#wintry mountains

[thewolfnessphotography]

Mid-April in High Tatras

Slovakia

[kelpermoosee]

I think Hey! Pikmin is a misrepresentation of the Pikmin series as much as the next person, but the game’s renders and soundtrack go so unbelievably HARD.

So cute 💖

[attension-seeker]

Whispers of the Void – A Gothic Embrace of the Frozen Peaks

[colorbydev]

Rivers - Icy Mountains

[hoseoksluna]

THE FUN DAY, pt. II. | kth

pairing: idol!military!boyfriend!taehyung x f. reader (ft. best friend!jimin)

genre: fluff, a little angst

word count: 5.0k

summary: you didn't prepare a fun day this time, but it became more than that.

pin: tba. / playlist: fun / taglist: join / discord: join

note: this was the first fic, during which i absolutely sobbed my heart out. i never had this happen to me and i'm sure you'll feel it as you read. please, show me your love. enjoy. <3

An abandoned woman can weep,  but an abandoned boy can weep not. Uncried affliction pains the most, even love, when seven mountains repose between it, the seven mountains of hard rocks. 

I have two small windows, I have two big eyes, but writings I have none that would drift, at dusk, upon my table, reminiscent of an ivory cloud, and that would say:  people love each other, man! 

𓂃 ౨ৎ . — The Evening by Jiří Wolker

Paris was chilled to the marrow, yet embraced by winter. Dotted with mute stars and coruscating lights, life and poetry that were missing syllables—as if it were trying to speak, trying to converse, but something was prying its fingers inside their mouth, not allowing them to let out a sound. 

That’s precisely how you felt within the depth of your afternoon nap. 

The Eiffel Tower tried with all its monumental might to say something. The cafés with their myriads of intellectual words, glasses of wine and desserts strained their throats much to their dismay. You gazed upon it all—and you felt it deeply, their forced inability that wasn’t theirs at all. You wore nothing but a flimsy, tattered white T-shirt that has seen its better days, an item of cotton that belonged to Taehyung, and your feet were bare on the cobblestones, scratched and raw, though not cold. In spite of it, you feared for your baby. Feared the cold, that you did not sense, would touch it and bring something unfortunate to its developing body. And you drifted like this through your dream, carrying fear and pity. For the whole vastness of Paris, forbidden to speak; and for the smallest of Paris inside your belly, unable to speak yet. 

You drifted and stood, gazing and gazing. Wanted to leave. Wanted to go back to your apartment, but you couldn’t. Your guilt kept you in your place while your fear strangled you until you were blue. 

No people in sight and you were dying. Blue and pregnant, blue and abandoned. Blue and maddened—within the realm of dreams, that is. 

And then just as you internally reach for Jimin, as you have many times since October, a hand is brushing through your hair, stirring you awake, stealing you away from the tragedy of it all. And the sensation of iciness prickling the tips of your toes is what you feel first, the heft of the large palm on the crown on your head second. 

A tearful whimper gushes out of your throat, the awareness that you’re no longer rooted in your dream making your body squirm under the fleece blanket. The fear punctures through the flesh of your heart one more time before it escapes through the crooked center of your shoulder blades. 

And there’s a figure sitting by the edge of your bed, nestled in the arc of your folded legs and rounded form.

And it’s no longer afternoon.

You blink in the dark, try to make out what is happening and before your sleepy brain comprehends who that large figure is, your heart knows. 

Your heart smells the autumn spices of his being. Apples, pumpkin and cinnamon, despite being clouded by the wintry air. It hasn’t seen him in three months, but it knows him. 

It knows him intimately. 

“Taehyung?” your heart whispers, the sound coming out of your throat loosely, yet with a piercing pain that is greater than the fear you felt. 

The autumn boy sighs, enveloping you in the homely snugness that you missed, that you lacked all this time. You reach for his hand, blindly, finding it somewhere on his lap, and upon that first contact, he speaks. 

“Hi, baby,” he croaks out, the words new and untouched by this strange reality—as if he saved them for this very moment, keeping them deep in his clavicles all those months. “I’m home.” 

The noise that leaves you could be mistaken for a saddened sob, but it’s one of such absolute joy. The autumn boy coos, leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. The yellow light shows him to you and you discover that the autumn boy isn’t a boy at all. 

Taehyung is a man. 

