the last one, so the crowd leaves with one tantalyzing and imaginary song playing in their minds, a performance better than any the musicians themselves could have delivered. Like the gun person who comes up with a cooler mod than the writer ever could, like the magic show attendee who comes up with a more elaborate explanation for the sleight than the conjurer could ever pull off, like the comedy club attendee whose imagination anticipates a surprise that grows larger the longer the joke goes on, the successful performance is an adversarial act of cooperation where the audience willingly and unwillingly cooperates with the performer to deny them the thing that they think they need, and deliver the thing they actually need.

This is my biggest problem with the notion that someday LLMs will get good enough at storytelling to give us the tales we demand, without having to suffer through a storyteller's sadistic denial of the resolutions we crave. When I'm reading a mystery, I want to turn to the last page and find out whodunnit, but I know that doing so will ruin the story. Telling the storyteller how the story should go is like trying to tickle yourself.

Like being tickled, experiencing only fun if the tickler respects your boundaries – but, like being tickled, there's always a part where you're squirming away, but you don't want it to stop. An AI storyteller that gives you exactly what you want is like a dungeon master who declares that every sword-swing kills the monster, and every treasure chest is full of epic items and platinum pieces. Yes, that's what you want, but if you get it, what's the point?

Seen in this light, performance is a kind of sado-masochism, where the performer delights in denying something to the audience, who, in turn, delights in the denial. Don't give the audience what they want, give them what they need.

What your audience needs is their own imagination. Decades ago, I was a freelance copywriter producing sales materials for Alias/Wavefront, a then-leading CGI firm that was inventing all kinds of never-seen VFX that would blow people away. One of the engineers I worked with told me something I never forgot: "Your imagination has more polygons than anything you can create with our software." He was talking about why it was critical to have some of the action happen in the shadows.

All of this is why series tend to go downhill. The first volume in any series leaves so much to the imagination. The map of the world is barely fleshed out, the characters' biographies are full of blank spots, the mechanics of the artifacts and the politics of the land are all just detailed enough that your mind automatically ascribes a level of detail to them, without knowing what that detail is.

This is the moment at which everything seems very clever, because your mind is just churning with all the different bits of elaborate lore that will fill in those lacunae and make them all fit together.

SPOILER ALERT: I'm about to give some spoilers for Furiosa.

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FURIOSA SPOILERS AHEAD!

Last night, we went to see Furiosa, the latest Mad Max movie, a prequel to 2015's Fury Road, which is one of the greatest movies ever made. Like most prequels, Furiosa functions as a lore-delivery vehicle, and as such, it's nowhere near as good as Fury Road.

Fury Road hints as so much worldbuilding. We learn about the three fortresses of the wasteland (the Citadel, the Bullet Farm, and Gastown) but we only see one (The Citadel). We learn that these three cities have a symbiotic relationship with one another, defined by a complex politics that is just barely stable. We meet Furiosa herself, and learn something of her biography – that she had been stolen from the Green Place, that she had suffered an arm amputation.

All of this is left for us to fill in, and for a decade, my hindbrain has been chewing on all of that, coming up with cool ways it could all fit together. I yearned to know the "real" explanation, but it was always unlikely that this real explanation would be as enjoyable as my own partial, ever-unfinished headcanon.

Furiosa is a great movie, but its worst parts are the canonical lore it settles. Partly, that's because some of that lore is just stupid. Why is the Bullet Farm an open-pit mine? I mean, it's visually amazing, but what does that have to do with making bullets? Sometimes, it's because the lore is banal – the solarpunk Green Place is a million times less cool than I had imagined it. Sometimes, it's because the lore is banal and stupid: the scenes where Furiosa's arm is crushed, then severed, then replaced, are both rushed and quasi-miraculous:

https://www.themarysue.com/how-does-furiosa-lose-her-arm/

But even if the lore had been good – not stupid, not banal – the best they could have hoped for was for the lore to be tidy. If it were surprising, it would seem contrived. A story whose loose ends have been tidily snipped away seems like it would be immensely satisfying, but it's not satisfying – it's just resolved. Like the band performing every encore you demand, until you no longer want to hear the band anymore – the feeling as you leave the hall isn't satisfaction, it's exhaustion.

So long as some key question remains unresolved, you're still wanting more. So long as the map has blank spots, your hindbrain will impute clever and exciting mysteries, tantalyzingly teetering on the edge of explicability, to the story.

Lore is always better as something to anticipate than it is to receive. The fans demand lore, but it should be doled out sparingly. Always leave 'em wanting more.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/27/cmon-do-it-again/#better_to_remain_silent_and_be_thought_a_fool_than_to_speak_and_remove_all_doubt

[bombuni]

Hiii! Can you write about Yeosang, San and Wooyoung? But if you're not okay with three of them, choose any two of them!

midnight stroll

summary: In which you find yourself in the hands of some insatiable, obsessed vampire lords. There’s only one way out. genre/pairing: vampire!woosansang x fem!reader, smut wc: 2.8k warnings: SMUT MDNI, dub-con (reader is swayed into it), predator/prey kink, primal play, chase (?) scene, their spit is an aphrodisiac, biting, a lil blood kink, they are in heat (i <3 horny vampires), creampie bom note: idk why i haven’t done this combo before as a person obsessed with carmilla & atz. lmk what u guys think, this is my first time writing a sort of horror (?) trope :)! pls heed warnings & safe reading bbies! enjoy!

You shouldn’t have gone out at night.

Every single bone-chilling story your mother used to frighten you into staying home now replays inside your head. It’s ridiculous how easily every murderous detail comes to your mind now that you’re actively living those stories. Lost little girl, all on her own, in a strange house on a rainy night.

