#winter is cold we must huddle for warmth

[andy-clutterbuck]

9x03 | Warning Signs

[idkyetxoxo]

Daeron Targaryen - Flawless

Summary - A commoner and a prince defy societal norms but as their secret affair is exposed, they grapple with intense emotions and the fear of their love being destroyed. They must choose whether to defy the world for their love or succumb to the pressures tearing them apart.

Pairing - Daeron Targaryen x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2130

Masterlist for Daeron • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

I fell in love today. There aren't many words that you can say that could ever get my mind to change. She's enough for me, she's in love with me.

"If we're caught, there will be a heavy price to pay," I whispered, my lips grazing Daeron's as we huddled together in the dim stables, the air thick with the earthy smell of hay and the soft snorts of nearby horses. 

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a reminder of the risk we were taking, and yet it only deepened the pull I felt toward him. The danger was intoxicating, fueling my desire for the man before me.

"I do not care," Daeron murmured, his fingers tender as they traced along my cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear before cupping my face. 

His touch was so gentle, it made my knees weak. His violet eyes, those piercing, otherworldly eyes, locked onto mine with a fire that sent shivers down my spine. 

Then, without warning, his lips claimed mine. Familiar and firm, the kiss ignited something deep inside me, a flame that only he could kindle. The taste of him, the warmth of his hands moving against me, sent waves of longing through my body. 

I surrendered to it, letting him guide us down onto the soft, hay-covered floor. 

His hands, rough yet achingly tender, roamed over me, sending sparks of electricity with every touch. 

The tension between us was palpable, the thrill of being discovered heightening the already burning heat that simmered in every breath we took.

"Here?" I asked, my voice a breathless whisper as I momentarily pulled away, gazing up at him. My heart raced, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of my feelings for him.

Daeron wasn't just a prince to me. He was more than the silver-haired, violet-eyed fantasy I had dreamt of. He was real, here, with me, like something out of a story too good to be true. 

I had always thought him untouchable, a man destined for greatness far beyond my reach, and yet, in this moment, it felt like we had defied the world and carved out a place for just us.

"Do not deny me," he breathed against my skin, his lips brushing along my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. 

Each kiss, each small bite, left me trembling, and I knew I would carry these marks long after the moment ended—a visible reminder of what we'd stolen from time.

"I wouldn't dream of it," I whispered back, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as he fumbled with the laces of my dress. 

The anticipation between us built like the brewing of a storm, the tension rising, until it felt like we might shatter from the force of it.

But the storm came differently. The stable doors creaked open, a sound so mundane yet terrifying in that moment. We froze. Too late.

"Daeron!" A voice boomed through the quiet space like a thunderclap. My blood ran cold as I shoved him off me, scrambling to sit up. 

My hands shook as I tried to lace my dress, my fingers clumsy with panic.

In the doorway stood Gwayne, Daeron's uncle, his large figure casting a dark shadow over the stables. His face, twisted in disappointment, was a mask of barely contained fury. 

He looked at us as though we were children caught misbehaving, but there was something crueler in his eyes—contempt, as if we were something beneath him. Filth.

Daeron rose first, and I hurried to follow, my cheeks burning with humiliation as I fumbled to fix my dress, every second stretching into an eternity of shame.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gwayne's voice was as cold as winter's first breath, each word cutting through the air like shards of ice. 

He looked between us as if we had committed some great sin.

"Nothing," I mumbled, my voice barely audible. I couldn't bear to meet Daeron's gaze, though I could feel the tension radiating off him. 

I wanted to explain, to defend what we had, but the words died in my throat.

"It is exactly what it looks like," Daeron said, his voice steady as he met his uncle's glare, his shoulders squared in defiance.

For a brief moment, his boldness sent a flicker of warmth through me, but it was quickly drowned by the flood of shame that pooled in my stomach.

Gwayne's lip curled in disgust. "If you're going to indulge in such... affairs with women like her," he spat, his words dripping with disdain, "at least have the decency to be discreet. Or is that too much to ask?"

My heart twisted at the words. Women like her. The insult stung like a slap, his meaning clear.

In Gwayne's eyes, I wasn't worth Daeron's time. I was nothing more than a passing indulgence, something beneath Daeron's station. A common girl. A nobody.

Daeron's hand reached for mine, but I stepped back, my entire body stiff with humiliation.

"Women like her?" Daeron's voice was tight, strained with disbelief and hurt. "She is not—"

"You know exactly what I mean," Gwayne cut him off, dismissing his defence as if it were beneath him.

Tears stung at my eyes, the weight of my reality crashing down around me. Of course, this was how it would end. 

Daeron, a prince destined for greatness, and me, the blacksmith's daughter, foolish enough to believe in fairy tales. 

How had I let myself think, even for a second, that we could ever be more than a secret tryst?

But then Daeron's voice, soft and urgent, broke through the chaos. "I love her."

The words stopped me cold. I looked up, shocked, searching his face for any sign that this was some cruel jest. 

But his eyes—those beautiful violet eyes—held nothing but sincerity. He meant it.

Gwayne, however, was unimpressed. "Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed, dismissing Daeron's declaration with a wave of his hand.

"You think this is love?" Gwayne's voice dripped with venom, his gaze flicking over me like I was dirt under his boot. "This is folly. A prince does not sully himself with... commoners."

It was too much. The weight of Daeron's love, the sting of Gwayne's scorn, the sheer impossibility of our situation—it all overwhelmed me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stay.

Without a word, I turned and fled.

Daeron's voice called out to me, but I didn't stop. Not until I reached the empty streets beyond the stable did I let the tears fall, silent and unrelenting. 

Tears for what we had, for the love I had found—and for the reality that had torn it apart.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

A week had passed since that treacherous moment in the stables—a week that felt like an eternity. Every day, Daeron sought me out, and every day, I found a way to avoid him. 

Each time I caught sight of his silver hair in the distance or heard the familiar lilt of his voice in a crowded street, I slipped away before he could catch me. 

I knew that if I saw him—if I let him speak—my resolve would crumble. I couldn't afford that. 

Not if I wanted to move on, not if I wanted to survive this heartbreak, I needed distance.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I found myself at my favourite place, opposite the riverbank, away from the prying eyes of Oldtown's streets. 

Here, I could think, breathe, and mourn the love I could never truly have. 

The gentle sound of the water soothed my soul, the quiet trickle of the current carrying away my unspoken pain. 

I held a small daisy between my fingers, twirling it absentmindedly as I stared at the water. My thoughts were scattered, filled with memories of him—his touch, his smile, his violet eyes that seemed to see straight into my soul. 

I didn't know how to stop loving him, but I had to try. It was the only way to protect myself from a heartbreak that already felt inevitable.

But the peace I'd found was short-lived. Footsteps crunched behind me, slow and deliberate. 

Someone sat beside me, and without turning, I already knew who it was. His presence was as familiar to me as the air I breathed.

Daeron.

I glanced over to see him, his silver hair catching the fading light, his violet eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. He was silent, watching me, waiting for me to react. 

My heart pounded, and instinctively, I moved to stand, to flee, but his hand shot out, gently covering mine, the warmth of his touch rooting me in place.

"Please, don't leave," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. His plea wasn't just in his words—it was in his eyes, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly over mine.

I sighed, unable to meet his gaze for long. "Daeron, you know we can't do this," I began, my voice breaking under the weight of the truth. "We were never meant to be."

"No," he interrupted sharply, his voice laced with frustration. "Don't say that. Don't you dare say that."

I shook my head, the weight of the world pressing down on me. "Your uncle was right," I whispered, my eyes fixated on the moving water. "I am flawed. I'm not—"

"Stop," he said firmly, cutting me off with a fierce determination. He reached up, cupping my face with both hands, forcing me to look at him. 

His touch was tender, but his words were anything but. "Do not ever think that. The only flaw here is that you're flawless. Too perfect for a world like this, for people like my uncle who are blind to your worth."

His words hung in the air, leaving me speechless. The walls I had built around myself, the ones I'd spent days fortifying to keep him out, began to crack. 

I could feel the warmth of his hands on my skin, the urgency in his touch, and despite my better judgment, my resolve began to weaken.

"Daeron, I can't—" I started, but he silenced me with a look, his thumb brushing my cheek as his gaze bore into mine.

His love was a gift I didn't know how to accept. I wanted to believe his words to trust the fire in his eyes that promised a future I never thought I deserved.

But how could I? The world wasn't kind to girls like me.

"I love you," he declared, his voice trembling with an intensity that left no room for doubt. 

"I do not care what anyone thinks or what anyone says. I will defy them all. I will defy my uncle, the court, the world if I have to—because I cannot live without you."

My breath caught in my throat. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his words. 

He spoke with the conviction of someone who had decided to throw caution to the wind, to face any storm for the sake of the one he loved. 

His declaration was a promise, a vow. And in that moment, I realized he meant every word.

"Please," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "don't shut me out. Don't leave me again. I will fight for you, for us—just let me."

Tears welled up in my eyes, but this time, they weren't from pain. They were from the overwhelming rush of emotions his words stirred in me. 

I had been so afraid, so convinced that I wasn't worthy of him, of this love. But here he was, on his knees beside me, begging me to let him love me.

I nodded, my throat too tight with emotion to form words. "I'm sorry," I finally managed to whisper, my voice barely audible. "I'm sorry for pushing you away."

He shook his head, dismissing the apology without a second thought. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Before I could say anything more, he pulled me toward him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that was desperate and raw, as if he feared that I might vanish if he let go. 

His arms wrapped around me, holding me close, and in that moment, everything else faded away—the judgments, the fears, the obstacles that had seemed insurmountable. 

All that mattered was him. All that mattered was us.

As we sat there by the river, the world around us fell into silence, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself to believe in a future where we could be together. 

A future where love, not fear, guided our path.

Because Daeron had chosen me. And no matter what stood in our way, I would choose him too—again and again, for as long as I lived.

The only flaw, you are flawless but I just can't wait for love to destroy us, I just can't wait for love.

A/n - Inspo of course came from 'Flawless' by The Neighbourhood, I need them to come back desperately :(

[mikoyamisheadcanonblog]

Sabo Winter Picnic

🎩Sabo🎩

Word Count:929

Sabo frowned as sat in the kitchen preparing everything for a small panic he planned. He read about winter picnics in a book the other when looking for romantic date ideas. He thought of his lover who was getting bored being cooped inside. He had been worried about her health and mental state. He read once in a book that a weak mental state meant poor health.

He had worried about her, as he looked up great ideas to do for winter dates. He found out about a winter picnic, sitting outside during a cold day surrounded by forest and with a thick blanket on the snow with both of them enjoying a warm meal and hot cocoa. He sighed as he cooked some fresh warm curry perfect for the date. The hot chocolate was already in a thermostat and in the picnic basket. He grabbed and placed the curry in another thermostat.

Looking over his list and at the picnic basket, it felt too empty he was missing something or a few things. He had the thick blanket, he had the food and utensils, the drink, and winter flowers as the middle piece. He frowned as he glanced over the book reading over and figured he would grab some pillows so they could sit on and enjoy the cold weather and view. Placing everything near the door he went to call his girlfriend.

He found her wrapped around a bunch of blankets, a book in her hand. Her eyebrows furred together when she got to the dramatic part of the book. He leaned on the frame and watched her expression change from anger to laughter. He admitted one of his hobbies was watching her read, all the expressions she made while reading made it enjoyable.

He cleared his throat catching her attention. She turned to him, seeing the faint little blush on her face, he couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit at her surprised expression which turned into slight annoyance. He must have interrupted a good part in her reading.

“Hey, do you want to go on a picnic?” he questioned, tilting his head, a blond bang falling over his eyes. His gloved hand ran through his hair putting it back in place.

“A picnic?” she titled her head, watching the snow fall gently. “It is cold and snowing,” she pointed out.

“I know but I think it would be fun to cuddle under the blanket watching the snow,” he answered her seductively.

She could feel her heart hammer in her chest at the comment, Sabo at times had a way of being smooth with words at times.

Getting dressed she followed him outside; he held out his hand wanting to hold her hand as they shuffled through the snow. It was cold, the cold breeze nipped at her nose, and the wind stung her cheek a bit, she shivered a bit having him push her closer wrapping his arms around her shoulder. Thanks to the devil fruit he eliminated warmth.

“So where are we going?” she finally questioned after five minutes of walking. A few landmarks looked familiar even while snow glittered under the sun.

Sabo paused as realization slowly hit him, he didn’t plan for the setting. The perfect setting where they could huddle up together enjoy their curry and later drink hot cocoa. He paused, they had been wandering aimlessly heading towards the flower field, their usual picnic spot. It was covered with her favorite type of field flowers, but with the snow, it would be buried.

She laughed watching her boyfriend trying to figure out where to take them next. That is one thing she loved about Sabo, he could be smooth one minute and perfectly plan something but then be clumsy the next. He seemed to forget one important detail about a winter picnic. He blushed as embarrassment set in, he couldn’t figure out how he messed up this bad.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I wanted to create the perfect date for you and messed up pretty badly,” he scratched the back of his head just happy to her hear laughter after so long.