Short, black hair decorates his forehead in a sweet, seemingly youthful way that is painstakingly oxymoronic. His bulbous cheeks are pallid, carrying the weight of the winter in them—new, new winter that you barely even recall basking in with him. They hold up his boxy smile, though, something that you never shall forget. And lingering your eyes there, the sight is surreal. 

So surreal that you lift a hand and caress that meaningful cheek, coloring it in a rose tint that grows warm in your palm. 

A man of all rose gardens and sculptures that are alive. 

And when he tilts his face into your touch, your heart swells to such an extent that you spring up into a sitting position and melt into him within a clasp. A warm, a real clasp. 

He’s real. 

He’s here. 

His hair is silkily soft, the tresses of an angel that takes care of flowers such as these. The skin upon the nape of his neck is feverish, as is the torso of his body that you half press up against. He didn’t feel this warm when you were wandering unknowingly in your imagination. And when you pull back to make sure that what you’re seeing isn’t that figment of that damned imagination of yours, he ascertains to you that he is real by letting his boxy smile quiver. 

It quivers; it is not frozen in place. Beautiful still, but not frozen. Quivering with the heft of all the emotions due to your reunion. 

And when you slide your palm down his chest, his two perfect lungs lift to kiss it, just to fall and kiss it again. Over and over again. 

Large chest. Large shoulders. Large biceps. 

And large eyes that melt into chocolate pools as he deepens your shared gaze, studying the way you’re comprehending his presence. He gives you all the time in the world, as if understanding that his absence was too long and, tenderly, you break. 

Tears rush to your irises while you acknowledge your soul with the principle of it all by tracing his body with your fingers. The veins of his hand, thumping under your touch, that are the roots of the trees that watch over the roses in his garden. So full of life and present time. The forearms that aren’t hidden by the tweed of his usual suits, but clothed in the plush of an off-white zipper jacket that your heart mourns. A clash of what you’re used to and the reality. 

He must have gotten off the plane at this hour. His duffel bag must be somewhere in the living room, abandoned now in place of you. 

You’re no longer abandoned. He’s here. 

You’re no longer delirious. He’s here. 

He was supposed to come in the morning. That’s what he said in your last phone call, where he let you in on what Jimin had done for the both of you. Your response to his promise in October manifested in the following months, but Jimin fought against it. Knelt before the feet of the man he’s afraid of and begged. Begged the Sergeant to make that call and allow Taehyung to have his vacation. Begged until his knees bruised and his hands left a wet print on the dirty floor. 

And the Sergeant softened, impressed by his strong will and the respect he showed him. Nodded his head and made it so Taehyung leaves by the end of the year. Did so well in North Korea, protected his military brothers before himself, the Sergeant interceded with those facts and off Taehyung went. 

Off to catch a plane in December. 

I’ll be home on New Year’s Eve, Taehyung said over the phone to you, and somehow he must’ve seen the pout that was forming on your mouth because he added a reassuring I know right after. 

You didn’t understand why he couldn’t have come a day earlier, but now you see that you didn’t have to understand it. 

Because Taehyung made it. 

He came home on his birthday. 

You press your face against the side of his, your arms back around his neck. “My love,” you whisper and gently squirm, for you feel a movement in your belly. You open your eyes, brushing your lashes across his rose petal cheek, smiling a smile that quivers just like his. That is first movement of your baby that you ever felt. The tears pour out, watering the soft skin. You kiss the pathway it created, only to stray away and go up, nudging your nose against his. Let out breaths of your overwhelmingness against him like this. Feel that your baby spoke to you, spoke in the only way it can, telling you to tell him. And you do. Finally, you do—after nearly six months. “I have a gift for you.” 

Humming, his long fingers find the back of your head, his arm caging you in as he buries his digits into the waterfall of your tousled hair, grown thicker now due to your pregnancy. 

You didn’t make any plans for tomorrow, fearful it would turn misfortunate like it did in October. And because his return is so sudden, so unexpected, telling him now feels more than right. Feels divine, feels memorable, the destiny propelled by your baby. 

Within the snug atmosphere of your embrace, you travel with your hand on a journey across his back far longer than it used to be, down his strong arm until you wind up at his fingers. You take them and place them on your swollen belly, bigger now than it used to be as well. 

Both of you changed in different ways. 

“Happy birthday,” you breathe out, the words accompanied by your strangled sobs, and just like the cafés, the Eiffel Tower and the life and the poetry of Paris in your drowsy, afternoon dream, Taehyung doesn’t say anything. 

Not for a while. 