You don’t know why tonight, of all nights, you decided to explore the old mansion that’s always stood tall in your neighborhood. You just felt something was telling you to come and visit. Every time you’d look out of your window, there it was. Alone and creaking for no one, wood rotting at every turn you make. You’re sure it was beautiful and sparkling in its heyday but now with no one to present for, it’s covered in cobwebs and dust.

The loud boom of thunder strikes and you jump through the threshold of a bedroom. The moonlight that shines in through the tall windows illuminates the tears in the blood red canopy. The bed is perfectly made, untouched by rest. The room is surprisingly large, only occupied by a few pieces of complicated furniture. Its marvelousness is enunciated because of its age. The darkness of the room is only broken by a candle on the bedside table.

Already lit.

You hope, pray, that it’s only another curious soul like you. That you haven’t stumbled upon some creep’s secret hideout and inadvertently become his next victim.

You start to back away. The floorboards creak under every step you take. You’re suddenly hyper aware of every breath you take and the speed of your heartbeat. Your body screams to run, nerves fighting and pulling you towards the exit, but your mind is frozen with the fear of being caught.

A harsh wind bites against the glass, making your blood ice cold in its wake and scaring any rationality out of you.

It doesn’t stop. It probably won’t for a while, and you’re forced to come to the realization that you’re stuck here. It’s either be picked up by high-speed winds or be hacked to pieces by whoever’s decided to shack up in this old, abandoned mansion. One is a definite and the other is a chance. You decide that if tonight’s the night you die by axe murder, so be it.

The dead tree branches keep scratching against the windows. Like they’re trying to talk to you, telling you to turn around as you venture deeper into the room. You want to listen.

But there’s a slam. Different from the thunderous weather outside. It’s closer and harsher in your eardrums, accompanied by booming footsteps that make your face fall and doom fill your senses. Whoever it is is making a beeline towards the room you’re in. They’re arguing with someone, frustration evident in their voice.

“Wooyoung, you were supposed to keep your eye on her.”

“It’s fucking pouring outside! How can I see when God is clearly trying to drown us all again?”

Their voices are muffled, but the danger is still clear. They have funny, unrecognizable accents that you’ve never heard before. You can’t really pinpoint it, as you’re focused on figuring out a way to get the fuck out of there.

Your panic rises as you hear the footsteps stop and no more conversation. The pause makes you hurry, fearing they’ve somehow sniffed you out. The greed of whoever built this room gives you no hiding spot, the free and large space being more of a dancefloor than an enclosed bedroom.

The knob to the room turns. With effort, the door creaks open. It introduces fear and an overwhelming panic into your system as your entire body shakes. You just hope to God that they don’t decide to check under the bed.

“I can smell you.”

Your breath catches. You think that if you stop breathing and scrunch your eyes hard enough, you’ll be back in the warmth of your room. But this is real. Every creaking floorboard, every quiet grunt, and every slow step proves it. It’s nearing you, testing the air to find your exact location. You know it’s an it, because how else could it have possibly figured you out so quickly?

“Your heart is racing like a rabbit. Pitter patter. Come out already.”

You cover your mouth to silence the scream of fear that wants to escape. It’s by the bed now. Stopped right behind you, as if it could see you right through the bedsheets and under the springs. The bed creaks as it slowly clambers onto it.

It sees you. It knows what you are and where you are. You’re simply staving off time until it decides to eat you whole. It’s toying with you.

Your body moves on its own as a cold feeling encloses around your ankle, freezing you over. The thing laughs at you, like the way you scramble from it is the most hilarious thing it’s ever seen. Your legs wobble and weaken at the frightening sound, but you run steadfast.

The hallways are long and winding. The only light source as you try to figure a way out of the castle is the lighting that crashes through every few seconds. Your sides start hurting after a few minutes of running in circles. Stuck and hurting in an unfamiliar place is not how you want to spend your evening. You slow down to catch your breath, finding yourself in some sort of lounge room. The fireplace burns on, and you realize the sight of these flames brings you no warmth. It only strikes unrelenting fear in you. The room is nicely decorated and homely, like it was never touched by time. The scene almost looks inviting. Almost, if it weren’t for the hauntingly alluring painting watching over you atop the fireplace. The three men face forward and are creepily stiff, jet black hair gelled back and their dark outfits perfect to a fault. The only odd thing is their eerie, sharp smiles that show off their red-stained, shining teeth. Like a wolf’s last warning before they sink their teeth into you.

You’re sort of hypnotized by the pretty strokes, but a voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Little rabbit, why do you run?”

Your legs move on their own once again, but before you can even move an inch, two pairs of arms wrap around you. Their hold is impossibly tight, like they’re still trying to figure out their own limit before they accidentally pop you open. That same voice that laughed at you before is right in your ear now, giggling maniacally and digging their sharp nose into your neck.

They inhale deeply, “Smell that, Yeosang. It’s like nothing I’ve smelled before. Wouldn’t you agree, San?”

The owner of the other voice, San you assume, stands from the dark leather chair facing the fire. He seems otherworldly. Dangerous.

His voice is low, “Little rabbits always smell good.”

The one who you presume to be Yeosang presses himself into you until you’re practically breathing through the same lungs, “Especially when they’re so afraid.”

You shut your eyes in fear when he drags the sharpest canines you’ve ever felt along the warmth of your neck, “Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want,”

The way your voice shakes only lures San in. He tuts at you, “You shouldn’t make such promises to us, darling.”