“Why?” she questioned, tilting her head. She was enjoying being inside with him during the cold winter days, reading books with him, watching movies, and cuddling. There had been a few depressing days, and she was feeling claustrophobic, missing the adventures of the sea in the grand line but that was normal.

“You have been down lately,” he looked away titling his head embarrassed. She could see his ears turn a soft shade of pink.

“But you have been around, and we had lots of fun,” she said, watching his ears turn red. She tugged on his arms, “I think I know the perfect place to have a picnic,” It was a place she would go to when she needed a break or be alone.

He followed her steps, their steps crunching in the hard snow till they reached a cliff near the sea overlooking the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, everything around them glittered. The snow around them looked like fairy dust, while the ocean glittered like gold.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she questioned staring at the ocean.

Sabo stared at her and smiled, “yeah it is,”  

She glanced away feeling her cheeks heat up before helping him set up the picnic and he started a fire for them. “Sabo, you only brought one blanket,” she pouted.

“I know on purpose,” he took a seat on one of the pillows and patted the pillow next to them, “So we can cuddle,”

[themousefromfantasyland]

The Guardians: How Jack Frost entered a snowball fight with Winston Churchill, J.M. Barrie and Rudyard Kipling

Extracted from Jack Frost: The End Becomes the Beginning by William Joyce

Historical side of Tumblr, did they really knew each other in real life, or is Joyce just going mad as usual 😂

It was a piercingly cold winter night. Jack was leaving the Athenaeum Club. He belongs to many clubs. Private clubs are a vital function of the social life of young and old men in this whirligig era. These clubs are elegant and brimming with friendships, rivalries, and the excitable friction of men with ambition and ideas. It is at the Athenaeum that Jack has made some of his most interesting friendships.

On the night of this report, Frost was seen walking out of the festive warmth of the club with three companions. They were bundled against the cold, laughing and chatting as they trekked their way down the snow-covered steps to the street. As is his habit, Jack hung back a few paces. He enjoys observing the easy joviality of his friends at the end of an evening of fun.

The most affable of the three is young Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, whose booming laugh and manner reminds Jack of his old friend Nicholas St. North. Churchill had been a devilish child, full of mischief, and had been kicked out of most of the finest schools in Europe. On this evening he is smoking a huge cigar and is at this point singing the song of one of the schools he had attended.

“Sandhurst was a great school with a wretched song!” he shouted out, interrupting himself midchorus. The other two friends, Joseph Rudyard Kipling and James Matthew Barrie, are both writers of some renown, though tonight they were singing the song of a school they had never attended and were doing so with considerable volume and enthusiasm.

“It would jolly well help if we knew the words,” said Kipling, laughing, but this ignorance did not seem to hamper his and Barrie’s happy attempt.

Jack grinned. He liked his friends best when they behaved less like adults and more like children.

But as the group reached the sidewalk, they passed a huddle of street children who stood shivering in the evening air.

“Please, sirs, a penny for the hungry,” said one child with a practiced, hopeful desperation.

Jack’s friends did not even glance the children’s way. These children were cold and close to starving. Jack saw the ragged clothes. The thin, lanky legs and skinned elbows. Again Jack stayed back, watching as his friends continued down the street.

The children stood quiet and shivering. They watched the happy threesome stagger and wail down the street.

Jack appeared angry with his friends. He knew they may have had childhoods of comfort, but each had experienced great turbulence and heartbreak in their youths. They should not, could not, would not ignore the wretched children they had just passed. They must be made to listen.

So Jack made himself invisible. It is a power he uses subtly. If a party is dull, he will simply disappear. Or if he wants to secretly influence the outcome of an event, being unseen makes his efforts much easier.

At this point in the proceedings he discreetly launched three expertly constructed snowballs at his friends.

Each hit its mark.

All three men’s hats were knocked to the snowy ground. The three then spun around and stared at the children. The children stared back.

Apparently, a war had silently been declared.

“This aggression must not go unanswered,” muttered Churchill as he, Kipling, and Barrie crouched down and began busily packing snowballs.

Though invisible, we surmise that Jack was delighted. He whispered to various children, “Better get busy. They’re bigger than you.” They instantly fell to their knees and began to pack snowballs themselves.

Churchill and Kipling both have military histories and have seen battle, so they knew the necessity of a steady supply of ammunition. Barrie, as records , is the worst shot of the three, so he continued making snowballs while his cohorts took up positions behind a lamppost and a mailbox.

“Wait for my command,” said Churchill, puffing his cigar.

The children were seasoned snowball makers, and they had amassed an impressive hoard of ammo. They wereready to attack, but they seemed uncertain. Again Jack intervened. “Concentrate on the one with the cigar.”

The children were so focused on their enemy that they hadn’t even noticed that Jack was nowhere to be seen. They heard his suggestion, and without questioning it, they acted.

And charged! Their battle cry was high, shrill, and impressive. Eight little voices sounded like an army.

“My word,” said Kipling, astonished.

“Steady!” commanded Churchill.

Barrie stopped his constructions and readied for the attack, a snowball in each hand and several in each pocket.

In an instant the children were upon them. The air was thick with snowballs and shouting and cheers.

“Fire!” yelled Churchill, but his command was muffled by five or six direct hits on his head and shoulders. He fell backward and lay on the street as helpless as an overturned turtle. Four children stood over him and pounded him with snowballs.

“My cigar!” he yelped. And indeed his cigar had been knocked from his mouth, landing somewhere inside his coat.

Kipling and Barrie tried to lend aid, but both were hit with such accuracy that their eyeglasses were caked with thick clumps of snow and neither could see a thing.

The three men were being overwhelmed, routed, in fact. But suddenly, the tide of the battle changed. Twenty or so members of the Athenaeum Club had seen the skirmish from the windows and were rushing out to lend a hand.

Jack had reappeared and raised his staff, and within an instant, he brought about a blinding gale of snow to slow the Athenaeum men.

A smallish boy who looked particularly ragged raised two fingers to his mouth and let out a high, sharp whistle that could be heard for blocks. The boy had not finished his first note when children began to appear from seemingly every direction and swarm toward the fray.

And so this snowball battle became epic. Adults against children. Jack watched with astonishment. What had he triggered?

Old men — older than eighty — who minutes before could barely hobble with canes across a plush dining room carpet, were now rippling over snow-snow-covered cobblestones with the vigor and skill of Roman gladiators.

Gangly half-starved children, some as young as five years old, were standing their ground or attacking with the stalwart cunning of the most seasoned generals.

The blur of a thousand snowballs glistened in the streetlamps’ glow as cheers and laughter of pure exultant joy filled the air. The strange untethered glee of making pretend war with well-packed snow had turned men into boys, and children into heroes.

Jack returned to invisibility, but he stayed in the thick of this battle royal, flying from place to place faster than any snowball. He was heard shouting instructions or guidance to anyone he felt was in need. At first he only helped the children, but as the ruckus continued, he began to urge the Athenaeums on.

So focused were the combatants that none ever wondered who was helping them.

The fight reached a pitch so fevered that one by one participants began to collapse with exhaustion and merriment. There were calls of:

“Stop! Enough!”

“I surrender!”

“I’m done!”

Shouts became laughter. The din of the battle dissolved into a singsong of helpless giggling and gasping and guffaws.

Churchill struggled to his feet. He was laughing with more gusto than anyone. He pulled his still-lit cigar from some deep fold of his coat and took a long and satisfying puff.

“I suggest we call an end to these hostilities,” he said to the spent troops. “I suggest we call this battle a draw.” He took another puff.

The half-block heap of young and old sat panting, their warm breath making a wheezing fog around them.

“I say we are all victors, and so to all must go the spoils,” Churchill continued. “Let us retire to the warmth of the club. I urge that we leave the snow to fall in peace and that we feast like kings!”

Cheers of agreement rang out. As they helped one another to their feet, Churchill began again to sing his old school song, the song of his beloved Sandhurst:

“And so from those who have gone before, to those who are yet to come,

We pass our motto loud and clear, all evil overcome.

As true as is a brother’s love, as close as ivy grows,

We’ll stand four square through our lives to every wind that blows.”

It was then that Frost tactfully reappeared as stealthily as he’d vanished in the first place. Smiling, he watched the scene unfold. Churchill slapped him on the back, still in full-throated song and joined by all who knew the words.

@ariel-seagull-wings @thealmightyemprex @princesssarisa @angelixgutz @amalthea9 @the-blue-fairie @tamisdava2 @mask131

[tinycoded360]

Chapter 20: Final

Sage stretched her tiny arms up as she woke. The cabin was dark, and the only sounds were the breathing of the giants beside her and the pitter-patter of rain on the cabin roof. Sage felt annoyed at having woken again in the middle of the night. She found it hard to adjust the human's sleep schedule. *Why couldn’t they sleep more like borrowers during the day? * Sage thought to herself.

Sage shivered, the fire had gone out, although the cabin had retained much of the warmth, making it warmer than if would be if they where outside, she still felt cold. She looked up at Mackenzie’s sleeping face. He was sound asleep, his arm wrapped around the cookie tin she was in, holding it close to him as he slept on his side. Sage noticed the human, Jace, wrapping her arm around his middle and cuddling close to him. It reminded her of the cuddle piles she and her siblings and parents would do to conserve warmth at night *It’s not fair, I wanna be apart of the cuddle pile. * Sage pouted to herself.

With determination, Sage pulled herself out of the cookie tin and started climbing Mackenzie. She knew he worried about crushing her, but if she found a good spot, that probably wouldn’t happen.

Sage noticed Mackenzie sleeping with his winter hat on, probably to conserve warmth. There! That would be perfect. She’d wiggle under his hat and sleep on top of his head. She figured she wouldn’t get crushed there, and it would be nice and warm.

Sage managed to climb her way up to his face. She sat on his cheek, getting distracted by his beard. He must have been tired. Usually, he’d wake by now with her scampering on top of him. She couldn’t blame him, though. The trip in the river was exhausting. She’d be good with never setting foot in water again. She sat on his cheek, patting and playing with the strands of his bread.

Growing bored, she wondered what to do next. On one hand, she could try to climb down the blanket and get to the floor. She was itching to explore the new space. But it would be hard to climb back up, and she didn’t want to get stuck on the ground. She wondered how long they would stay here. They hadn’t stayed in one spot long enough for her to craft a new hook. She wanted to make some climbing gear.

Not wanting to leave the warmth of the giant. She decided to leave exploring for another night. Besides, the dress she was in was horrible. She was grateful Mackenzie gave her something to wear while her other clothes dried, but it was just a cloth with holes cut into it. She had kept tripping in it. The length is way too long. Mackenzie tied a string around her middle to act as a belt, which helped; she could have done better, given the time and material. Mackenzie had promised they could make her more clothing in the daytime.

Sage climbed the rest of the way up to his hat. She wiggled herself under the brim, and she was finally under his hat. She snuggled into his hair. Although it was stuffy, it was warm, and she felt safe.

Sage woke with a start; her bed was moving under her. She clutched the strands of hair around her. She heard a deep grumble, and then the hat she had laid under was removed. Sage huddled down close to Mackenzie’s head, refusing to be dislodged.

“Oh! That’s cute!” Jace remarked, leaning over Mackenzie to look at the tiny girl curled up in the bed of his hair.

Sage squeaked in protest as Mackenzie’s finger and thumb reached up and pinched her sides. He tried to pull her up, but she held tight to his hair.

“Hey, now! Let go; I’m not your jungle gym.” Mackenzie chuckled, amused. He was just relieved he hadn’t crushed her in the night. He was amused she decided to make his hair her bed, it was the last place he expected her to be. He thought it was more likely she would be on the floor somewhere.

Mackenzie, as gently as he could, removed Sage from the top of his head. He cradled her in the palm of his hand, looking down at her in amusement.

"As cute as that was, we must talk about when to leave. Mathis could be on our tails by now," Jace remarked, her dark eyes flickering with concern and resolve. Her short black hair was tucked behind her ears, framing a face set with the gravity of their situation.

“The weather is bad today; odds are it’s slowing him down. And besides, they don’t know if we’re alive or not. We have some time. Let’s give it a week, five days, I’d say. Let’s gather our strength and stock up on supplies before going out there again.” Mackenzie reasoned.

“We should head to Perseverance Mills; my friend Dr. Atwood will help us,” Jace said.

“We’ll looks like we got a plan.” Mackenzie smiled at Jace, causing her to blush under his gaze.

Day 1:

Mackenzie carefully inspected the meager contents of the cabin's pantry, stacking cans of beans and bags of jerky into a neat pile on the counter. His hands moved methodically, his mind alert to the task: they needed enough supplies to last until they reached Dr. Atwood's haven in Perseverance Mills.

"Will this be enough?" Jace asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might summon their pursuers.

"I’ll go hunting today; that should add to what we have; we can even make something out of the hides. Maybe I can find other supplies while I’m out," Mackenzie replied, his gaze lingering on the snow-dusted windows. "But we can't afford to stay longer than a week. Weather permitting, we move out."