His lungs pause. The moisture of his lips crumbles into dryness like a withering blossom. His eyelids remain unmoving, irises fixed on a spot you cannot see because you cannot stop gazing at his evident shock. 

One he begins to wake up from when the baby kicks against his hand. 

He blinks, a heavy breath gusts out of his lips, upon which he runs his tongue. He turns his head to face you, no longer smiling, but trembling. A film of wetness clouds his sparkling eyes and you think the wholeness of the magnificence of the Eiffel Tower is in them, perhaps even greater than it. And against the place the baby kicked, it rests with their small body, drawn to their Daddy’s warmth. And it is only then that your tears and his, at last and in tandem, fall out. And along with it—every stress you ever felt regarding not being able to conceive. 

“We did it?” he asks, carefully, his voice raspy, quiet and deep, wanting to hear it from you first before he looks down, and you can merely nod. He whimpers, sniffling, glancing into your eyes with such depth that it moves through you, sealing something within you. Perhaps joy, perhaps satisfaction with life, perhaps the boundless love that you feel for him, and you want to stay in this moment for far longer than time allows you. But it is foolish, this want of yours. Because when Taehyung finally looks down at your belly, it is a moment that is slowly and surely carving itself into your skin, your flesh and your bloodline. For your baby to see in the future. He fondles the rounded valley of their little body and comes to terms with it, vividly. His sobs stream out, pained but ebullient, and there his mouth cracks that boxy smile. Real, colorful, shining. “We did it.” 

You nod again, the warmth of his hand boiling, homely, so right. “We did it, Taehyung.” 

His eyes flick to yours and as they close, he closes his fingers around the back of your neck as well and kisses you. Boiling, homely, right and real. 

Not a figment of your imagination. Not your delirium, caused by your abandonment, by the other end of your love that missed him. 

This is reality. This is the present moment. 

Taehyung deepens the kiss and in it you feel the gladness of his being, the words ‘finally’ that begin to unfold down your throat, hasty to meet your baby in your belly. 

And Taehyung is hasty, too. 

Breaking the kiss, he leans down and presses his lips against that rounded valley. Peppers a hundred, a thousand, a million kisses against that part of the baby’s body. Lingers there, cheek against it, head on your thigh, and breathes. 

You let him bask in it for as long as he needs, raking your fingers through his short hair. And your teardrops fall onto his colored cheek when he begins to talk to his baby. 

“Daddy’s here, little one,” he says, his tone mellifluous, his lips brushing against their body with each pronounced word—just like Jimin’s thumb brushed against your small belly at the time when he held your hand outside of the jazz club. “Daddy loves you so much. He can’t wait to meet you, but he has to finish his military service first and then he’ll be home for good. With you and Mommy. I’ll take care of you both. I’ll never leave again.” 

You swipe away your tears from his cheek and Taehyung straightens. Kisses your lips. Kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck and hugs you as if he never hugged you before, three hearts connected in that embrace when he pulls you onto his lap and holds you. 

He inhales your scent, your hair, the sleep you emerged out of, tracing patterns on your back. And then the sweetest form of interrogation happens. 

He brushes your hair back with both hands, keeping it in place behind your ears. “How far along are you?” 

You can’t halt the bloom of the grin on your face, the question reminding you of Jimin. “Five months. Six next week.” 

He reciprocates the smile, but as he begins to do the math, it withers. “So your due date is in May?” 

The corners of your mouth downturn. You haven’t allowed yourself to fully think about the time in the near future in terms of you giving birth, knowing the pain it would bring. You’re aware you should prepare yourself for it, so the worst doesn’t happen, but you also don’t want to prematurely cause harm to your baby with that stress. 

Your emotions are in shambles. They are a threat and you wish they weren’t. 

“May 30th is my due date, but it doesn’t mean I give birth on that day. I can give birth in June, too. It depends on the baby.” You laugh, softly and shortly. “Can you take a leave?” 

You can see him racking his brain, his features solemn and tense. “I get discharged on June 10th and I don’t know if the commander will allow me…” he trails off, briefly looking away before finding his way back to your eyes. “Don’t worry about that. It’s my responsibility. I’ll be here. You won’t be alone during your first childbirth, I promise you that. I’ll be here. Do you trust me?” 

Without a shadow of doubt, you do, and so you don’t hesitate to nod your head and express it through your own words. “I do, Taehyung. I trust you.” 

He smiles, the blush in his cheeks deepening its hue. “Good.” 