You can feel all three streams of breath on you. They’re all overpowering and oppressive in their own way, crushing your resolve until you’re practically jelly at their touch. The two holding you won’t stop nosing into you and exploring you, hands crawling under your shirt and lifting your skirt as if they have no control over themselves. They’re surprised by your warmth, smitten and addicted to it already. It’s something they haven’t really felt before. At least not recently.

Your breath shakes as their cold hands slide over your tummy, “Just-just let me go, I won’t tell anyone what happened. I promise.”

“Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung seems to grow impatient and drags his wet, languid tongue over your pulse point before biting down gently, restraining himself. He savors the salt of your skin, wondering if that’s how your tears taste. Or if they’re even more delectable.

The wetness of his mouth that sticks to your skin sets you on fire. Your skin is tingly, too warm to be yours now. You know he’s marked you somehow because you can feel your entire body burning up, passion and craving reaching limits you’ve never reached.

San bares his fangs and the glint of them takes your breath away, “I told you to be patient,”

“Oh, just smell her, San. I had to taste her,” Wooyoung’s voice is muffled as he presses his face into your shoulder.

You can feel the heat of his lips crawling up your spine. Yeosang’s hand on your hip leaves a trail of desire everywhere. Everything feels different. Better.

You’re still rational enough to know that something’s not quite right inside of you, “What’s happening to me?”

Your voice is shaky, meek, weak, and San loves it. He can feel his grasp on himself slipping, his mouth salivating at the sight of you being touched and felt.

Ever since their heat began, their bodies only craved you. Out of the hundreds of mindless people in their area, you’re the only one they’ve figured could handle them. There was something about you even they, as supreme beings, couldn’t figure out. They want to keep you as their own personal pet and find out.

Wooyoung is buzzing with energy all over you, “Don’t you feel it? You’re becoming ours,”

Is that what you felt before coming here? Is this where you’re meant to be? Consumed wholly by creatures of the night?

Yeosang’s hand snakes down the band of your skirt, lengthy fingers easily sliding in between your folds. Wooyoung chuckles at your reaction, breathing in your sweet scent, “Little wet rabbit.”

The squelch sounds out into the room and you can hardly believe your ears, “W-wait, please-“

San makes his way to you in two quick strides, suddenly kissing you as if trying to swallow you whole. You feel his voice in the back of your throat, “I can’t take it anymore. I need to ravage you.”

Yeosang’s hand doesn’t stop running over you and playing with your wetness, “I just need to taste you. Just once. Then I’ll stop, rabbit.”

Something happens to you when San’s lips are against you, tongue fighting against yours. Your body surrenders itself to him, to all of the hands that are on you. There isn’t any fear inside of you anymore, in fact, you find the fact that you ever felt any in the first place hilarious. How could you? How could you when Yeosang is so lovingly pleasing you? How could you when Wooyoung is sucking and licking at your neck like it’s a lifeline? How could you when San is kissing you wholly, taking your heart out for himself through your lips? They’re right. This is where you’re supposed to be.

Yeosang can feel the moment you truly surrender yourself to them, the wetness between his fingers overflowing now. He attempts to rub at your bundle of nerves, but grows frustrated when your tight skirt gets in the way of his movements. Before you can say anything, he rips the skirt off you, tearing into the material like it’s nothing to him.

He throws the fabric somewhere into the room before kneeling down in front of you. You’re too enraptured by San’s lips to notice him, and he pouts at that.

Yeosang holds your trembling thighs and licks a long stripe onto your pussy lips, looking up at you with sweet, begging eyes. When you gasp and look down at the feeling of his tongue against you, there’s newfound vigor in his face. Yeosang sucks onto your lips, the taste of you quelling his need. He doesn’t care how messy he gets as he spreads your juices over your thighs and all over his mouth, moaning as he feels how utterly desperate your hole is. He plays with your entrance, trying to figure out what makes your knees buckle. As his lips move to depravely kiss at your clit, you almost fall down with him.

San’s strong arms catch your waist easily, “That’s it, little rabbit. Give yourself to us.”

You nod your head and Wooyoung laughs obnoxiously at your pathetic answer, “Look at the poor thing. She’s sopping wet.”

Yeosang smiles dreamily up at you with your cum on his face. He wipes at his face but it doesn’t do much, the glint shining in the light of the thunderstorm. He licks his lips hungrily, “You taste sweet. Like candy.”

San growls impatiently, bending you over a beautifully carved sofa. You feel bad staining it with your pleasure, but the owners don’t seem to mind. His cock, large and forbidding, presses against your entrance. He leans over your back until his nose reaches that sweet point connecting your jaw and neck. The one that revealed everything about you and your sweetness through your electrifying scent. He feels his addiction grow with every inhalation.

He takes a big breath as his cock finally slides into you, every inch adding onto the tingling satisfaction passing through all of his body as he nestles himself inside of you. His cock has no trouble slipping through the wetness that spills out of you, the moist warmth of your pussy filling his gut with an unfamiliar burn. His hand moves up along the front of your body, grabbing tightly onto your jaw to hold you in place. His sharp claws dig into your blushing cheek.

San fucks you with a barely-there restraint, huffing into your ears as he drills into you. He seems to have forgotten his past hesitance, in fear of scaring you. Now all that’s left is his raw need and desire for you, this intense ache taking over as he continues stretching you open. Your hole feels better than he ever could imagine, ever could bear. Every squeeze you give sends him reeling, his gut tightening with every thrust.

Wooyoung replaces San’s hand on your jaw, puckering your lips and laughing as your entire body jolts against San. He bares his fangs with a wide smile, razor-sharp and primed for poaching. He licks down your neck, savoring the taste of your humanity, your beating heart. The constant song within you is entrancing.