Jace nodded, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She had changed back into her dry clothes. Mackenzie himself had swapped his clothes for his dry ones as well, even though they were travel-worn. It felt nice to be in his own clothes, although they could do with a wash. It still gave a feeling of freshness despite the lack of a proper bath.

Speaking of baths, he turned his attention to the smallest member of their trio. Sage sat on the edge of the table, her tiny form dwarfed by the surrounding objects on the table. Her blond hair was matted with dirt, and her brown eyes held a glint of defiance. Mackenzie had managed to warm up a cup of water over the fireplace, the steam curling into the chilly air. He'd added a drop of soap, creating a few lazy bubbles on the surface.

"Come on, Sage. It's just a little water," he coaxed gently, extending his palm toward her.

Sage scowled, hugging her knees to her chest. "I don't want to," she protested, trembling slightly. "It's scary. And deep."

"It's not deep for you," Mackenzie assured her. "You won't drown in a cup, I promise."

"But I can't swim!" she insisted, her eyes wide.

"You don't need to swim. Just sit and let me clean you up." Mackenzie's tone was patient yet firm. She needed this.

Eventually, her resistance waned, and with a dramatic huff that would've been comical under any other circumstances, she gave one more protest, saying she didn’t want to be undressed.

"Keep your clothes on, then," Mackenzie said with a chuckle. He could wash the makeshift dress he made her along with her. Then he could switch it out with her old dry clothes. He makes a mental note to work on making her change of clothes.

Sage allowed herself to be lowered into the cup. The water came up just past her waist, and she couldn’t help but sigh in relief as the warmth enveloped her tiny body. She clutches Mackenzie’s pinkie finger, still scared of slipping under. Memories of their time in the river flashed through her mind. Mackenzie gently begins to wash her along with the fabric of her tiny garments. He was delicate yet thorough, ensuring that every part of her—from the tips of her hair down to her belly and her minuscule toes—was gently scrubbed clean.

From across the room, Jace watched the scene unfold, a smile tugging at her lips. Despite the gravity of their situation, Mackenzie's care for Sage was undeniably endearing. He treated her like she was his own child. Jace still had trouble wrapping her mind around Sage’s existence.

Jace commented, her amusement plain. "You're quite the doting guardian, Mackenzie."

He shrugged, his blue eyes softened as he regarded the tiny girl.

Sage pouted in the soapy water, but her expression softened as the grime washed away, and she began to feel the comforting touch of cleanliness.

Mackenzie swaddled Sage in a scrap of clean cloth, the fabric engulfing her tiny frame like a cocoon. She was set down on the wooden table, where she fumbled with the dampness of her attire. She slipped out of her wet clothes and dropped them onto Mackenzie's waiting hand with deft movements.

"Here," he murmured, handing her the dry clothing from the night before. Then, he deposited the tiny, soaked garment near the fireplace, where the gentle heat promised to chase away the last remnants of moisture. "We'll craft you some new clothes. It won't do to have you in just one outfit." His words were practical.

"Feeling better?" Mackenzie teased, catching her eye with a knowing glance.

"Maybe," she muttered, her voice barely audible. Beneath the bravado, Sage wrestled with her own turmoil. Anger simmered under the surface, a slow burn at Mackenzie's failure to protect her from Mathis. Nightmares haunted her sleep, images of the cruel giant who saw her as nothing more than a trinket to be claimed.

Yet there was also the gnawing fear of dependency. Her people, the borrowers, were fiercely self-reliant, and every moment of kindness from Mackenzie chipped away at the wall she had built around herself. Did he view her as a person, or was she merely a project to him—a pet to be doted upon?

"Hey," Mackenzie said softly, sensing the shift in her mood. He paused, giving her his full attention. "I know it's tough, Sage. But I want you to know you're not alone in this. We're a team, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered back, the word lingering like a fragile promise.

Jace watched Will head out into the snow. He turned back once to flash her a smile, then trudged off into the trees.

Jace sighed, a flush creeping into her cheeks. She focused on the little borrower girl watching her with wary brown eyes.

Sage sat cross-legged on the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked impossibly small, surrounded by the remnants of their meal. "Are you and Will mates?” she said, her voice high-pitched, giving Jace a deceptively innocent smile.

"Oh, no, it's not like that!" Jace said quickly. Her face felt hot enough to fry an egg on. "Will and I are just…friends. We were keeping each other warm, that's all."

Sage frowned, clearly confused.

Jace groaned, dropping her head into her hands. This was not a conversation she had been prepared to have today. Or ever.

Jace jerked her head up at the giggling from the tiny, mouse-sized girl. Jace stared as she realized the tiny girl was teasing her. “Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?”

“I’m just messing with you. But I do know you like him.” Sage smiled up at Jace.

“Oh my God, please don’t mention that to him.”

“Hehe, I could keep quiet, especially if you give me a piece of that chocolate bar.”

“Alright, you drive a hard bargain.” Jace chuckled but retrieved the chocolate bar from their supplies. Jace watched in amusement as Sage’s face lit up in delight.

Jace felt she and the little borrower girl would become fast friends.

Jace watched Sage nibble at the piece of chocolate, still amazed at how small she was.

"Do all borrowers live in the walls of houses?" she asked. Sage shook her head.

"I guess. We live wherever it is safe. I guess we tend to follow you big beans around. But some families live underground, in trees, sometimes in old barns or sheds."

Sage glanced away, she said, voice wavering only slightly. "Mother always said borrowers must be ready to move at any time. We know our homes might not last forever." She gave Jace a brave smile. "At least now I have a new home. Even if you are giant beans."

Jace felt a rush of affection for the tiny girl. She reached out, hesitating, then gently cupped Sage in her hands. "Will and I will keep you safe. I promise."

Sage relaxed into her hands, the tension bleeding from her petite body.

Day 2:

The cabin echoed with the sounds of Mackenzie working the hides into leather, his hands moving with ease. He glanced over at Sage, sitting on the table. The borrower girl was frowning, her delicate fingers fumbling with a piece of rabbit hide that dwarfed her petite form.

"Need some help with that?" Mackenzie offered, his deep voice gentle, trying to mask his concern for her evident frustration.

Sage's frown deepened, and she shook her blond head vehemently, her brown eyes flashing with a fire that belied her minuscule stature. "I can do it myself! I know how." she snapped.

Mackenzie held up his hands in surrender, backing off. He knew she liked being able to do things herself, and he noticed her increasing frustration at being coddled.

"Let me know if you change your mind," he said softly, turning back to his own work while keeping an eye on her from the periphery of his vision.

Time passed in a blend of silence and Sage's occasional grunts. Her tiny frame leaned into the task, cutting with an improvised blade. She measured and marked the hide with precision, furrowing her brows in concentration.

Mackenzie couldn’t help but admire her. Despite her struggles, she cut the material into a tiny garment. It was clear she knew what she was doing, even if the sheer scale of the task was overwhelming.

He continued his work in solidarity, respecting her need for independence. She might have been tiny compared to him, a mere four inches to his six-foot frame, but Sage would ask for help if needed.

Jace approached the table, her movements careful not to startle the tiny girl busy with her crafting. With a small clearing of her throat, she placed an assortment of items by Sage's side—a coil of wire, snippets of colorful threads, and a few beads.

"Thought you might like these," Jace said softly, her voice carrying warmth.

Sage paused, her brown eyes lifting from her work to evaluate the offerings. The tools were precious, especially to one of her size, and the gesture did not go unnoticed. "Thank you," she murmured, giving Jace a big smile.

"Welcome," Jace smiled, pushing up her glasses as she watched Sage return to her project. A tenuous and delicate bond was forming.

Night 3:

Night descended, casting the cabin into shadows save for the flickering glow of the fireplace. Mackenzie and Jace shared a bed, conserving heat against the chill that crept through the wooden walls. Sage lay nestled under Mackenzie's protective hand, a cocoon of warmth and safety.

It was the deep, silent hour of the night when Sage stirred. She wriggled free from the gentle hold, climbing gingerly over the rise and fall of Mackenzie's chest. Her heart raced as she navigated the treacherous terrain between him and Jace, each breath they took threatening to draw her back into the valley of blankets.

As she attempted to descend to the floor, Mackenzie's hand moved, curling protectively around her. She flinched, caught in the sleepy gaze of the man who had become her guardian.

"Can't sleep again, huh?" Mackenzie's voice rumbled softly from above her.

Sage glanced up, meeting his concerned blue eyes. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel seen, yet was she more than just a fragile creature to him? The thought gnawed at her, even as she yearned for the safety his presence offered.

"Am I…am I just a pet to you?" she asked, her voice quivering with vulnerability.

"Never," he said firmly, his expression earnest. "I see a person, not a pet."

Her heart skipped, warmed by his words, yet the insecurity lingered. She wanted to believe him, but old fears died hard.

"Try to rest," Mackenzie coaxed, "We've got a big day tomorrow."

"I just…" Her pout was defiant even as she struggled to find words. "I want to explore. Too much energy."

Heaving a sigh, he lifted her clear of the bedding's trap, his breath warm as it swept across her. His hand lowered to the floor, and she scampered away, her form swallowed by the darkness of the cabin.

In the seclusion of shadow, Sage worked on her secret endeavor. A safety pin unfurled into a hook, string meticulously tied to create a lifeline. She tucked the tool into a bag of her own making.

Day 4:

"Can't you just try to take a nap?" Mackenzie coaxed during the day, his brow creasing with concern as he watched her struggle with fatigue.

"Leave me alone!" Sage snapped, her voice sharp as a splinter. "I don't need your help!"

From across the room, Jace couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight of the minuscule girl standing defiantly against Mackenzie's towering figure. Yet, despite the humor, Jace admired how gently he handled Sage's outbursts and how carefully he cradled her when she finally succumbed to exhaustion.

"Maybe she just needs to feel like she's in control," Jace suggested later, observing the dynamic between the mismatched pair. "She's been through a lot."

Mackenzie nodded thoughtfully, watching as Sage's chest rose and fell in the rhythm of a troubled sleep.

When Sage woke, Mackenzie finally addressed the elephant—or perhaps the borrower—in the room.

"Sage, we need to talk about—"

"About how you let that giant Mathis take me?" Sage cut him off sharply, her voice quivering with fear and anger.

Mackenzie exhaled, his blue eyes meeting hers steadily. "I am sorry for that, more than you know. But I need you to understand that I won’t just hand you off to someone else. I promise we'll go slow at Perseverance Mills. No one will see you until you're ready—if you ever are."

"And if I want to live like a borrower again?" Her voice was faint, exposing her most profound vulnerability.

"Then you can live in my walls and borrow all you need from me."

For a long moment, Sage was still, her thoughts racing. Then she nestled into his curled fingers; a sigh escaped her.

"Okay," she whispered, allowing herself the comfort of his warmth.

Day 5:

The frosty breath of dawn curled through the trees as Mackenzie shouldered his pack, the weight settling familiarly against his back. The crisp air nipped at the exposed skin on his face, and he adjusted his toque with a gloved hand. Sage shifted in his chest pocket, snug within and dressed in her new rabbit fur clothes, peeking out to gaze at the vast wilderness before them. She clutched her new bag containing her newly crafted borrowing gear close.

"Ready, little one?" Mackenzie's voice was a gentle rumble; vibrations felt more than heard through the fabric cocooning her.

Sage nodded, her tiny hands clutching the edge of the pocket.

Scanning the horizon with a practiced eye, Jace hoisted her bag and stepped closer. "We should make good time if we keep a steady pace. Weather seems on our side today."

Mackenzie glanced over his shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling in silent appreciation for Jace's optimism. He knew the journey ahead would test them. But he felt confident the three of them would do just fine.

Note: This is the final chapter of this story. I hope, dear readers, that you've enjoyed it so far. I plan to write part two later in the year. I'll be planning to work on some other WIPs until then.

[angel-inrealtime]

November F1c Prompts Day 24

Day 24 - Thermoception (heat or cold in the environment)

“I’m not built for the cold. I hate it.” Daniel grumbles, hands jammed into the pocket of his hoodie. His nose is red from the freezing air but you can’t even really give him shit about not dressing appropriately; he’s got a beanie over his hair and ears and you watched him put thick socks on before you left the apartment. He’s even wearing boots instead of his Vans.

You step closer to him, worm your arm through the space near his elbow. “Come here, we can huddle for warmth.” You’re almost tripping over each other you’re walking so close but he starts to giggle, jiggling his elbow so you’re off balance. “If I go, you’re coming with me.” You warn.

It only seems to egg him on.

“Let’s go ice skating.” Scotty suggests once you’ve nearly tripped over each other more than once. “Clearly you kids need to burn off some energy.”

“I don’t do cold weather sports.” Daniel whines, jabbing his elbow into your ribs.

“He doesn’t want to get beat at winter sports.” You crow, elbowing him back.

“Hey! How about get fucked!” Daniel shoves you harder but wraps his hand around your wrist lightening fast to stop you falling.