He kisses you, gently, and it’s a kiss of such romantic affection that you forget about the threat of the stress, the threat of him not being here during your childbirth. You melt into him, basking in the demonstration of his love for you, of the pride he feels because of the way you trust in him. You can enormously feel it all, as if it was written on his lips and you could read it. 

He’s daubed in this resplendent romance as he withdraws. Coated in sweat, he’s so refulgent that you dissolve, falling in love with him all over again. Your inner child swoons and you sense her emotions, as though you were her in the autumn of your childhood, being caught by him during a chase, surrounded by pumpkins and apples. The emotions she felt when she looked at him more differently than she ever did in her lifetime and realized that she wants to marry him and have a baby with him. 

That undreamed dream came true. And somehow that is healing her. Somehow, that allows her to rest peacefully, having drawn her last breath. 

Taehyung kisses your chin. And kisses her goodbye at the same time. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

You shake your head. “The doctor asks you at the five month check-up if you want to know the gender, but because you weren’t with me, I didn’t want to. My next check-up is next week, though. We can find out together.” 

You expect him to smile at that, but Taehyung frowns, placing a kiss on your forehead. “I’m sorry you had to go to these check-ups all alone. I’ll go with you this time, baby.” 

The anguish you had buried in yourself deep resurfaces. Maybe that is one of the reasons why you were so delirious in October. You had to go through the final stage to adulthood all by yourself, abandoned. 

Something tells you to tell him, but shame holds you back, twisting your tongue. You furrow your brows, breaking free of the amorous eye contact you had with Taehyung, and he immediately catches onto the shadowed side of your emotions. 

He grasps it into his hand, like he so very often grips your hair. “What’s wrong?” 

You bite your lip, still looking away. “Did Jimin tell you anything about the day you were supposed to have your vacation?” 

There’s an interlude between his response and you glance at him to see him drifting through the library of his memories. With furrowed brows, just like your own. 

“I only spoke to Jimin once and he asked me if my commander allowed me to have his vacation. That’s how I found out he was willing to give it up for me, but I didn’t know why,” he says, lifting his head from the myriads of life-records, uncertainty and confusion covering his eyes. “But I didn’t get his vacation. My commander gave me a reward vacation because of what I did in the north. Why did Jimin want to give up his vacation for me?” 

The shame inches closer, scratching your back, but for your baby, you shake it away. Decide to tell him because you trust him and because you can tell him anything without the fear of prejudice. 

“Because I went mad on that day,” you start, straight and flat. Taehyung widens his eyes, but then his brows lower down, as if they were saying, excuse me? Anger eclipses his face, one that feels safe, though. “I imagined you being here with me. I planned this fun day with you and Jimin, taking you on a walk through the park on the way to the jazz club, where you kissed me for the first time. I wanted to tell you about the baby. Jimin was supposed to honor you for your mission in the north by singing, but I ruined everything. Nobody saw you when I saw you very clearly… until I didn’t.”

Pensiveness smooths out over his anger that boils, quietly. And once again, like Paris in your dream, he doesn’t say anything at all. He contemplates the information you’ve given him and the patterns he’d been engraving into your back reach their end, no longer circling on their own without his assistance. 

“Why didn’t he tell me any of this?” he asks, keeping his voice low, so his anger doesn’t touch you. “I should've known…” 

There was no contact between you and him for the two months he was on his mission, and phone calls were forbidden. It seems as though he’s dwelling on this fact as he doesn’t finish his sentence, rooting his eyesight on your lips, absentmindedly. 

Jimin said one month, but he was wrong. 

North is brutal. Too, too brutal. 

Thank God Taehyung came out unscathed. 

Another interlude of foreign, but not entirely uncanny silence settles in between and, blinking rapidly, Taehyung sighs. Brushes your hair back one last time before he takes your hands in his. A gesture of absolute genuineness, a foreshadowing to his following words. 

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice throaty. “I’m sorry for not being here. I’m sorry for being so far away. And I’m sorry our dream came true when I have to be away.” 

His pity cuts through you, reminiscent of your dream, and you realize that the pity you felt in that other world wasn’t yours. It was his, and the element of the inability to speak was the principle of him not being here and not being able to react. It’s all connected—your dream told you about his return and about his feelings. And you felt them because you’re a part of him, carrying his child. 

You soften, seized by it all, and you hide your face in his neck, fading into him. “It’s okay. You’re here now. Maybe it was supposed to happen now. We both changed, didn’t we? We grew up.” 