Wooyoung can’t resist. His canines sink into your shoulder, his eyes rolling back into his head when he finally gets a taste of the real you. It’s exhilarating, dizzying. Frenzied and fervent now, Wooyoung licks at the fresh wound he’s made, the tiniest dribble of red trickling down. Every one of your liquids is just so, so intoxicating.

He feels the effects of you, “My delicious pet rabbit. Mine, mine, mine.”

You whine against Wooyoung as your mind is clouded with pleasure and pain, San’s thick cock still hitting deeper and sparking your gummy walls with an intense gratification. There’s a meek voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up, but it’s quickly drowned out as Yeosang kisses slow, lithe kisses along the skin of your opposite shoulder. He’s watching as you’re treated like a piece of meat by San, teary-eyed and trembling, and can’t believe he’s ever gone without you. Without the smell of your heady, inflaming sex filling his senses or the sight of your abused, puffy pussy.

He takes another giant breath in of your rousing scent before biting down, his canines piercing you just as Wooyoung’s did. Yeosang shudders at the taste of you, a bright, addicting flavor. You’re simply made for them.

He mutters as you moan against him, “What a slutty little rabbit you are.”

The second Yeosang’s fangs rip through you, San fills your gummy walls. His cum marks and ruins you for anyone else. He growls animalistically against you as you tighten and squeeze, biting into his fist and drawing enough blood that it drips down from his arm onto your back. He still tries to hold back for you. Even in his most raw and savage, with his hips still moving and deliriously fucking his cum back into you and making a mess, he tries not to cause you pain. Not anymore at least.

San’s gravelly voice reaches down to your bones, his entire body tightening up against you as more and more cum jolts into you, “There you go, little rabbit. Stuffed full. Don’t you feel better?”

You feel it dripping between your thighs. The pearlescent liquid that used to make you feel scandalized, demeaned. It gives you a purpose now, to be used as their rabbit. Their meal to be devoured.

[pinknipszz]

adagio for strings 1/4

↷ ˊ- true form!ryomen sukuna/f!reader | next >

"you know where to find me, and i know where to look."

(a/n: gift for my baby @mania-sama)

sellers of the market shout at you for standing idly on the edge of the street, their sun-kissed faces pulled taut from age and ire. they kept a keen eye on you as they mutter to themselves over what trouble the illegitimate daughter of a whore and a local businessman would stir.

but you, so bony and brittle, find their fears irrational. how could you possibly be capable of anything else, other than swatting away the mosquitoes that threaten to drink all that you had left?

you thought that the day was too pleasant to waste away, so you had crawled out of the woven walls that keep you cool from the summer haze. it is more like a pile of scraps than a house, but it feels like home. it doesn’t look down on you with hate and pity and everything in between. when nights grow too cold, you pull the walls closer and hug your body. when the sun smiles at you relentlessly, as if it was laughing at your predicament, you push back further into the shade.

home is the only thing you could control, and for that, it is your prized possession. your stomach twists into tight knots at the idea of leaving, but you want to stretch your legs. the calluses on your feet are softening. if you don’t get up and move now, your feet won’t be ready for a sprint down the gravel streets if a mob finally decides to chase you out. so you visit the market, silently greeting their looks of apprehension like an old friend. 

you grip the hatchet that you stole, remembering how the old farmer had chased after you, throwing rocks and curses laced with venom, when he realized that the village vagrant had snatched his favorite tool. that was many years ago. you don’t know how he’s doing now. maybe he found a better one, something sharper to hack bamboo stalks with, and has long forgotten about you. or maybe he hammered a headsman’s block near his front porch, where he sits sharpening his sword, waiting for you to come back. 

mindlessly tracing the grooves in the weathered wood, you limp from stall to stall. the closest seller eyes you warily. her gaze flits between your haggard appearance and the dull weapon at your side, her lips tight and nose turned upwards, most likely upset over your proximity to her precious baskets of fresh pomelos and persimmons. it leaves a bad impression on her more than you. she is an esteemed seller with the finest fruits, and you are people repellent. bad for business.

she watches you with ferocious intensity, half-expecting you to reach for a fruit to quell the gnawing hunger in your gut. she knows how you feel. she could see it in your eyes, in the bones that peek under the dirty robes that you stole from a dead man you had found on the side of the road. she knows about your hunger, but she doesn’t offer a single fruit, even when she has baskets upon baskets to spare, like you are nothing more than a thief or a pauper. if selfishness was a monster, you wondered if it would look like her.

but miraculously, she doesn’t say anything. the feeling never gets old. you don’t know if it is the dull hatchet or the rest of your unsightly figure that frightens her just enough, but it leaves you with sick gratitude for whatever gods are up there. if you could only have a handful of good things in this lifetime, let this moment be one of them. you flee deeper into the market before the seller could reach for something to hit you with.

it is busier than usual today, you realize, limping past a group of giggling kids drawing figures in the dirt. the shouts are louder here. those wise enough to not waste their attention on you continue their hollering, eager to reel in unsuspecting customers with a net spun from deceptive words. you don’t know a lick of business. what it meant or how it worked. based on what you’ve seen, however, is that the loudest caught the most fish. you don’t think twice about the quiet sellers you had seen during your last visit that are no longer here. 

sometimes you think it is just the laws of nature. the strongest survive and forget the weak, who are branded for death the second they leave the womb. it’s a promising thought. the sellers who had been too meek to adapt with their competition had been overturned by the changing tides of an uncertain economy. they were weak, unfit to survive. you don’t know if your assumption is correct, but you find that things in nature can easily be applied in real life. you scratch the itch under your jaw.