You cling onto his hand, laughing. “You fucking asshole.” You step behind him and put your hands on his shoulders. “Piggy back.”

He catches you easily once you jump, hooks his hands under your thighs. “Your noble steed.”

Scotty fake wretches. “Oh my god you two are disgusting, I can’t deal with it.”

You don’t look over your shoulder, but you hear Chloe thump Scotty on the chest. “Shut up, they’re so cute.”

“Actually this is much warmer, we’re onto something here.” Daniel says as he walks along, chin tucked into the circle of your arms around his neck.

You squeeze his shoulders and kiss the skin on his neck, warm against your lips. “Big brain moves, babe.”

He snorts, still carrying you easily.

By the time you get to Bryant Park everyone is chatting around you and Daniel puts you down on your own two feet again. “Do we have to, I’m so shit at ice skating.” He tries again.

You reach up to pat him on the cheek with a grin. “It’s alright Bambi, I’ll help you.” You turn back to the group as he splutters. “Shall we get one of the igloo things after? We’ve got a bit of time before we have to be back.”

Chloe grins. “Love it, great idea. With cocktails, yeah?”

“Exactly, that’s why it’s an after skating activity.”

The ice isn’t particularly busy, and you think you must have unwittingly timed it well, coming after they finished the photoshoot for Daniel’s merchandise collection. You do a lap while Daniel fusses putting the hire skates on, muscle memory from a childhood spent on rinks coming back easily.

“Well well well, look at you go, you kept that quiet.” Blake laughs as you glide around him.

“I’m a woman of many talents, I’ll have you know.”

You slow to a stop in front of the entry gate and rock back and forward waiting for Daniel.

He huffs as he walks clumsily on the rubber mats towards you. “These are like, my least favourite things, the cold and-”

“Not being good at something immediately?” You finish for him. “It’s for fun, my love. Come on.” You say encouragingly. “You’ve rollerbladed before, right?”

“Not well.” He mutters, taking your hands. “I like bikes and shit that isn’t like...attached to my feet.”

You laugh but squeeze his hands. “So, keep your knees a little bent and just push and glide.”

“Oh yeah it’s just that simple...” He concentrates for about a quarter of the rink and then looks at you with wide eyes. “Hang on, you’re going backwards.”

“Well yeah, I grew up ice skating.”

“Surely that’s unsafe.”

You realise once he’s talking that he’s moving his legs without really thinking about it. “I’m not gonna start doing hockey stops in front of kids or anything.”

“Who do you reckon was the first person who was like; oh I know, I’m gonna strap fuckin' knives to my feet to get around?”

“Genius, honestly.”

“Nah.”

You keep him talking, pushing backwards as he pushes forwards. “Daniel, you’ve done two laps and you haven’t even noticed.”

“I...oh.” He grins his stupid megawatt grin right at you. “Fuck yeah, I can ice skate.”

You let go of one of his hands and half turn to skate beside him, holding the other one.

The rest of the session passes without incident, and he chases you once he’s properly got his legs under him. By the time you’re putting your shoes back on both of your cheeks are red, flushed from the cold and exertion.

It’s warm in the fake igloo, with mulled wine and apple cider steaming in paper cups held in cold fingers. Daniel pulls you down onto the same chair as him, legs draped across his lap. “For warmth.” He says out loud, to a chorus of laughter.

“Thanks for teaching me.” He says into your ear, breath tickling the skin there.

[red-dead-do-over246]

Howdy. You are an amazing writer 😍

Can we get "#243 I'll keep you warm" for Kieran? He is totes adorbs.

Thank you!! Of course! He must protected 💖 Hope you enjoy!

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Winter Nights

While Kieran is still locked up in the stables, a blizzard makes you feel a twinge of sympathy. 

#243 “I’ll keep you warm.”  

The wind was howling. The whole gang was huddled together in Colter, having run out of Blackwater. Snow started to fall as everyone made their way up the Grizzlies. As soon as Dutch sent out Arthur, John, and Micah to scout ahead, the snow started to get worse.

After you, the women, and others gathered in the main house, Dutch and Arthur went back out to search for the others. As you helped set up a suitable camp, voices could be heard outside.

They were back.

You rushed out to see them and were surprised to find another man with them. From the talking and harassment, you understood that he was an O'Driscoll. And that his name was Kieran.

They tied him up in the barn with the horses.

"Isn't that a little harsh?" You said to Dutch as you followed him back inside.

"I don't trust him in here with all of you. So, it's with the horses or with the wolves." The gang leader said back to you in a voice that told you to ask no more questions. To be honest, you didn't know much about the strife with the O'Driscolls. Sure, you didn't know the man, but Kieran looked more scared than angry at anything Dutch did. The poor man didn't look like he wanted to be in any of this.

As the blizzard started to set in, you couldn't help but feel pity for him.

You bundled yourself up and made your way to the door, a blanket hidden in your arms. No one seemed to pay you much attention, worried about their own warmth and comfort. However, Karen the nosy had to ask you a question.

"What you up to Y/N?" She asked curiously, making you stop at the door.

"Checking on my horse." You answered quickly. Karen raised a brow.

"In this weather? C'mon, the horse is fine." She tried to persuade you, but you just shook your head. You didn't want the real reason to get out because you knew she or someone else would try to stop you. Just because Dutch hates the O'Driscolls, everyone else automatically follows.

But not you.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep unless I know for sure." You said to her before leaving, hearing a brief "fine" as the door shut.

Wind and snow blew all around you as the moon was barely peeking through the clouds. Trudging through the snow was difficult, especially since seeing where you were going was hard. Thankfully, there was still a lantern lit outside the barn, guiding you through this horrid weather.

When you finally pushed through the doors and got in, the horses all snorted and stamped their feet, obviously scared by your arrival.

"W-Whose..." You could hear the man's timid voice float past the horses' breathing. There was no wind, but you could clearly see your breath in here along with the horses.

"Kieran." You said once he was in your sights. He flinched once you said his name, obviously scared that you were going to do something to him.

"Don't be scared." You told him, even though you knew your words were ridiculous. How can he not be scared?

"H-How can I not be?" Kieran said, reading your mind. You nodded in understanding, taking note that his stuttering is probably from both fear and coldness. His skin seemed to lack color and he was shaking violently.

"Are you cold?" You asked him, revealing the blanket you had in your arms. Kieran hesitated for a second, obviously knowing that if he was seen with that, the gang would surely be pissed. In fact, he was more worried about them than himself.

But still, his shoulders sagged in defeat, and he nodded numbly.

"Here then." You said while unfolding the blanket and approaching him.

“I’ll keep you warm.” You told him kindly as you wrapped the blanket around him. Since his hands were tied, you did your best to assure it stayed where you placed it. He would flinch now and then, but eventually did settle his shivering.

"Don't take this the wrong way-I'm really grateful for your kindness! But...why do you care?" He asked you, knowing that your fellow gang members would rather feed him to the wolves than let him hang around.

You sighed slightly.

"I don't think it's right to treat another person so horribly for something they didn't do." You told him.

"So...you don't care that I was an O'Driscoll?" He asked, confused. You shook your head.

"O'Driscoll is just a title. I can see that you are too sensitive and too kind to be like any of those thugs. No offense." You told him honestly, and you swore some color came to his cheeks.

"Little taken." He responded, causing you to giggle a little.

"You seem like a good man, Kieran. Perhaps the others will warm up to you in time." You told him hopefully. It was that or they kill him, and you really didn't want that second option to happen to this innocent man.

"Maybe...but thank you for your kindness. I really needed it." He told you with a nod, shuffling slightly to ease his back a bit. After all, they didn't tie him very nicely. You nodded at him before turning to leave, knowing someone would coming looking for you at some point.

"Anytime." You said before opening the barn doors and shutting them behind you. You made a promise to yourself to check up on him until the horrible weather subsides. He didn't seem so bad after all.

Until he was free, Kieran relied on your kindness as he was now tied to a tree. And it was that kindness that started his little crush on you.

However, will he ever be able to act on it? That's up to you.

[n7punk]

As Many Lives As It Takes (To Be With You) - Interlude: Three Years Ago

This is an interlude/short companion fic for As Many Lives As It Takes (To Be With You), my Nine Lives AU. It's set three years before the main fic.

Main fic on AO3. Pairing: Catradora. Chapters: 3/? (probably 8-ish total). Word count: currently 17k. Rating: T.

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Interlude Summary: At nineteen, Catra finally accepts help, even if opening up to Scorpia feels like it might kill her. At least it wouldn't stick. Word count: 3.7k. Intended Order: After Chapter 3 (after Chapter 2 is fine too). Notes: This is "skippable" considering it wasn’t in the original outline, but I wrote it on a whim and liked it, so have it over here. The real chapter four will be back in present day and up in a day or two. (Reblogs are off because I don't want this further removed from the context of the original fic, where it won't make sense).

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Interlude: Three Years Ago

It’s warm by the stove, far warmer than Catra has been since the summer gave way to fall and then winter. Sometimes she curses Bright Moon for having a full season’s cycle. Other times she knows that it’s better than the constant heat or cold some other places have to deal with. The rain from being off the coast is a lot to contend with, though.

Catra stays on the opposite side of town from Bright Moon Bay if she can help it — the last thing she needs is to drown, again — but the tropical storm that blew in took the rain to her. Absently, she reaches up and scrunches her hand into her short hair. For being a pixie cut, it holds a lot of moisture, and water runs down her fingers. It’s worse than her clothes sometimes, especially right now when she has at least changed out of her top. She feels uncomfortable in the loose uniform shirt she is wearing over the pants she wrung out in the bathroom and then put back on, but it’s nice to have something dry on.

Catra huddles closer to the stove, hoping its warmth can work into her bones before the scorpioni slowly moving around the kitchen decides she’s done and heads home. Catra isn’t eager to go back out into the rain, but any time away from the downpour is worth it. It has to be for her to come inside like this. It always makes her feel cagey. She has stayed in shelters before, but they scare her, maybe even more than this small kitchen filled with the smell of baking does. Shelters felt like a place where people would look for her. No one would ever picture Catra of all people here, bedraggled on the floor of a small kitchen filled with cutesy pink things.

“Scorpia! Anyone come in yet?” Rose says, brightly, looking up from whatever she is brewing on one of the freestanding stovetops. Catra flinches as the younger of the women becomes visible, shuffling through the open doorway to the shop. No, they haven’t. Catra’s hearing is on overdrive trying to find the threats that surely must be lurking under the stacks of teacups. No one who had anywhere to go would be stupid enough to be out in this weather. Scorpia shakes her head, throwing her mom a smile.

“I put a notecard on the counter to yell to the back in case someone does come and we don’t hear them, but I doubt anyone is out.” Well, that’s the first smart thing Scorpia has said. “We should probably head out if there’s a lull. Otherwise I think we might end up stormed in. Mom’ll be so worried.” Make that two things, even if this one makes her ears pin back. Heading out means sending Catra out.

It will be miserable, but at least she’ll be out in the open again. Safe. She guesses. Nowhere feels safe with this storm all around them.

Rose sighs.

“We can once I finish prepping things for tomorrow. I don’t think it’s going to let up. If it looks like it’s about to get worse, then we should head home, but for now let’s just wait it out,” she agrees. Scorpia nods, her whole body bouncing with the motion.

Adora used to do that, Catra’s mind reminds her. Traitor.

As if she can hear her, Scorpia turns her attention on Catra. Catra shrinks back despite how she hates showing fear. She just wants to ball up here and sleep forever. Lay down a blanket and it would be perfect. No one would be stupid enough to let some random homeless person sleep in their family shop — she can’t believe Scorpia even came out to the alley when the storm started and invited her in, much less that she accepted — but it’s a nice fantasy.

She’s only entertaining it because she hates being wet. It reminds her of-

Fuck, does she have no options that don’t tug at one of her traumas? Outside is open and “safe” — except for how it’s definitely fucking not, even on an average day — being indoors is being trapped, being in the rain is drowning again, and she’s left with nothing. At least the stove is warm. Scorpia doesn’t take her tail tightly wrapping around her ankles for the hint that it is and shuffles closer. She stays out of striking distance even with her stinger, but Catra feels a growl rising in her throat and quickly looks away.

She’s only proving that they should tell her to go, but instead Scorpia just sits down on the floor with her for some reason.

“Quite the storm, huh? Like being inside a washing machine. Just woooosh,” Scorpia seems to mime clothes spinning around in a washing cycle by circling her pincers in front of her. Something in Catra feels warm. The stove is working, then. She grunts an acknowledgment. Speaking words is risky. She has learned to spit teeth at any who approach her, but she has to hold her tongue when someone is there to help. It stings her pride, but she wouldn’t have made it this long if she hadn’t learned to take some kindness. Scorpia gave her more of it than she deserved already when she let her in. The least she can do is not snap at her.

And listen to her ramble, apparently, because she goes, “Oh, this one time…” and then she’s off telling the story of how they got stuck in an awful storm like this while driving between towns and thought their car was going to get swept away. Catra grunts occasionally and shuffles to readjust her position so the other side of her can get more warmth before something she can’t feel starts getting burned. Scorpia’s story peters out around the time Catra is readjusting her arm, maneuvering it with her left hand and tucking it into her lap a couple of different ways before she finds something that she thinks works.