He forces you to look at him and the pity on his face breaks you. The rose petals in his cheeks died, the smooth surface now swirls with pallidness once again. His brown pools are glossy with the depth of that emotion, millions of words swimming in them. He can’t say them, he can’t catch up to them, and when he closes his eyes, presses his forehead against yours and sighs, you’re aware of how hard this is for him. 

You had five months to come to terms with this star-crossed situation. He’s barely had an hour. 

“I want to be here for you. I want to help you. I don’t want to leave you alone with the baby,” he murmurs against you, squeezing your hands to make you understand how much this means to him, and you allow the wall, which you had built up along with Jimin to keep your mind and your emotions safe, to collapse, completely. Fresh tears drip down your cheeks, your chin trembling. “Have you had any morning sickness?” 

You nod, recollecting your first nausea in the first trimester when Jimin was still around. “Yes, it started when Jimin was here. He was there for me. Until he had to go back to Korea.” 

A war flashes on his face and, right away, he lets you know which side has won. “I want to be here for you, not Jimin. Do you understand me?” 

You open your mouth in shock because you still, faithfully, remember the words he spoke to you in your imagination. Jimin is cute, but he’s strong and sane enough to protect you while I’m gone. And with shock comes the realization that the chapter ends. It is the final puzzle piece, the last enlightenment you needed—because in reality, Taehyung didn’t say those words. Taehyung didn’t give his blessing for Jimin to take care of you in his absence. Your own ego did. 

Taehyung mistakens your silence and your comprehension of that for displeasure, and he clicks his tongue in regret, sighing your name. 

“I’m glad Jimin was there for you, don’t get me wrong, but I just wish it was me. Who knows if I ever get a chance to be your partner in this again,” he spills out, truthfully, and watches as another rivulet of tears trickles down your face. He wipes them away, blinking his own away, too. “I want to rub your back, baby. I want to watch your belly grow big. I want to tie your shoes, bring you food and buy baby clothes with you. I don’t want Jimin to do that because it’s my job. It’s my duty.” 

You understood him then and you understand him now. Agree with him as that truth anchors in your heart. Jimin was kind to do what he did and you’re grateful for it. Without him, you’d be roaming in your delusions. And Taehyung needs to know that he helped you with that first and foremost. 

“Jimin wasn’t my partner in that, Taehyung,” you croak out, inhaling deeply so your sentences flow out better. “I agree with you that it’s your job and I also want it to be you. But what Jimin did was save me from my own mind. I was lost without you, pregnant and alone, and he kept those delusions far away from me. I needed that. I needed a friend.” 

Taehyung nods, understanding, caressing your tear-stained face. The color percolates back to his cheeks, little by little. And you can see a weight being lifted off his shoulders. 

Calmness expands in your sternum. 

“I will give him my thanks for that,” he settles, kissing your temple, leaving his lips there, against that intimate place. “You won’t be left alone with your mind again. I’ll try my hardest to be there for you, to keep in touch. I’ll talk to my commander. I’ll do anything. But I promise you won’t have those delusions again because you’ll be busy with me.” 

The last tears that surge out are of relief and you hug him, squeeze him in gratitude. “Thank you, Taehyung. I love you.” 

He sinks his fingers into the patterns he engraved into your back, rocking you side to side in that embrace, his lips by your ear. “I love you, baby. I’ll buy you a big house. We’ll go on a shopping spree next week and get all the things the little one needs. I’ll take care of you both.” 

You kiss him and in the middle of that expression of affection, the baby kicks again. Taehyung feels it against his own tummy and he grins and laughs into the kiss, lifting you up with utmost ease and setting your feet down on the carpet near the record player by the wall. 

And the music he begins to play isn’t of the jazz kind he loves so much. He put down a vinyl that bears Billie Eilish’s face and when Halley’s Comet sounds out throughout the bedroom, he takes your hand and drifts on the carpet with you. 

Not under the brown, dimmed lights of the jazz club, but under the yellow lights of the bedroom where you reached the beginning journey of your adulthood. And now as you dance with him, pregnant with his baby, you feel as much as an adult as a human can possibly feel like one. 

The final stage. 

Everything changes with this song. 

Halley’s Comet comes around more than I do…

Taehyung doesn’t come often, but he’s here now. Big and buff, cinnamon, apples and pumpkin. The boy you loved turned into a man that you love even more. 

From a baby boy friend to a baby Daddy. 

And as he looks down into your eyes, he asks you what names you want to give to the baby. And you whisper it to him, letting yourself be led into a dance of adulthood. 