further along the path, you see a stranger standing by a stall that sold fowl meat. the stark white of their hair, reminiscent of winter nights, ceases your limping. their robes are clean, and they wear socks with sandals. they aren’t local. you have never seen something so close to snow standing in the heat of summer. briefly, you wonder if thirst and hunger finally caught up with you, until the stranger turns. their muddy eyes rake over your form, picking apart your robes and hatchet and matted hair. they hold a small bag of pomelos.

quite a sight for sore eyes, you think bitterly. while they don’t entirely look like a pompous bastard, anyone with clean clothes and warm food in their belly is sure to look down on you in one way or another. so you continue to watch the interaction in silence, even when the stranger looks away in favor of the butcher, handing him a heavy satchel of gems you never knew existed. then they leave, with a bag of raw meat, for the other side of the market, the opposite of where you are standing. 

you pull yourself to where they stood, dropping your hatchet to hold out your hands. you wait expectantly for your fill. “the hell d’you think yer’ looking at,” the butcher spits, eyes narrowing at you. fury rolls off of him in waves at your audacity. “got a lot of nerve to show up here.” you don’t know why he’s so upset. well, everyone is upset with you, but you don’t know what unsettles him today. perhaps the white-haired stranger was someone important, and you shouldn’t be standing in the footprints they left in the dirt.

“trimmings,” you rasp, your voice curling around each syllable harshly. it is the first word you utter in weeks. it is also the only word you said during your last visit, and the one before that. seriously, you would think that the butcher had it down to routine by now. he scoffs but reaches for the bloodied basket anyway, throwing it in your chest. your weak arms catch it quickly before you peer inside. it is mostly fat, but food is food. you can’t wait to savor it back home. 

“t’s the last time yer’ getting anything from me,” the butcher breathes and leans in to jab a roughened finger into your shoulder. “better get out of here before i hang you on a jointed hook.” the cruel threat falls on deaf ears. you know the butcher wouldn’t do that. not because he is kind, no. far from it. your dead body simply has nothing to offer. there’s no way to make money off of you, unless someone decides to throw your bones to a dog. nonetheless, you retrieve your hatchet and scurry off without saying a thank-you or a goodbye. 

there’s no point in wasting a breath on a man who looks at you with equal hatred. with one arm, you hold the bucket close to your chest protectively, while your other hand holds the hatchet. you follow the path from whence you came. the dirty robes cling to your skin uncomfortably, and your raw feet ache, but you can’t afford to let your guard down, not when you finally have proper food again. the sun dips into the horizon, and sellers are dismantling their stalls. soon, they will reach home, and so will you.

the hatchet continues to work its miracles, warding off evil like a talisman. however, you know deep down that you shouldn’t overdo it. it won't be long until someone calls you out on your bluff. when they realize that you can’t even lift it past your waist, they’ll come rushing towards you with bags over their heads and poison on their pitchforks. you let your mind wander. perhaps you could pay another visit to the butcher and weasel through a hole in his house, tiptoeing around for his favorite cleaver. you quite like the thought.

you hardly hear passing gossip over the pulse in your ears. however, one frantic conversation bleeds through your excitement. you pay no mind to it at first, thinking you are the subject that leaves them so tense, which is nothing out of the ordinary, but the words “white” and “monk” and “curse” stop you in your tracks. you nearly forgot about the uncanny stranger who stood out like a sore thumb, much like you for reasons entirely different.

the hairs behind your neck stand pin-straight, and you tilt your head towards them. it is two ladies who frequent the market often, you realize. their houmongi kimonos juxtapose with the plain wear of village folk. their wealth couldn’t be any more obvious. kamo. the name tastes like metal in your mouth. great. more pompous bastards. you want to resume the walk home, but something in you feels inclined to listen, to eavesdrop on what leaves their pretty little heads spinning.

so you listen and you eavesdrop, keeping yourself a safe distance away to ensure they don’t see you. 

“this is the third time this week,” one who wears a sparkling pin says first. she leans closer to her friend’s side. “you know about the rumors. nothing good comes out of seeing him.” him. for a moment, you think that she’s referring to the white-haired stranger, until you hear what she says next. “the monk-child is just a bad omen. it’s the cursed object we have to worry about.” it comes out of her mouth like a slur. you think it’s a euphemism for something else.

but you don’t have time to dwell. you must return home, so you do.

you like to think that things would have turned out differently if you had stayed at the market a little longer. maybe then, you would have heard them talk more about the supposed monster among men, and how the villagers suspect you having something to do with it. how your sudden appearance somehow aligned with the monk-child, another bad omen second only to you. you would have heard them chortle over the troops they had sent to your home while you had been away. 

maybe then, you would have lifted your hatchet over your waist for the first time in your life, and hack down on their shoulders, through the thick material of their beautiful kimonos, and into unmarred flesh. but no amount of dreaming could save you from the anguish, as the grip around your bucket and hatchet slacken. they fall to the ground, and the fatty meat spills all over. your finger twitches, as well as the edge of your lips, the corner of your eyes, and the base of your spine. the sun is long gone, replaced by moonlight. 

you find it sick how you wouldn't have known who destroyed your humble home if it weren't for the insignia left behind. you recognize the colors. kamo. kamo. kamo. the torn fabric lies above the ashes and taunts you.