She can feel Scorpia staring. She can even see it out of her periphery. It doesn’t feel predatory or anything, like she’s cataloguing her weakness, but Catra still pulls her lip back to show her fangs. She doesn’t know why she bothers when Scorpia’s stinger could take her out before she even got close enough to land a hit, but Scorpia raises her pincers in surrender.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude! It’s not my business. I was just wondering if there was anything I could do? I don’t know if a sling would help or…” She trails off, already looking around the kitchen as if she will magically see a medical station appear. Catra finally speaks just because she thinks Scorpia is five seconds away from standing and rushing around to find something. Tracking her all over the restaurant again is going to start wearing on her nerves.

“It’s paralyzed. Nothing is going to make it better,” Catra grits back. She can tell Rose is listening, even if she isn’t looking at her. Rose seems just as nice as her daughter, but they could both be deceiving her. Catra is almost sold on Scorpia. Rose… Well, Rose doesn’t directly remind her of anyone she already trusts, so she’s on thin ice. That might as well be the Catra equivalent of a golden pedestal, though.

“A sling could keep it from getting in the way!” Scorpia pipes up, like Catra hasn’t thought of that. She has tried, once or twice, with an improvised scarf or something. It actually just puts her arm in the way and makes her feel more helplessness. It certainly makes her look it.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt, anyway,” she mutters back. Except when people touch it, she doesn’t add. That doesn’t happen a lot unless someone happens to bump into her, so it might as well not be weakness. She shifts to tuck in her arm a little more, like hiding it from view will change the subject. Scorpia just keeps looking at her.

“If you want to talk about it-” Catra growls, “-not that I’m asking! We’re going to be here a while is all, and… I get the feeling you’ve never talked about it. Talking about things usually makes me feel better. Sometimes my roommate will just sit and listen to me while I unload and it helps a lot even without her talking back or even looking at me,” Scorpia hurries to placate her before losing the plot. Catra grumbles, tucking her face down into her arms. Yeah, she doesn’t think talking is going to be anything like that for her.

She doesn’t usually even acknowledge it’s paralyzed. She has had to say it a few times, but the closest she has ever come to addressing anything that happened was when she ran into her old classmate, and even thinking about that makes her throat tight. The way he looked at her- How is she ever supposed to tell someone what happened when she’s just opening herself up to that? Scorpia isn’t looking at her with sick fascination, though. Her eyes are just big and soft, like A-

“I fell,” Catra replies, cutting that thought off before it can finish. Watching Scorpia light up when she realizes that she’s telling her and then her expression fall as she remembers what they’re talking about is kind of funny. Scorpia always seems so open and warm. The light in her heart felt near blinding the first few weeks that Catra ran into her. Okay, maybe she just reminded her of someone and it felt like someone pulling her ribs out of her chest when she looked at her.

“That’s, uh, quite the fall. I’m really sorry about that, Wildcat,” Scorpia says. Catra feels something that might be a trill rise in her chest and swallows it down, tucking in a little tighter. She didn’t realize she was starting to uncurl. It’s just a stupid nickname, she doesn’t know why it makes her feel anything. It isn’t even a nickname, just what Scorpia started calling her when Catra wouldn’t give her a name at first. She knows it now, and her moms use it, but Scorpia still calls her Wildcat. No matter what, Scorpia keeps trying.

She doesn’t know why. Catra knows their family helps out other people who come around here – that’s how she found out about them in the first place – and yet Scorpia latched onto her for some reason and seems determined to fix her. Maybe she’s the most broken person that comes around. Maybe Scorpia isn’t used to people not immediately loving her. Maybe Catra is just her age. For some reason, she keeps trying to get Catra to open up to her.

I get the feeling you’ve never talked about it before. Is that all it takes? To look at her, see she’s alone, and want to fix that? Why? She has been alone for years. No one has ever really tried to help before. Give her a few dollars here, let her sneak into the bathrooms there, but in general, she has been by herself. Not that she has ever asked for help, but why would she do that? They wouldn’t give it to her.

Most people wouldn’t, anyway. Most people wouldn’t get hissed and snarled at and still come running to the back door to hand out food and try to make small talk while claws were flashed at them. Not that Catra ever raised her hand in a real threat at Scorpia, but she has certainly prepped her claws when Scorpia looked like she might get closer or got too chummy. Catra doesn’t know why she’s still trying, still being nice when Catra has never shown that kind of grace back. Adora’s mom used to talk about putting back out into the world what you wanted to be given. Catra has only ever given back what she got.

And right now, she isn’t even doing that. She wraps her tail tightly around herself and runs her fingers down her arm. Her fur is completely dry there. She probably showed it to the oven too long.

“I can’t feel it except when other people touch it. And then it just hurts,” Catra murmurs. She doesn’t know why. She just told Scorpia how to hurt her with explicit instructions, but all Scorpia does is nod with a sympathetic look on her face.

“Is that… normal for paralysis? Is that what phantom pain is?” Scorpia asks. Catra actually laughs, a dark chuckle that feels foreign in her chest. Yeah, big Adora energ-

She clears her throat.

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just a me thing,” she replies. Scorpia looks concerned and it makes Catra’s chest hurt, but for once, it kind of feels good? She’s used to hollowness, or angry buzzing, or bitter regret, but this feels more like stepping outside for the first time on a cold night, a shock to her system and tightness in her lungs. Eventually the numbness sets in, but in this moment? It feels good.

There’s a warm oven right next to her. Frostbite doesn’t have to creep into her fingers.

“That doesn’t sound good. When was the last time you saw a doctor? I know it’s probably hard to, but there has to be a free clinic or something, right?” Scorpia asks. Catra snorts, her hand still on her arm. She squeezes. She doesn’t really know why. It’s lax beneath her fingers, no muscles flexing to harden it.

“Never,” she replies. Rose stops pretending to be busy, freezing as Scorpia’s jaw drops. Suddenly self-conscious, Catra hunches her shoulders. “I was- I was homeless right after- Actually because of-” She cuts off. She doesn’t owe them an explanation. So why does she feel like she should have one? Why are tears burning at the back of her eyes?

She doesn’t want a doctor. She knows this. Any time she gets near a medical professional, it’s dangerous and panics her. How much could they suspect this long after the fall, though, when everything would be healed over? When she can just tell them whatever she wants about what happened? They wouldn’t be able to help, she always tells herself, and she’s right, but the fantasy of someone being able to is so alluring. A fantasy of being cared for, and things getting better, and more warm ovens while she’s at it.

“I- You need to. I know you probably can’t afford it, but it can’t be that expensive, right? Just for an appointment?” Scorpia asks, twisting around to look at her mom as she asks. Her mom turns around and looks just as stressed. Catra’s throat tightens. No. No, she can’t even let them suggest spending their money on something that would never help.

“No. Once it’s paralyzed there’s nothing you can really do. Any money I’ve ever had has been better served going towards food, or new clothes, or a room for the night. Things that keep me alive,” Catra replies, shaking her head. Food, clothes, things they’ve already done for her. They don’t need to do more.

She isn’t expecting Rose to turn to her, looking like she is about to cry.

“You’re so young. How did this happen to you?” she asks, her tone distraught enough for Catra to know it isn’t a real question, just internal horror making itself known, but still her mouth opens and closes a few times.

There are tears in her eyes. That realization is the last wall crumbling down as she buries her face in her knees and allows herself to cry for the first time in a long, long time.

--

Catra hasn’t really been in a car in the last three years. Scorpia doesn’t question it when she curls up in the backseat, dripping again from the rain that came down on them as they made the run from the shop to the car. Catra is still wearing the employee t-shirt, her bag that never leaves her side on the floor of the car beside her. Rose said her clothes were still soaked and Scorpia could just wash the shirt and bring it back when it was time.

Catra isn’t sure when is going to be the time. She isn’t sure where they’re going really, or how long she’s supposed to stay there, or how long she’s going to stay there, but she’s so exhausted that she just couldn’t fight it or find a reason to say no when Scorpia offered for her to stay with her while she got herself sorted out. She thinks the offer is a few days, with the condition that she actually do something about improving her life.

She isn’t sure where to start. She isn’t sure she’s ready to start. But she is sure she’s tired of this. If she walks away from this opportunity, she isn’t likely to ever get another one, or at least not one as kind as this. She doesn’t know there could be someone kinder after she cried on their floor for two hours and unloaded horrific shit on them as she went through what she could – first the fall, and then the homelessness, and then further back with the “near” drowning, and by then they got the picture but they still flinched when she mentioned the window, and Rose was crying as hard as she was when she talked about Weaver.

She doesn’t know why they let her do that. She depressed them, she knows, but instead of telling her it was time to go, they started workshopping solutions together, looking at her for input and approval while she just sat there, stunned.

Her toe claws flex against the floor of the car and she watches them almost snag on the car mats. She doesn’t trust this, but she has lived every day of the last three years in fear anyway. Might as well be indoors while she stews in her discomfort, right? As long as they’re willing to offer it. If this can last just long enough for her to get in a program or something like they suggested, maybe she can get somewhere that she trusts is safe. She’s scared to exist again, but she keeps telling herself it has been three years. She has the paralysis to show as “proof” of injury from the accident. She can sell this lie. She had it half-formed in her mind already, from times when she has had to brush up against the story before, but she put together something coherent on the floor of that shop, she thinks.

They offered her a home, so apparently it was good enough. She just has to hope that whatever government employee gets saddled with her case thinks so too.

She tenses when they finally park. Scorpia’s apartment block is pretty big, but nondescript. She can’t really tell what it’s going to be like from the lobby or hallway, but when Scorpia opens the door for her, the apartment is in good shape. Nothing fancy or expensive except maybe the TV, but nothing is broken or stained at first glance, and they have enough furniture to fill out the space. The couch looks like it will probably be the most comfortable place she has slept since last winter, so she doesn’t really care what Scorpia’s roommate is like as long as she doesn’t try to make her leave.

“Entrapta! We’re home! I brought a friend,” Scorpia calls, her booming voice forcing Catra to pin her ears back. Friend is a bit of a stretch, but it seems to interest Entrapta enough for her to emerge from down the hall after a few moments. She cocks her head as Scorpia busies herself with closing the door and putting away her shoes. Catra considers waving and ends up grimacing instead as she drops her bag from her shoulder and cautiously bends to set it beside where Scorpia put her shoes. The thing is filthy.

Catra straightens up and leaps in the air when she turns around and finds the girl with pigtails right behind her. She hisses, her tail shot straight out and her fur fluffing up, but Entrapta doesn’t even look at Catra’s claws snapping out and her left hand stiffening into an attack position, she just bends way too close to inspect Catra’s arm, which obviously swung as she moved.

“Fascinating! How long has it been like that? Can you feel it?” Entrapta asks, pulling a fucking wrench out of her pocket. Scorpia steps up beside Catra on her left, waving her pincers a little frantically.

“Entrapta, you can’t ask that! It’s rude!” Scorpia tries to stop her. Entrapta looks up, blinking at her. Scorpia throws Catra an apologetic look. “Sorry, she really doesn’t mean anything by it, she just doesn’t interact with a lot of people-”

Then Entrapta touches Catra’s arm. She screams into her teeth, buckling until one of Scorpia’s pincers catches her on her left side and she manages to stumble onto her feet again. Entrapta watches her with fascination.

It isn’t a great first meeting.

[ga-yuu]

Benkei is my fave ikegen suitor.

Sure my dear Anon~

This story is from a collection event and it's in Benkei's POV.

Sweet Bondage ~Benkei Story

It was already dusk. I was in my room cleaning my weapon when I heard the sound of raindrops hitting the ground.

(Is it raining? But the sky was so clear this morning)

I didn't expect it to start pouring, so I felt a little surprised...and suddenly I realized.

(Did Yoshino take an umbrella with her?)

Yoshino is currently out on a house call.

When I saw her walking through the gate this morning with a smile, all I saw was her carrying her medicine box and work tools.

Benkei: "...."

As soon as I remembered that, I put down my weapon and got up in a quick pace.

..........

(Luckily, the rain isn't too heavy. But...)

If she gets wet, she will catch a cold.

And in the winter sun sets early.

I left the mansion with two umbrellas and as soon as I reached the town, it was covered in rain.

(I need to find you as soon as possible)

With a heart full of impatience, I kept walking searching for Yoshino.

Not long after, I found her shelter from the rain under the eaves.

(Found you)

Relieved, I tried to call out to her, but when I looked closely I saw her talking to another man.

It was a regular citizen of Hiraizumi who I knew.

Yoshino: "No. I don't want to bother you..."

Man: "Of course not. I won't be at ease until I make sure you safely reach home."

Man: "Unfortunately, I only have one umbrella, so it might be a bit cramped...."

It appeared that he had offered Yoshino to walk her to the mansion safely, and was holding out his umbrella to her.