“Perfect,” he whispers back, kissing you and staying there for as long as he needs, for as long as you need because you grip his shoulder with all your might, afraid to let him go. 

Because after he piles up your apartment with the crib, the stroller, the high chair, the diapers and so many non-colorful baby clothes that you need another set of furniture, he has to leave again. And you cry so hard that you can’t get any words out. But Taehyung hears them. He hears them in the hundreds of kisses you exchange and he hears them in the last hug you give him and in the last goodbye you say to him. 

And he comes back on May 29th, bigger and more buff than he was, prepared to be a Daddy. Spends the day moving into the new house he bought you with Jimin as his help and no one else. Paints the baby’s room pink because you’re having a baby girl that he grew his muscles for to protect her. 

His commander gave him a special leave and forbade him from coming back and finishing his service. Apparently, the man himself has five children and four grandchildren. Is a softie when it comes to them. 

And when Taehyung is done with the house and sits with you on your new couch, he announces it to the baby girl. Your home is ready, little one. You can come out now. And he laughs so hard that the delightful sound pulses through the walls, taking a sip of his soda. 

And she does come out the next day, sharing the same number of her birth date with her Daddy. Taehyung holds your hand, as calm as the spring wind, as you push her out. Breathes with you, guides you, controls your inhales and exhales. Keeps his lips pressed against your temple—and he purses his lips against the same spot on the baby girl’s head once he holds her. 

And Taehyung looks at you, and you look at him. Joyful tears fall, in tandem, with his. 

And the happy event repeats two years later. What Taehyung feared the most didn’t come true. He watched your belly grow with his second child while holding the hand of the first. He rubbed your back while you threw up the breakfast he had learned to make for you. He tied your shoes when you couldn’t bend down due to your large bump, his daughter standing beside him, watching his every move, learning about love from him. And he bought colorful clothes for the baby with its gender already in mind. 

Blue, brown, green and beige. 

A baby boy for the baby girl. A reversed picture of you and him, growing together. 

And as your babies grow together, you grow old with Taehyung, too. 

And he never leaves. Never again. 

And he buys you tulips of all colors every single week, whose sweet scent the children inhale and whose pink hues color their cheeks. And they play with Uncle Jimin until he brings them cousins to utterly fall in love with.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist | read part one

[miasmaghoul]

If you're feeling up for it, may we get something with Dew inviting Phantom/Aeon to sleep with him on a particularly cold night?

It's a peaceful evening in the ghoul common room, quiet save for the crackling logs in the fireplace and the low drone of the TV. Only a few of them remain now that dinner has passed, the wintry chill of the abbey making their beds damn near irresistable.

Mountain's lounging on one beat-up sofa, Cumulus using him like an oversized mattress while he rubs her back. Dew can hear them mumbling to each other, but doesn't really listen. He's flopped sideways over one of the armchairs by the windows, a book in one hand and a tumbler of whiskey in the other. The ice clinks against the glass when he swirls it, taking a sip and skimming the page he's been staring at for the past ten minutes - he's been too busy watching Aeon to remember a single word.

He's been curled up in the corner of the loveseat for a while now, long legs tucked up to his chest and a mug of tea clutched between his palms. It's either empty or cold by now, Dew isn't sure which, but Aeon hasn't sipped from it in quite some time and Dew suspects he'd only accepted the drink to ward off the shivers. Dew can see his hands trembling from across the room, despite the way Aeon keeps his tone light when Cumulus asks him a question. About what, Dew doesn't know, but he seems to be the only one that notices the shivers.

With an exaggerated yawn, Dew snaps his book shut and tosses it onto the side table. Downs the last mouthful of his nightcap with a pleased hum, stretching as he rolls from the chair. He scratches at his stomach when he pads to the kitchenette, making sure to pass behind the loveseat so he can give Aeon's hair a playful ruffle. He leans into it immediately, and Dew chuckles. He grabs the nearly full mug from Aeon's grasp and leaves both it and his glass on the counter, and nods towards the door.

"You're with me tonight, kid," he informs Aeon, and the way his face lights up could make anyone smile.

Dew rolls his eyes with a smirk, sidling over to the couch while Aeon unfolds himself. He bids goodnight to Mountain and Cumulus, grumbling when she insists on kissing his cheek but not hiding the way his tail swishes. Aeon gets one too, of course, before Mountain decides they've both gotten enough of her attention and steals her lips for himself. Dew takes the opportunity to grab Aeon's elbow, coaxing him towards the hall, and finds him cold to the touch. He grimaces where Aeon can't see it.