your legs give up under you, and you fall to your knees. the sound that leaves you is nothing short of primal. animalistic. closer to grief more than anything, when you grab handfuls of dirt and ash and squeeze hard. you think about the village. about the stranger you are wrongly accused of associating with. about the butcher and the kamo women. the butcher. you wouldn’t be surprised if he had been the one to ask for military intervention, like the goddamn coward he is. you claw at the ground until your nails bleed.

you are too angry to weep. you don’t care about the blood collecting at your knees, seeping into the robes that you had stolen, or around the precious hatchet. is this penance? your soiled hands find purchase in your hair, and they tug at the roots. how could the gods be so cruel? it still smells like smoke. the residual warmth taunts you, as if reminding you what a real fire is like. nothing that a couple of makeshift walls of a home could emulate. you shakily reach for the wooden handle.

you push yourself up, ignoring the protests of your aching body, and bite the inside of your cheek. you are staring hard at the remains when you feel a heavy weight bump into your foot. with the last bits of your patience, you look down. a pomelo. it sways side-to-side before coming to a complete stop, as if someone rolled it towards you. someone did. when you look back up, you find the same muddy eyes that studied you at the market. 

they didn’t say a word then, and they don’t now. they simply watch, hidden between trees in the distance. you reach down for the ripe pomelo and tear it open. when you bite, you realize you don’t like pomelos, but you finish anyways. you're still starving. you throw the tart flesh into the ashes with no intention of returning, before tightening your grip on the hatchet and turning towards the village. you miss the ghost of a smile on the stranger’s face.

“are you pleased with her actions?” they ask the darkness beside them. their words are met with silence.

(masterlist) | listen to adagio for strings!

[anders-jjk-drabbles]

𝒫𝑜𝓁𝓎!𝒮𝒶𝓉𝑜𝒮𝓊𝑔𝓊 𝓍 𝒢𝒩!𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇: 𝒮𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒟𝒶𝓎

ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳˢ ⁿᵒᵗᵉ: ⁿᵍˡ ᶜʰ ²⁶¹ ᴴᴱᴬⱽᴵᴸʸ ⁱⁿᶠˡᵘᵉⁿᶜᵉᵈ ᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉ ᵗʰⁱˢ. ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉ ᵃ ᶠⁱᶜ ᵒᶠ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ᵗᵃᵏᵉˢ ᶜᵃʳᵉ ᵒᶠ ᴳᵒʲᵒ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴳᵉᵗᵒ. ᴺᵒ ˢᵖᵒⁱˡᵉʳ ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍˢ ⁿᵉᵉᵈᵉᵈ!

Synopsis: Typically you were the one who always got sick, but when you woke up this morning, it was Satoru and Suguru both who fell under the weather!

Content Warnings: illness (implication of being chronically ill), Use of terms like but not limited to, "mucus". For those who are easily disturbed by words like 'snot' I kept that light and there's nothing super explicitly there. Gojo and Geto refer to the reader as 'bunny'. No use of reader or Y/N. Brief mentions of Jujutsu world and society. Nothing too serious.

ᴾˡᵉᵃˢᵉ ˡᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ⁱᶠ ᴵ ᵐⁱˢˢᵉᵈ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ! ♡

word count: 1.4k

You were used to getting sick. The fevers, chills, mucus, etcetera. Between Satoru, Suguru and you, more often than not it was you who caught whatever plague was rampaging through Tokyo at the time. Whenever you were sick, the two men pampered you in their own little ways. 

Suguru, who always made sure there was a pot of your favorite homemade soup hot on the stove. Who checked your fever with a kiss to your forehead, and would braid your hair back to keep it out of your face. While Satoru, would be the first to bring you meds and a bottle of water. He would sit with you for hours, holding you close while you binge-watched shows together. Whenever you would sigh and explain to him that he would get sick. Satoru would give you his signature shit-eating grin and tell you, “Don’t worry, bunny. Suguboo and I are the strongest. So we won’t get sick from a little measly cold.”

That was, of course, until both of your boys woke up sicker than dogs this morning.  Satoru’s face was bright with fever, and Suguru was coughing up a lung. Whatever they had brought home, it hadn’t gotten you. Both of them were completely out of it. Satoru was a clingy mess, hugging your thighs as he burrowed his head into your lap. Gently, you stroked the strands of sweat-soaked white hair from his forehead. He sniffed loudly, voice nasally from congestion,  “Bunny— why does this fucking suck so bad? You never act this miserable when you’re sick.” 

From the opposite side of the room, Suguru sat at the dining table, his head covered with a towel as he leaned over a bowl of steaming water. At Satoru’s whine, he lifted his head slightly, long black hair braided down his back in a French braid. A loud indignant sniff filled the room as Suguru grumbled, “It’s because, Satoru, they’re always sick. When you’re used to something it gets easie—“ His teasing chide was cut off as he released a hacking cough into his elbow. A groan escaped his lips as he returned to the head-sized cavern of steam he trapped himself in.

“My poor babies,” You cooed, smiling softly as you rubbed Satoru’s back soothingly.  It was true. As you had grown up you got sick constantly, you grew used to moving about and just weathering through whatever storm came your way. If it wasn’t contagious and just part of your usual strew of symptoms and not knocking you flat on your ass— You still existed as if everything was almost normal. “Well ya know, angel,” You patted Satoru’s back to get his attention, “Suguru has the right idea. Some steam inhalation would really help.”

In response, Satoru only wrapped himself closer around you on the couch. A muffled whine pressed against your stomach you hardly understood other than his strong disagreement to the idea. “Can’t hear ya, baby.” You giggled, pulling his hair slightly until he blinked up at you with his pretty blues and a sweet pout. 

“Don’t wanna.” Satoru huffed, sniffing indignantly, “It feels weird. Makes my head too hot and it makes me more miserable.” 