When the man was about to welcome Yoshino under his umbrella.

Benkei: "Sorry there, but I'm here to bring back Yoshino."

I quickly interrupted and holds Yoshino tightly.

Yoshino: "Benkei!?"

Man: "! Benkei-sama."

They both seemed surprised by his unexpected appearance.

Man: "Ah, thank god you came to pick up, Yoshino-san."

The man sighed in relief.

Yoshino: "Y-Yes."

Benkei: "It looks like you're trying to send her home safely, thank you."

(Even in Hiraizumi, it's not safe to let a woman go out alone at night)

I thanked the man again for standing by her side.

Benkei: "You too. Go home and get rest before it gets cold."

Man: "Yes! Good night, Benkei-sama! Yoshino-san!"

Yoshino: "Yes, thank you and good night."

After seeing the man off, Yoshino looked up at Benkei and smiled happily.

Yoshino: "You came to pick me up, right? Thank you, Benkei."

Benkei: "Of course, I didn't expect it to rain. So I was worried. Did you get wet anywhere?"

Yoshino: "I'm fine...Ah! You also brought me an umbrella."

Yoshino reaches out to take it, and before I could hand over the umbrella...

(...On second thoughts)

I changed my mind and didn't give her the umbrella.

Benkei: "Come closer, Yoshino."

Yoshino: "Huh? Ah..."

I pulled the confused Yoshino under the umbrella which I was holding.

As we huddle together to avoid getting wet, and as I feel her warmth, my heart beats wildly.

Benkei: "......."

Yoshino: "B-Benkei? What's wrong?"

Yoshino's cheeks turned slightly red as she looked up at me.

I looked down and she looks up and we were both covered by my umbrella.

All we can see is our images, in each other's eyes and the clear sound of raindrops started feeling distant.

And all I hear is her voice.

(It's as if we have been cut off from the outside world)

(...Geez, what am I thinking)

I let out a small smile and as if pushed by love....

Yoshino: ".....Nn...."

I drop a faint kiss on Yoshino's forehead.

(Maybe because of the rain, your body feels colder than usual)

On the other hand, I feel that we must return to the mansion as soon as possible to warm up our bodies.

But I also had conflicting feelings about staying like this with Yoshino forever.

Yoshino: "B-Benkei..."

Even though she is hiding under the umbrella, Yoshino cannot hide her blushing cheeks.

(If you make a face like that, even I'd be embarrassed)

While feeling embarrassed, I tried to talk bluntly.

Benkei: "I wanted to touch you. Do you dislike it?"

Yoshino: ".....O-Of course not. I always like it when Benkei touches me."

Benkei: "Really? ....I also did it so, I can hear your voice better."

Despite our height difference, our voices reverberate softly within the narrow space under the umbrella.

(I feel like I want to have you all to myself)

Benkei: "Let's go home."

If you smile like that,

Yoshino: "Mm."

I won't hesitate anymore.

(If you get wet even after this, I guess I have no choice but to cuddle you like this later)

Her umbrella which she no longer needs, still remains in my left hand.

And with that, I gently hugged her as if happy and modest bondage.

[antiquatedsimmer]

Helena sat huddled next to the warmth of the living room furnace, seeking relief from the relentless waves of nausea that assailed her senses. Outside, another blizzard raged through the country, She clutched her abdomen, willing herself to hold back the urge to vomit, determined to avoid venturing outside to the backhouse.

Her face must have betrayed her discomfort as Eddy approached her from behind, his eyes narrowing with concern.

"You feelin' alright, Darlin'?" he asked

Helena straightened her back, mustering all her strength to appear composed as Eddy took a seat beside her on the bench.

She had been grappling with the thoughts of when, how, and if she should break the news to Eddy about the life growing inside her.

Doubt lingered in her mind as she questioned whether the news of her pregnancy would truly be a cause for celebration.

She just needed more time she thought, more time…. and an excuse.

"I think I've just caught a cold," Helena said, her voice tinged with a hint of unease. "I spent too much time knitting on the porch while it snowed."

"Right, Dove," Eddy chuckled, his voice filled with mirth. "I ain't seen a winter this harsh in Henford in ages! I'm hopin' it won't delay the arrival of spring. "

" Them chickens we got must be frozen solid by now, bless their feathery souls!" His laughter filled the cabin, momentarily lifting the weight of their concerns.

Helena joined in the playful laughter, her worries momentarily pushed aside.

"Don't you go jokin' about that, Eddy!" she chimed in, her voice filled with mock seriousness. "Those birds are keepin' us fed, and we can't afford to lose 'em to the cold. Gotta keep 'em warm and cozy, just like us!"

Eddy chuckled "Well, make sure you get plenty of rest while ya can, Dove," Eddy advised with a smile. "We gotta get ourselves ready for spring and all the work that comes with it. Can't have you feelin' under the weather when planting season hits."

Helena nodded then watched as Eddy made his way to the bedroom. Her thoughts were still preoccupied with the news she carried. She knew she had to find the right time and the right words to share her secret with Eddy. For now, though, she would focus on taking care of herself and keeping their hopes alive for a fruitful spring.

[mzoyagon]

Some lore (which can also double as a headcanon) for my SABA AU!

Note for this post: I will be using any pronouns for Vex, due to headcanoning him as genderfluid.

Based off of @dognightmare4 's idea that Vex takes different forms based on what is feared the most at the time, I began imagining what a prehistoric Craftworld would look like for him (ignoring Sackboy's Prehistoric Moves since I know nothing about it + I think it takes place during the age of dinosaurs while this is more about the beginnings of humanity). I pictured a cold and dark time ruled by a creature commonly known as the saber toothed tiger (which is actually just called a saber toothed cat, they’re not related to tigers). This must have been the first thing to be widely feared right? So I doodled up a baby version of Vex, basing him off of that creature…

Meet the greatest predator of early Craftworld. Though yet to be known as the master of the Uproar, Vex already had a reputation from kittenhood to the point of being considered the strongest creature of the Uproar. They would hunt smaller creatures for food and sport, their attacks being considered a natural part of Craftworld's life cycle. These hunts, which would supposedly go on for days and nights on end until Vex was satisfied, instilled terror and wonder in the denizens of Craftworld, compelling them to revere and even worship them. Research by the modern-day Institute of Craftworld Knowledge (ICK) has shown a possibility that when someone was caught by Vex they would bow down and pray to them, not for mercy from death but peace in the afterlife.

"But Mzoya, who were these 'someone's?"

Hang on, I’m getting there.

Vex's favorite snacks were none other than the ancestors of what we now call Sackpeople. Back in the day, they were made from leaves, petals, and stems from various plants, earning them the name Plantlings. Because of Vex's predation, they were always on the move, the slowpokes being the ones that would become its next meal. This made the ones that survived evolve to become agile both on land and in water, but they still had one major weakness: the cold. Each winter, they would huddle up to whatever warmth they could find, but many would still wither and die. Once plentiful all throughout Craftworld, Vex and the cold combined caused their numbers to dwindle until they became endangered. However, they were an intelligent and crafty kind, one day learning the key to their descendants' survival: fabric. They had observed that emerging species made of various fleeces and fabrics could survive the winter much easier, even if many were unable to swim like Plantlings could. With this knowledge in mind, the first Sacklings were stitched. The following winter, the last Plantlings died out, but Sackpeople live on to this day, carrying with them the legacy of their flowery ancestors.

As time went by, Vex's innocence would be whittled away by her peers, who wanted to bring a fate crueler than death to other kinds. They would convince her of things that can only be left up to imagination, with the goal of influencing her to push the balance of dreams and nightmares in favor of nightmares (see my previous post on the subject). The young feline, impressionable and knowing little about her prey, accepted their "guidance", leading the Uproar to become more and more cruel. Eventually Vex took the form of a demon as demons became more feared than the now-extinct creature she was born as, and by that time she was acting the part too. This series of events changed not just the Uproar, but all of Craftworld for the worse. In order to combat Vex, a brave Sackling would wield the energy of dreamer orbs to dispel to Uproar and protect Craftworld. Such began the legacy of the Knitted Knights.

(Side note: My gods I love using she/her pronouns for Vex.)

So yeah, that’s how Nightmares (uproar creatures) and Sackpeople became what they are today lol

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 2: Luming

Narrated by Momo.

Narrator: After passing through the fog, the reflections of stars in the clear water come off like a pan of shining sand.

Nikki: It's been a while since I was here at the Lake of Wishes, and it's still so lovely.

Narrator: We head toward the small building in the middle, where Luming is looking into a lantern.

Momo: Luming! Hey, is that my Lantern of Wishes?

Narrator: The lantern emits brilliant light in Luming's hand. I notice the round top suddenly sprouts two little triangles... that look like my ears.

Luming: Yes. And I know your wish now.

Narrator: Luming nods as the red twines on his horn swing. He seems high-spirited

Luming: I'll do my best to help you make your wish come true, Momo.

Momo: Have I told you how dependable you are, Luming?

Narrator: It's urgent, so I unfold the sheet and uncap the pen...

Momo: The design must fit the character's traits. Speaking of deer, the most obvious feature is the antlers, right?

Luming: Gorgeous antlers must look like resilient branches.

Narrator: I draw smooth lines with a brown marker.

Luming: The body has white, round spots, like rice balls we had in Cloud.

Luming: The White Queen lives in a very cold place? Young reindeer would grow thick wool for the winter.

Luming: They might look hairy, but it doesn't affect their grace one bit.

Luming: Also...

Momo: Slow down, you're about to lose me!

Narrator: With overenthusiastic help from Luming, my design starts to take shape.

Narrator: It features artistic antlers, cute ears, and a furry cape with bells that ring when the wearer skips like a deer.

Narrator: Good job, me, for quickly grasping the essence.

Momo: Oh the queen's reindeer has no lines and must perform through body language.

Momo: For realism's sake, mind teaching me some motion and movement?

Luming: Sure! Let me think of the more common ones...

Luming: Okay, to show endearment, let the other rub your head.

Luming: In the cold night, you can also huddle with someone to share the warmth.

Narrator: I extend my arms in a trial hug. At my height, the only thing I could hug would be the queen's calf.

Choose either "Too short" or "Momo is very thorough."

If "short," ...

You: Hee, a little short there, Momo!

Narrator: No, it's not because I'm short. It's because the actresses all wear high heels!

If "thorough," ...

You: Very thorough of you to even consider the visual effects.

Narrator: It's what professionals do!

--

Narrator: It's absolutely clever of me to get Luming to help out. My confidence soars with the design in hand.

Narrator: Luming puts my Lantern of Wishes on the nearest rack. The cat-shaped lantern is even brighter than before.

Luming: Momo is a very good actor already. I'll keep following you. Go get 'em!

Momo: I got this! I know I'm a very good actor, too!

Narrator: I'll make the costume when I get home. Look out, audition!

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[the-world-annealing]

Witnessing Orcs - Demographics and Social Structure

If I could write but one chapter of this book, it would be this. All there is to orcs, all their deeds and misdeeds, their battle-cries, their raids, their supposed cruelty, their fearsome reputation, it can all be reduced to the things that I shall here expound upon. There will be no listing of virtues and vices, no attempt to find some insubstantial nature of good or evil. All the orcs do, I shall reduce to facts of their species, their needs, and their lands.

Let us start with a straightforward equation. If among the orcs there are adults, then there must be children. If an orc reaches adulthood at twelve, and dies at thirty, then at any time, at least two fifths of their numbers must be going through childhood. If instead an orc can expect to die at twenty-five, no less than half of them must be children. Earlier, still, and the children outnumber the adults.

But children are not immortal. Even today, where anyone may tap clean water from public wells, where walls and guards protect us from danger, where learned men record their knowledge of disease and share it for the public good: still as much as one in three might die before adulthood. When disease ravages the land and corpses are burnt by the dozen, those learned men turn out to know nothing after all. When a blight comes for the harvest, no wall is tall enough to keep out famine.

I know mothers who have birthed five children, yet survived all of them. I know of men and women who will, when liquor loosens their tongues, speak of siblings who are now dead, and of nightmares where they aren’t. I know graveyards, have walked down their rows, read the headstones, of which so many mark the same year twice. Think of this! Think of this, when you hear the coming tale of sorrow, and mistake it for mere wickedness.

Orcs then. Let us return to them, to their wilderness existence, their roofless encampments, their diet of the undercooked meat of beast and men, their beds of wet dirt that will, when winter comes, harden into solid ice. If the children of humans, sheltered by all the wonders of civilization, still die at such rates as we discussed, what to think of orcs?

The answer is this: one out of three newborn orcs will live to reach the age of twenty. The others die: most in infancy, some in childhood, a rare few as young adults. The survivors, almost universally, perish within a decade: the rare few who don’t, in each tribe one or two per generation, succumb to the Ashing.

I was raised among orc children. I remember them laughing, playing, dying. I remember when winter would come, and we would gather around the fires, and huddle together for warmth. I remember how, one day, we awakened from our slumber to find that one of us had died in the night, his body cold save for where it had been lying against another.