"C'mon," he sighs, funneling warmth into his palm and resting it against Aeon's lower back, "let's get you thawed out."

He visibly sags, leaning into Dew with a huff and dragging his feet as the little ghoul practically carries him down the hall. He's freezing.

"Figured Rain would get you tonight," Aeon mutters as they step into Dew's room, Dew depositing him at the end of the bed so he can stoke the spent logs in his own hearth.

"Usually does." Dew crumples up a piece of newspaper and snaps his fingers, setting it alight. He tosses it into the fireplace and waves his hand, the flames immediately growing. "But Swiss is on fishstick duty tonight, so you get to play second fiddle."

Aeon snorts, and there's a shuffling sound. Dew turns to find him wrestling his way out of his oversized hoodie with a yawn, rubbing at heavy eyes. He hugs himself, trying to rub the chill from his limbs.

"Why's it so cold?"

"It's winter," Dew deadpans, gesturing at the window by the bed. It's started to snow since dinnertime, fat flakes floating down to settle against the leaded glass panes. "Comes with the territory."

"Yeah, well, I don't like it," Aeon grumbles, and Dew can't help his chuckle.

"You're as bad as Rain," he teases, tossing one more log into the fire for good measure before ambling over to the bed. He gathers Aeon's face in both hands, gives it a squeeze. "Lucky for you I don't mind being a space heater."

Aeon makes a strange noise, probably because Dew's smushing his cheeks, but he doesn't complain about the warm hands gracing his skin. Dew strokes sharp cheekbones with both thumbs, watching Aeon's pale skin slowly start to brighten. His eyes start to droop, and Dew feels unbearably fond.

Aeon tips forward when Dew pulls his hands back. He doesn't catch himself, just ends up with he face planted on Dew's chest. A sheepish little laugh sounds form his shirt. Dew doesn't bother hiding his smile - Aeon couldn't see it anyway.

"Alright, in the bed," he instructs, gently tugging Aeon's messy curls. "Lemme get the extra shit."

Aeon chirps, nosing at his chest for a second before he obeys. He crawls up the bed while Dew heads to the closet, fetching the stack of plush blankets he keeps just for nights like this. They get tossed onto the mattress with little ceremony, Dew kicking the closet door shut behind him, and an oof sounds from under the resulting pile. Aeon pokes his head out from around it, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I feel better already."

Dew chuffs, setting about organizing the mess.

"That so?" He tosses the first blanket over the other ghoul, tucking it up around Aeon's pointed ears. The second blanket gets laid over Aeon's legs, and Dew can see him rubbing his feet together under the covers like a cricket. "Guess you don't need me to join you, then."

Aeon snorts out a laugh, hunkering down even further. His smile is teasing, but the softness in his eyes betrays him. Dew settles the last blanket overtop of the rest, completeing the weighty pile of fleece and wool that will surely have him sweating in two minutes flat. He shrugs off his shirt and tosses it aside, moving to unbuckle his belt.

Aeon wolf whistles when he drops trou, left in just a ratty old pair of boxer briefs, and it's Dew's turn to snort.

"Drink it in," he lilts, gesturing at his bare chest. The firelight glints off his nipple rings, makes the gold in his hair really stand out when he lets down his messy bun. "I know you want to."

Aeon licks his lips like a thirsty dog, waggling lascivious eyebrows, and Dew rewards him by stripping off his undies and tossing them directly onto Aeon's face. It's not exactly a punishment, at least judging by the deep inhale Aeon takes.

"Gross," Dew chides with absolutely no malice. It's not like he has room to talk when he spends every laundry day nose deep in Aether's unmentionables. He slips between the sheets, grunting at the weight of the covers but making sure not to dislodge any part of his perfectly crafted pile. He plucks the offending garment from Aeon's face, finding the other ghoul grinning like a fool.

"You like my gross," he says, and Dew does not argue.

The underwear gets tossed to the floor, and Dew busies himself getting their bodies arranged. Despite the covers, Aeon's still icy against his bare skin. That's half the reason he'd undressed - easier to channel his fire that way. He gets the other ghoul onto his side, molds himself to Aeon's chilly back and tangles their legs together, and once he manages to sneak an arm under Aeon's t-shirt Dew cranks up his temperature.