You snorted at his response, rubbing Satoru’s back soothingly. Turned out that when the strongest sorcerers got sick, they were whiny. For a while you sat there with Satoru, holding him close as he sniffed and coughed into your lap. Suguru hunched over the bowl, coughing and hacking. With a pat to Satoru’s shoulder, you murmured, “Okay, Satoru sweetie— I need to get up. I’m gonna make you both some soup.”

He whined again, pressing his forehead against the flesh of your stomach, “Nuh-uh. I’m cold and you’re warm— stay, bunny, please.”With a laugh, you shook your head slowly. “Just a little longer…” You promised easily, rubbing the back of his neck, causing contented little groans and whimpers to escape his pretty lips. A few more moments pass as you agreed and sat with him for a few minutes longer but their combined sniffing and miserable faces was more than enough to convince you. They needed something to eat here soon—

 So with a huff, and a whine of protest from Satoru, you pushed him off of your lap and back onto a pillow on the couch.  “Rest, honey.” You gave head an affectionate pat as you walked past him into the kitchen. It took you a few minutes to decide what you wanted to make, going through the cabinets and fridge as you looked through ingredients and spices. As you bent over to pull out a stock pot from the cabinet, Suguru’s hands squeezed your hips affectionately as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder blades,  “Thanks for taking care of us, bunny.” He hummed in the back of his throat, as you straightened up and he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. Compared to earlier, he definitely sounded less congested.

 The little moment in the kitchen was interrupted by Satoru’s loud groan from the couch, “Can one of you at least come and hold me? I’m miserable over here.”

Both Suguru and you burst into a fit of laughter.  He kissed your cheek and left the kitchen to join Satoru on the couch. While they settled in you hauled the pot onto the stove and got started on the soup. Meanwhile, Digimon’s theme song started in the background, bringing a sense of warmth and continuity to your chest. 

Last time you had been struck down by a nasty flu, to help you feel better Satoru had put on Digimon because the show always helped him. You never minded, not truly. When you were sick you’d drug yourself and fall asleep to the Digimon battles. Hardly ever, did you really pay attention to whatever was on the TV when you were sick. Hearing it now and the disjointed sneezing and coughing from the next room was just a mildly humorous reminder that even the strongest sorcerers need to rest and recoup. 

As the soup came to a beautiful finish. The smell wafted through the apartment. You peeked around the corner, mouth open and ready to call your boys that food was ready and to ask if they wanted anything else with it. Only to see them passed out on the couch in a tangle of limbs. Satoru’s head was tucked in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck while Suguru had an arm and a leg thrown over the white-haired sorcerer.

A small smile formed on your face as you quietly snuck over. You picked up a folded blanket hanging over the arm of the couch and draped it over the both of them. Just as you turned around to head back to the kitchen- a large hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging softly. You look back only to be met with vibrant gazes of violet and blue. 

Satoru’s hand held onto your wrist as Suguru reached for your other hand. Suguru’s velvety voice groggy with sick and sleep, “Come nap with us, bunny, please.”

How could you deny a request like that? A smile spreads on your face, “Oh… fine. Better not get me sick though.” You tease. Satoru huffed indignantly, as he pouted before yanking you into the cuddle pile. As you adjusted around, a sense of rightness filled your chest. It was natural the way you fit in their arms. The next episode of Digimon queued up right as your head found its spot on Suguru’s chest and held a tight grip on Satoru’s hand.

Turns out— Them being sick meant sick days for all of you. Within 48 hours of them waking up feeling sick and beginning to recover. You were sick once again.  Surrounded by a pile of tissues, and a cup of soup from the batch you made a couple of days ago, you sniffed miserably once again> The fever they had been battling now sent chills down your spine. Satoru’s face was still mildly flushed with fever, wondering aloud how you were sitting up when you looked so dizzy and out of it. Suguru scrolled through TikTok on his phone to keep his mind off being ill. At least all of you got to be together. Sure it sucked being sick but being sick with them? Made all of it a bit easier.

Looks like the Jujutsu world would have to wait. For now, your sorcerers and you? You would rest.

Hope you all enjoyed!!!

Please like, comment and reblog!

[sable-dream]

Five Tips, Tricks and Hacks For Cold Weather Therians!

It's summer (in the northern hemisphere) and I'm missing my snowy Ural mountains habitat - so I've decided to put together a list of stuff that I've been using to cope! :D

#1 Fake Snow

You can buy this pretty much everywhere online - but I've actually been using a DIY recipe! It's just baking soda + shaving foam but it gives you a nice crumbly texture and is even cool to the touch! :D This YouTube Video includes a couple of recipes that include common household ingredients!

#2 Cold Baths + Showers

These are self explanatory! As well as being refreshing, they also give you an excuse to nest in fluffy blankets afterwards - which helps if you long for your fur (even in the heat). These can be paired with bath bombs - I've done pine before to invoke forest-y feelings! DIY Bath Bomb recipe

#3 Frozen Foods

Obviously ice cream is a go-to here, but snow cones, popsicles, and ice cream sandwiches are all excellent! Ice cubes by themselves are also great in a pinch, and frozen fruit is another cheap option (stick it in the freezer overnight and boom homemade frozen snack!). 5 Minute Ice Cream Recipe Video

#4 Paint (Or Draw) A Cold Landscape

This really helps if you want to get into a more 'chill' (lol) headspace. I prefer to paint traditionally but digital art is also great! Two Bob Ross tutorials if you'd like them: Snow Fall ❆ Grey Winter

#5 Watch Videos, Movies, Or Documentaries With Cold/Snow Landscapes

If it's hot outside sometimes all you want to do is lie there and watch videos shot in places with subzero temperatures. You can find these on literally any streaming platform, and here's some youtube links for free documentaries: Frozen Worlds | Our Planet ❆ Mountains | Hostile Planet ❆ Animal Winter Wonderland | BBC Earth ❆ Canada's White Wolves | Real Wild ❆ (And a bonus Winter Ambiance)

[artiststarme]

Baby, it's cold outside

@nburkhardt, you asked for a cute introspective fic, I hope this fits! I hope everyone likes it and please leave your thoughts in the comments!