I remember hunger, the hunters all gone to find some distant prey, perhaps (so we feared) never to return. I had learned of a tree-root that could be dug up and eaten, and as it was in great supply, shared the secret with the others. But shortly after, all but me began to heave, and their vomit painted the ground bile-green. I remember looking upon the chunks of root they had coughed up, damaged but undigested, and wondering what set me apart from them.

I remember disease: parched lips in swollen faces, bloodshot eyes, hair falling out in clumps. I remember the screams of delirium, of pain, of despair. I have seen children – children! – look upon one of their own, swollen with illness, and remember the same plague, five years ago, and how no one afflicted back then survived.

Sometimes, famine and disease would strike jointly. Have you seen the look of those who, perched like vultures, ponder a plague-ridden corpse, and wonder if it will sate their hunger? Have you seen the ill and weak pushed aside as they scramble for food, heard their screams as others carelessly trample them?

Do these things sicken you? Frighten you? Do you wish to avert your eyes, toss this book away, burn it? Do you wish to decry it as lies? Do you demand I stop this, cease this list of tortures, get to a point already? Good. These things are abominable, and mad, but most of all true. At last, then, may I tell you this.

The children of orcs suffer so, and the orcs care not for them.

The young are nursed and fed, of course. The recently weaned, too, receive a share of the hunt, set aside for each individual. The sick may, if times are good, find care at the fires, receive clean water and healing herbs. But all other children are simply allotted a share of the meat, to divide as they please, and left alone to fend for themselves. They are not named, and no adult will ever speak the name a child chooses for itself. They have no mother or father, and treat no adult different from any other. They are not spoken to, and ignored when they speak. A crying child knows it will find no comfort with the adults, and so does not seek any. And when they die, their bodies receive no honours, and may be buried, eaten, or abandoned, as any beast’s carcass would be. The word ‘neglect’ does not come to describe this, for neglect implies there is some duty to fail, some bond to sully, but of such a thing no orc conceives.

The offspring bands together for protection and aid, younger children flocking to the older. They learn from each other, scavenge, imitate the uncaring adults. They mishear tales, and pass them on to each other, and form their own myths, and find meaning in them. Sometimes, they fight; both among and within groups, and while no deaths result from these activities, few orcs reach adulthood without scars. And then, they go through the rites, and are child no more. Most manage to put childhood aside, embrace the lives of adults, those slight improvements they bring.

Is this cruel? I have pondered that question, that word, for a long time. I have thought it to be so, some days. I have raged against orcs, against the indifference of the adults, the petty games of the children, my own willingness to take part in it all. I have raged against Gruumsh, and when I heard no response, ceased to consider him worthy of prayer. I have raged against myself, cursing my weakness when I suffered, cursing my strength when others did. And I have reconsidered, deemed it different from cruelty, dismissed the phrase as a void without meaning. Only now, reflecting on my life, do I have an answer.

Once, when I was a hunter, I spied on a deer. It was eating in a clearing, unaware of my presence, yet too far to strike with an arrow or spear. Suddenly, seven wolves emerged from the forest, and charged the deer, which tried and failed to run. A wolf jumped on its back, sending the animal crashing into the dirt, while another nipped at its legs. A third wolf rent open its stomach, sending blood and guts spilling out, and began to feast. All throughout the animal screamed, feebly thrashing with its head and legs, heedless of its imminent death, stopping only when a wolf’s fangs crushed its throat. The wolves howled in joy, for they would not starve that day.

Were the wolves cruel, to hunt in this manner?

Imagine you are an orc, sixteen years of age, strong and healthy. You have a child of your own, your second or third one, recently born. If you’re its mother, you might stay with it, for a while, nursing it along others’ children. You will see many of those infants die before they can walk. In time, you will abandon the surviving ones to the care of another recent mother, and rejoin the hunts. You must: there are many children, and food is always scarce.

The other orcs, too, must hunt. The oldest of them is twenty-eight. You know one orc who was older, once: she grew grey and mad, spoke of ghosts and death and friends long gone. One day she was found at the bottom of the falls, head bashed in on a rock. You know not whether it was an accident. You do not know human elders help raise their grandchildren: if you did, the idea would feel vaguely horrifying to you.

You, like any other orc, know the terrors of childhood firsthand. You have lost friends, perhaps all friends. You have learned, repeatedly, that loss is inevitable, that life is uncertain. You know that if you love this child, if you let it love you, you will be separated, time and time again, until at last one of you dies, and that the other may never learn thereof. And you know fairness: all orcs hunt for all children, and so all children belong to all orcs. To favour your own, in but the smallest ways, is unthinkable. Before long, you will no longer be able to tell it apart from any other: hunts are long, and children grow quickly. To condemn the child to commonplace neglect, to pain and fear and loneliness, to a two-thirds chance of an early grave; that choice is one of cold logic, not evil, not malice.

Some reject it, even so. Some take their infant and leave the tribe, and raise it by themselves. No orc has true power over any other orc. No king or master, no guard defending some imaginary border, will bar this, no law prohibits it, no orc would bar this flight without making all others his enemy.

But to hunt alone, even without caring for a child, is foolishness. It is the path of sickness and hunger, and if the child dies, the tribe often does not welcome back those it allowed to leave. Even so, I remember my tribe, and how some parents chose this: those I never saw again. I pray that, for however long their children lived, they knew something like love.

All orcs in a tribe, all who have had children, must accept that they cannot keep them from harm; all who cannot do so must leave. Some orcs go a step further, and refuse to acknowledge the suffering of children at all. Oh, of course they must be fed, and safe. Of course they should not be injured. But we must not pretend they feel, truly feel, like you and I. The gulf between child and adult is great, and surely the suffering of one is not like the suffering of another. I hated those orcs, once, as well. I thought that if any chose evil, it was them. But now, I am unsure. Is there a difference, between refusing to reduce pain, and denying it exists at all? I know how wrong they are; I remain baffled at their twisted logic, their contortion of childhood memories into something that lets them comfortably ignore those youthful screams. But my hate has ran dry: and having seen the world from their eyes, I blame them not for refusing reality.

Perhaps there is a less cruel way. I have wondered, often, about the shapes that all this could have taken. I have dreamt of nomadic orcs, of great families driving their herds over vast plains, their children knowing the joy of a hundred caring parents. Of fisherman orcs in seaside villages, surrounded by rich seas that bring the food to them, and save them from endless separation. Of orcs that might grow truly old, who have time to think, to innovate, to reinvent their lives. For a while, I imagined myself some fated saviour, a prophet, in this world to invent some glorious scheme that might end all this suffering, and share it with all orcs.

Nearing the end of my life, I find that I have lost interest in things as they ought or oughtn’t be, those passions that consumed my younger self. Increasingly, I merely concern myself with the world as it is. Increasingly, I wonder if there is a point in anything else.

I witnessed: may others find use in my accounts.

[yoonmin-cheri]

the sunflower and the peony - chapter 1

Jimin had been sold into servitude as a young child. Growing up in the palace hadn’t been so bad compared to the life he could have lived outside of their pristine walls. He was given steady meals, had somewhere to lay his head every evening, and didn’t have to worry about finding refuge from the cold during the darkest days of winter. That wasn’t to say that he enjoyed being flung into whatever strange work his supervisor found for him that day. Too many times he’d been tasked with cleaning the pathways of the ondol floors in the summer, stuck in a stuffy chimney sweeping soot. Or ordered to clean the mess that birds had left on the golden rooves of the palace. But at least he wasn’t starving or worse in the alleyways of Hanyang like so many other people.

 He'd been in the palace long enough to forget his family. He could barely remember anything about his life before the palace, vague memories of parents with too many children shoved into a tiny house that required everyone to huddle together for body warmth during a snowstorm. If he’d been tasked with finding his mother in a crowd, he doubted that he’d be able to succeed now. All he knew was that his parents had been of the lowest class of Joseon, a fact that the higher-ranking servants readily reminded him of.

 “Jimin,” head servant Misoo barks, the young man stepping forward and dropping to the ground in a bow as though he were addressing the king himself, “Good boy.” Jimin bites his tongue at the satisfaction that his obedience has brought to the cruel head servant. “We have princesses coming from neighboring kingdoms next week for the new king to evaluate for a wife. You will be assigned as one princess’s closest servants.”

 Jimin winces in pain, thankful that his face is still pointed at the ground and his hands pressed firmly in front of him. “I understand, head servant-nim.”

 “You must do her bidding, no matter what. If she demands for you to swim in the pig’s dung, then you will do it.” Misoo instructs. Jimin knows that his evil supervisor will pass on such a message to the princess, perhaps in the hope that the princess will test her power on Jimin. “While you are tasked to care for the princess, you must also keep your ears open for any unfavorable opinions or ideas she might hold.”

 “I understand, head servant-nim,” Jimin forces himself to say, desperately trying to remain poised in front of his supervisor. The idea of being a spy gives him shivers, worry seeping into his skin at potentially being caught between two powerful kingdoms. Perhaps Misoo feels joy at the potential for Jimin to be disposed of like the worthless peasant he is.

 “You may continue your duty of readying the tea for the royal family this evening,” she continues, “Tomorrow you will report to me first thing in the morning for your position.”

 Jimin scurries off to the kitchens, grateful that he’s allowed to interact with the kitchen staff there. His close friends Seokjin and Taehyung are both part of the kitchen staff, usually delivering food after it’s been prepared by the cooks. They’ll be the ones delivering the tea that Jimin has prepared for the royal family today, along with a collection of snacks. “I won’t be here for a few days,” Jimin sighs as he tears the dried leaves into small pieces to better extract the flavor, “I’m being assigned to princess duty.”

 Taehyung frowns as he watches the servant work, “Was that your supervisor’s idea?” Jimin nods as Seokjin arranges the tea snack on the plates. “I don’t know why your supervisor hates you so much.”

 “She always likes to remind me of my family’s status in Joseon,” Jimin explains to both Taehyung and Seokjin rolling their eyes on behalf of their friend, “Even among us servants, family status is crucial. I’m just lucky that I’m not a member of the slave class.”

 Both the kitchen servants give a long look at Jimin, both the sons of decently middle-class merchants. As second born sons, they’re expected to find their own way in the world compared to their elder brothers who will carry on their families’ names. The money that they earn at the palace as middle-class servants is enough to pay for both lodging and to send money back to their families, a luxury that Jimin can’t even imagine.

 Jimin finishes up making tea and hands it off to Taehyung to be delivered to the royal family. “I’ll see you... eventually,” Jimin says before he bids both delivery servants good evening.

 That evening, Jimin tosses and turns, sleep unwilling to come. While he can gauge the cruel treatment that head servant Misoo gives him, he doesn’t know what this princess will be like. Will she be kind and caring to him, or save such a face only for the king himself? At least as a man, Jimin doesn’t have to worry about bedroom duty, so he can only assist her while she’s properly dressed for the day.

 The reality is though, Jimin has no say in the treatment that the princess might give him. He is still a member of the lowest class of Joseon, bound to the palace by way of his poor parents who’d locked him to these walls when he was barely old enough to fend for himself. In the morning, he reports to Misoo as instructed, bracing himself for a long, drawn out day.

 “You will be assigned to Princess Dahee,” Misoo explains, “She will be lodged in the building on the far eastern part of the garden.” Jimin feels the color drain from his face as he realizes that the building is on the furthest edge from the kitchens and the center of the palace. Meaning that he will be tasked with heading back and forth between the princess’s quarters and the rest of the palace for every miniscule task the princess puts him through. If she wants a cup of tea, he will have to trek all the way to the kitchens. Should she ask for any poetry or entertainment, Jimin would have to walk to the entertainers’ house for her. Perhaps being a bedroom attendant for the princess would be preferred after all.

 “I understand, head servant-nim,” Jimin says with a low bow.

 “Well, you better get going,” Misoo clicks her tongue and motions for him to leave the servants’ quarters, “You know how far away the princess’s quarters are. She’ll be arriving any minute now.”

 Jimin dashes as quickly as he can across the vast courtyards and finally the east garden. By the time that he makes it to the princess’s supposed quarters, he’s panting and out of breath. By the sheer luck of the gods, he has arrived before the princess’s procession. He’s even able to introduce himself to the other servants assigned to Princess Dahee.

 “Tae!” Jimin squeals, running up to hug his best friend, “You’re assigned to Princess Dahee too?”

 Taehyung shakes his head, “I’m only here to confer with Princess Dahee’s servants the type of meals that the kitchens ought to serve her. You know how royals are.”

 “Well, we can only hope she isn’t cruel,” Jimin says as the sound of a drum rumbling announces the princess’s arrival to the palace.

 Jimin is immediately tasked with bringing in the princess’s many belongings, carrying in golden chest after golden chest. He doesn’t know what exactly each contains, but he is given strict orders. “Should one of my chests become damaged at any point,” the princess says with a cold tone, “I will have your head. Do not ask what will become of your body.”

 Jimin takes extra care for each chest now, not willing to test the princess’s limits. The fact that she’d taken the time out of the day to address him personally told him that she was not one to challenge. She didn’t risk someone gently encouraging him to be careful; she’d made sure to threaten him herself.