~*~*~*~

Eddie Munson had always hated winter. He hated snow, sleet, frost, and hail. Unfortunately for him, that's all there was in Indiana between late November to early March. The nights grew darker, the trailer was always slightly too cold, and his loneliness seemed exacerbated. Unlike the peacefulness and solitude that he felt in autumn, empty nights in the trailer’s living room while Wayne was at work only served to make him feel alone… burdensome. 

It wasn’t like he could cry to his uncle about feeling lonely when he’d been pulling double shifts at the plant practically since Eddie had moved in with him. He couldn’t complain to his bandmates that hardly put up with him enough to call them friends. And it wasn’t like he had anyone else in the town that cared about him even remotely. 

Most of all though, Eddie hated how the winter reflected the frigidity of the town. He knew they hated him year-round but it seemed so much more prominent in the cold. Their malicious laughter when he slipped on ice, the hardly-visible sneers from underneath scarves, and cruel words seemed harsher. 

One winter day though, everything changed for Eddie. He’d chosen that day to avoid the stifling isolation at his trailer. Winter had only just begun but its effects were already visible. Eddie’s pale skin looked paler, the bags under his eyes were heavier, and the tip of his nose was almost permanently red. The weather was dreadful, softly snowing with the flakes sticking to the ground. Still, he had to leave the trailer park to keep his sanity, weather be damned. He sat on a low hanging swing at the elementary school playground, snowflakes stuck to his hair and a blunt between his lips. He was still alone but it wasn’t so unbearable out in the open. 

“Hey, uh. Mind if I join you?”

A sudden voice took away Eddie’s peace and he flailed like a cat electrocuted before he was able to regain his bearings and grip the swing chains with a vice grip. He choked on the smoke of his blunt and looked through leaking eyes up at the cause of his shock. 

“The fuck?” He hacked while trying to determine who’d bothered him.

“I’m sorry man, I really didn’t mean to scare you. I just… you looked lonely and I’m kinda lonely too so I thought we might as well be less lonely together,” the stranger’s voice seemed genuinely apologetic and it pulled the strings in Eddie’s heart. As soon as his vision cleared though, his system was flushed with ice.

“Harrington? What the fuck are you even doing here? You come all the way over here to pick on little ole me? Pathetic. Where are your cronies, hiding behind the bushes waiting for your signal so you all can jump me? Fuck you,” Eddie snarled before trying to get up from his place. He stopped only once Harrington’s hands landed on his shoulders and pushed him back down. 

Harrington looked gutted, “no man, I’m alone. I was just… trying to get out of the house when I saw you here. I’m sorry for bothering you, I’ll uh. I’ll see you around, Munson.”

Despite his words, he stayed still for a moment longer, eyes focused directly on Eddie’s. Upon closer inspection, he didn’t appear to be the King Steve he always was at school. He wasn’t confident here. His posture was slumped, his mouth was twisted in a grimace, and his perfect hair looked like he’d tried to pull it out himself. Most notably though were the angry bruises on his cheekbone and along his jaw. Eddie had seen more than enough abuse in his life and the aftermath left it like a scar. Hell, he saw it every day in the mirror. 

He couldn’t let Steve leave with this revelation. It seemed that the King and the Freak had more in common than they’d ever known. With a sigh, he pulled a fresh blunt out of his leather jacket pocket and handed it to Steve. 

“Here man, I could use the company. And I’m not sure I could finish this one alone.”

Steve’s grimace fell to reveal the most breathtaking smile Eddie had ever seen. “I’m sure you could Munson, but I’ll stick around. Thanks!”

They sat on the swings in the snow for what seemed like hours. They talked, they laughed, they sat in comfortable silence at times. When their hands got too frozen and their faces flushed, they stood awkwardly as if neither one wanted the night to end. 

“So uh, you want to come back to my place? It’s closer and I have hot chocolate,” Eddie muttered, his fingers twisting his rings in anxiety. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening here but he knew he didn’t want it to end. 

Steve ducked his head to hide a grin, but accepted nonetheless. “Lead the way, Munson.”

They spent the remainder of the night drinking hot cocoa, cuddling in Eddie’s small twin bed, and sleeping off what was a great night for them both. When they woke up, things weren’t awkward or stilted, it felt like they were just as they should be. Thus in the winter of 1983, King Steve and Eddie “the Freak” Munson became friends in the public eye. It caused quite the stir around both the school and the town alike but it didn’t bother them. And in the safety and privacy of their homes, they became more. They became more than strangers or friends and instead evolved directly into boyfriends that held hands, space heaters for each other in the cold of the trailer, and partners that they could each depend on. 

After what started off as a dreary night alone in an empty playground, Eddie’s life changed for the better. From that day forward, his hatred of the winter faded into a feeling of gratitude. The cold weather had guided two lost and lonely souls toward each other. After that, seeing snow or frost, or sleet always reminded Eddie of the day that he and Steve became each other’s person. They would never be alone again as long as they had each other. 

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