 The entire rest of the day, Jimin is sent on errand after errand. He first has to bring her tea, which she refuses to drink without a musician present. Then, in the evening, she requests for a certain darkness of ink, relaying the request to him quickly, using specific terminology that he is uneducated about. When he returns to inform that the palace does not currently have the exact pigment she is requesting, she informs him that the ink is in her belongings. Jimin, as a servant, is unable to remind the princess that she had not told him such a thing in the first place.

 The next day is the first day of the courting ceremony. In the early morning, Jimin arrives at the princess’s building where she is already being dressed. He brings her breakfast from the kitchens, listening as she loudly complaints about the lack of taste. Jimin bites his tongue at how delicious the princess’s breakfast must be compared to his watery soup. It’s barely past noon before the princess must make her way to the main pavilion in the palace. In the king’s throne room, the princesses will gather to be introduced to the new king.

 Jimin has not laid eyes on the king himself in many years. As a servant of the lowest class, Jimin was always sent away any time there was mention of a member of the royal family. The last time that Jimin remembered seeing the now-king with his own eyes had been when he was a grand prince. The prince had been playing in the gardens, brandishing a sword that was far too realistic for a boy of ten years old. Even then, he’d had such beautiful, blonde flowing hair that he looked like he was bathed in perpetual sunlight. Jimin had been punished thoroughly for even daring to cast his eyes on the prince.

 The princesses are all guided by servants who help them in their most luxurious, grandest hanbok. There are three princesses, including Princess Dahee. As expected, they are all beautiful with perfectly painted makeup, hair done to an impeccable standard. The other princesses are both adorned in soft pinks and whites, while Princess Dahee wears a baby blue jacket with a golden yellow skirt. The princesses are by far the most beautiful women that Jimin has ever laid eyes upon, the servant purposely down casting his glance so as not to be accused of gawking.

 The royal attendant calls in the princesses to the throne room. The women all stand in front of the king, their servants behind them for any immediate aid. Jimin feels a sort of tightness envelop his chest the moment that he steps through the door behind Princess Dahee. The throne room is a tense place, the idea that the most powerful man in the entire kingdom is within his sight making Jimin feel dizzy. Everyone in the throne room is keenly evaluating the three princesses, eyeing for any potential distaste or faux pas.

 “Your highest, most holy sun,” the head court minister addresses the king, Jimin not even daring cast a fleeting look at the leader of the kingdom, “Before you are the three eligible brides. Princess Hejing comes from the kingdom to the west. Princess Jeonghye is the second daughter of King Yangwon to the north. The third princess is Princess Dahee from the kingdom to the south, first daughter of King Gyeonsang.”

 Jimin hears, but he does not see, as the young king steps down from his throne. The king’s steps echo through the throne room, everyone holding their breath as the king inspects the princesses before him. It is so quiet that even the sound of a grain of rice falling to the floor would draw everyone’s attention. Jimin listens attentively as the king stops in front of Princess Hejing.

 Short, brief words are exchanged between the two, but the usage of an interpreter for their conversation has the king scoffing and moving onto the next princess. With the king closer now, Jimin can hear their discussion. “Introduce yourself to me,” the king demands in a low voice.

 “I am the second daughter of King Yangwon, Princess Jeonghye, your most royal highness,” she says in a voice that sounds like an attempt at bravery, but failing at the fearsome nature of the king.

 “King Yangwon is a weak, spineless king who allows for his mother to rule his lands for him,” the king spits out like venom, words so low and harsh that they nearly make Jimin sick just listening to them, “I refuse to have a weak, spineless woman for a wife.” Though Jimin dare not look directly, he can see as Princess Jeonghye’s hand begins to quiver next to her side at the dismissal.

 The sound of the king’s footsteps come to stand just in front of Princess Dahye. “Go on,” the king says dismissively, “You know what to do.”

 Jimin nearly bites through his cheek with the force it takes not to gasp at the king’s incredibly rude, crass manner of speaking to Princess Dahee. Still, the princess separating Jimin from the most fearsome man in the land stands tall, hands unwavering at her side, her voice strong. “My father is the honorable King Gyeonsang and I am humbly presenting myself as Princess Dahee.”

 Nearly on the tip of his toes in anticipation at the king’s opinion of the princess before him, Jimin waits for the king’s (likely) scathing remark. Yet he continues to wait. There is nothing that the king says about Princess Dahee, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. After a few torturous seconds, the sound of the king’s shoes echo through the hall as a pair of golden shoes come into Jimin’s view of the floor. “Servant,” the king says, his voice clearly directed at Jimin who feels his head growing light with the mere idea of the king addressing him personally, “Introduce yourself to me.”

 Jimin feels his entire body shake, praying with every fiber of his being that he is not being the one addressed. Then, the king’s long, bony finger comes into Jimin’s vision as Jimin wonders if staring hard enough will bore a hole in the floor. The feeling of the king poking his shoulder has Jimin nearly toppling over, not realizing that he’d locked his legs tight in fear. “Introduce yourself to me before I cut your fucking head off.”

 “Your great, royal highness, son of the sun itself, our most holy leader, my humble name is simply Jimin,” Jimin barely manages to say, his whole body shaking in nothing short of pure fear.

 “Look at me,” the king demands, “Let me see your face.”

 Jimin swallows hard, body cold with terror, “I cannot, your imperial majesty, for I am not worthy.”

 “Did I ask if you were worthy?” the king asks before he harshly grabs at Jimin’s jaw, forcing him to look straight into the face of the king. All sense of feeling leaves Jimin’s body as he hastily averts his eyes from the king, who studies him as though he is a piece of art. Yet, even the briefest glance has Jimin left in sheer awe of how truly beautiful their king looks.

 Like when Jimin had seen the prince in the garden, the king still has long, flowing blonde hair. Only now, his hair cascades down his shoulders, held back in a fashion that makes him look even more beautiful than the most esteemed princess in all of the kingdoms. Only now, he boasts a deep scar over his eye. Jimin had heard that the scar had been the lasting proof that Yoongi had obtained the throne solely by spilling his own father’s blood.

 The king releases Jimin from his grasp only to turn to the rest of the court. “I have made my decision,” the king announces regally as Jimin turns his gaze back to the floor, the king’s shoes returning to the center of the throne room, “I will marry the servant boy, Jimin, for his beauty and humbleness have pleased me this afternoon.”

 Gasps fill the room as nothing short of pure chaos erupts. The royal advisors are understandably in an uproar, the princesses are turned mute with shock, and Jimin pinches himself to assure himself that he is not dreaming. “You can’t do that!” the head court minister proclaims over the commotion, “He is not of royal blood!”

 Jimin does not dare look, but the sound of the king’s shoes quickly cross the room. At the sound of the door opening, Jimin looks up to see the king dragging the court minister out of the throne, before the sound of a blade cutting through flesh stops everyone’s chatter. When the king returns, his robes are soaked in fresh blood. “Does anyone else dare to defy my proclamation!?”

 Pure silence fills the throne hall once again, only punctuated by the sound of crows gathering in front of the throne room doors. “Make preparations for a royal wedding in two weeks,” the king commands to absolutely no argument from any in attendance. “Head Minister Kim Namjoon,” he further continues, “find a suitable clan to place my fiancé in. I think the Park clan has some spots in their genealogy book that he can fit into.”

 “I understand, your majesty,” the deep voice of the (now) head court minister says obediently.

 “Minister Jung Hoseok,” the king continues as he comes to step in front of Jimin once more, taking Jimin’s jaw into his hand once again. As the king admires Jimin’s face, the sharp, tangy smell of blood from the king’s hanbok fills Jimin’s nose with its pungency, “Tell the kitchens and the servant staff that I wish to have my betrothed for company at dinner this evening. Anyone who protests, bring them to me personally.”

[jmrothwell]

I just love the "falling, feather light snowflakes" prompt

Rulie ?

Julie huddles closer to the large bonfire ignoring how her eyes sting when the breeze shifts sending the smoke her direction. The smell’s going to be trapped in her hair for days as well. She barely cares.

Not when the alternative is leaving the warm aura of the fire to face the biting cold af the night that surrounds them. 

She can’t remember whose idea it was to go stargazing and roast marshmallows all the way out here. It might have even been hers. She’s not sure if it was worth it, wishing they’d chosen to stay closer to the cabin. 

Who thought a winter camping trip was a good idea anyway? Probably her, again.

It wouldn’t be so bad if she had Reggie but he’d gone off with Nick, Luke, and Bobby to get more firewood. Though she suspected only half of that particular group was doing any actual looking. 

All too quickly, the warmth of the fire, and the smoke, grew unbearable and Julie took advantage. While she still felt toasty she broke away from the main group, to the outskirts of the fires glow to get a good look at the stars in a way she never could back home. 

It was mesmerizing, maybe she had been quick to dismiss this.

“Hey darlin’,” Reggie’s voice whispered behind her as he pulled her back into his chest, wrapping his arms around her. She smiled, before shivering slightly, suddenly very aware of the cold around her. How long had she just been standing there staring?

She twisted, stretching up to plant a kiss to his cheek, laughing when he quickly captured her lips with his. “We should probably head back inside soon.” He whispered against her mouth, forehead pressed against hers when they broke apart.

“Oh?” she hummed as she wrapped her arms securely around his waist. 

“Yeah, seeing as it’s snowing and all.” 

He chuckled when she startled back to look around them. Sure enough gently floating down them was the lightest snow fall. It didn’t stick to the ground, instead melting away much like any of the flakes that landed on their hair or clothes did. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice,” he continued to laugh softly as they walked, his arm around her shoulders, back to help the others put out the fire before they would all pile up in the vans to drive back to the cabin. 

Julie sighed as her eyes drifted skyward again. Now that she was paying attention she could definitely see the falling, featherlight snowflakes drifting down toward her. She’s honestly not sure how she missed it earlier. Unless it only just started to snow.

When she goes to say anything her words are cut off by the yawn that escapes her. He’s so warm and she feels so safe tucked under his arm like this. She burrows her face into the soft black jacket he’d opted to wear tonight instead of his usual leather. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, holding her tighter. His cheek came down to rest on her head, and she knows he must be overwhelmed by the smell of smoke but he doesn't say anything about it. Only whispered, “let’s go get some sleep.”

[thughisee-blog]

Violets and lavender

A (Lesbian) short story

Since its pride month I thought it might be fun if I shared the rough first draft of a short story im debating working on. I wrote it after listening to seven (for the millionth time) because I always picture the same two characters when I do. Idk why but to me seven just feels so…gay. And not just gay, but two southern girls who’ve loved each other from the moment they met in childhood.

This scene is their first introduction to each other (Im giggling for them just thinking about it!!)

So without further ado, I introduce you to my girls Celia and Arabella (Final names TBD)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I met Arabella in the middle of a blizzard, which was quite typical of her. Me and twenty or so girls stood together teeth chattering while we waited for the teacher to get the fire going, when suddenly we heard the schoolhouse doors burst open. The chilled air flooded in and wigged its wind through our huddle. Disturbed and questioning why winter was even a necessary season I turned seething, wondering who would dare strip away the little bit of warmth I had managed to nurture. And there she was. My Arabella, nose pink and hair dark like charred wood. She looked like an angel, standing there with the white snow swirling around her. Thinking about it now, I loved her from the moment I saw her, I just didn’t have the words for that feeling yet. And I wouldn’t, not for a while. She hurried to shut the door “My apologies for being late! My mother is so bad with time”. I remember being slightly impressed with how she managed to come up with a plausible excuse that didn’t make it her fault. I would have likely been more impressed had she not let Father Winter in with her. The first thing I knew about Arabella other than that she was beautiful, was that she was not like any girl I had ever met. Her gloves were tattered and clearly at least a decade old. And her hat was clearly handsewn by someone with little knowledge of textiles. To top it all off when she unbuttoned her coat I could see all the different scraps of fabric that had been put in the lining in a poor attempt to fix the holes littered throughout. But despite the rest of her clothing indicating that she came from a house with little funds, her coat gave way to reveal a stunning red dress complete with lace and black detailing. I remembered a similar dress when my mother had taken me to the market with her. I had wanted it but she told me “Only girls with mothers who do not walk with the lord would wear red. Let alone lace”. When we had gotten home I was sent up to my room as mother planned on inviting people over for “adult time” as she called it. Later that night as I laid flat against the stairs and leaned close to the railing so I could peek in on her top secret meeting, I overheard her once again discussing that dress and calling it “Whorish”. And now here was this beautiful new girl who had brought in the cold and then brazenly showed off her whorish dress. I knew then that I must stay away from her, lest she sully my image and influence me in all the wrong ways. We had not yet spoken and yet my heart panged at the thought that we never would. I couldn’t understand it. Had she brought in the devil too?

Afterword: Truth be told theres a lot im unhappy with about this scene, and its clearly unfinished, but I know its just the beginning of a hopefully long and beautiful journey for me and my tow hopeless lesbians. I’ll see y’all in the next post!