Aeon melts in an instant, going limp in his arms with a deeply pleased groan. Dew nuzzles at the back of his neck, little baby hairs tickling his nose. The hand under Aeon's shirt rubs along his sternum, pouring more and more unnatural heat into his core with every passing second.

"Fuck," Aeon groans, a long, drawn out sound of pure relief. "That's so nice," he sighs, snuggling deeper into his pillow. "You're so warm."

"Fire ghoul privileges," Dew breathes against his slowly heating skin. He peppers little kisses across Aeon's shoulder, each one a little spark of heat that helps chase away the shivers.

There's one more part of his space heater routine left, though, and it's his favorite.

"If you want," Dew mumbles into the juncture of his throat, "I could warm you up from the inside too."

Aeon makes a curious sound, but when Dew rocks his narrow his narrow hips against the curve of Aeon's ass he gets the message.

"Oh yeah?"

"If you want," Dew repeats with a shrug, holding him close, "I could show you the real meaning of cockwarming."

Aeon barks out a laugh, but the way he wiggles his ass is answer enough.

[lumberrobot]

Holiday Havoc

pham hanni x fem!reader

notes: took another break from writing so this will be my peace offering hdiowhd; happy new year guys!

warning/s: none

genre: fluff

The snow blanketed the sprawling university campus like a soft quilt, muting the usual bustle of student life. Under the warm glow of fairy lights strung across dorm windows, Y/N sat at her small wooden desk, chin resting on her palm as she stared out at the wintry scene. Her room was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the radiator and the muffled footsteps of students in the hallway.

Her desk was cluttered with notes and open textbooks, but her focus had long since drifted. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched, the rich scent of chamomile mingling faintly with the woody aroma of her favorite cinnamon candle. She reached out, absentmindedly twirling the edge of the worn scarf she always draped over her chair. It had been a gift from Hanni.

Pinned to her corkboard was a picture of them from one of their summer adventures. Y/N had been mid-laugh, caught off guard by one of Hanni’s jokes, while Hanni grinned like she owned the world. The golden hour sunlight had bathed the scene, casting everything in a warm, nostalgic glow. That photo was her anchor. That picture had been her lifeline. On long nights like this, when the homesickness clawed too hard and her classes seemed like an insurmountable mountain, it reminded her of what awaited her back home.

Her phone vibrated, pulling her from her reverie. She grabbed it eagerly, her heart lifting at the sight of Hanni’s name. A FaceTime call. Without hesitation, she swiped to accept.

“Hey!” Y/N greeted, a wide smile breaking across her face.

The screen flickered, and Hanni appeared, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, a faint flush of pink on her cheeks. She was nestled in her bed back home, the familiar lavender walls of her room in the background.

“Y/N!” Hanni’s voice was bright and full of warmth, though her brow furrowed slightly. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping. Have you been pulling all-nighters again?”

“Who, me?” Y/N feigned innocence, glancing at the pile of notes and textbooks strewn across her desk. “Never.”

Hanni raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Liar.”

“Gee, thanks,” Y/N retorted, rolling her eyes. “You look cozy, though. Rub it in, why don’t you.”

They laughed, the sound filling the void of silence that had hung heavy in Y/N’s room just moments ago. It was like a salve, soothing the ache in her chest.

“How’s life back home?” Y/N asked, leaning back in her chair.

“Quiet,” Hanni admitted, her gaze softening. “It’s not the same without you here. My little cousins were at the house earlier, and they were asking when you’d be back. I think they miss having you around to team up against me in Monopoly.”

“They’re smart kids,” Y/N quipped, a fond smile tugging at her lips.

“Smarter than you, maybe,” Hanni shot back, her grin widening.

Y/N chuckled, though the mention of home made her heart twist. “I miss them too. And you.”

Hanni’s teasing smile faltered, replaced by something gentler. “I miss you more.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Hanni’s eyes lingered on Y/N as she absentmindedly fiddled with the pen in her hand, her face lit by the warm glow of her desk lamp.

“God, you’re so….” Hanni trailed off, her cheeks tinting pink.

Y/N looked up, confused. “What?”

“Nothing!” Hanni blurted out, her voice a pitch higher. “Anyway, what’s the plan for the holidays? Are you going to stay there?”

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing. She couldn’t spoil the surprise. “Yeah, probably. Flights are expensive, you know?”

Hanni pouted. “That sucks. It’s not the same without you.”

Y/N bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her. “It’ll go by fast,” she offered weakly.

“I hope so,” Hanni murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands.

They fell into an easy rhythm, the call stretching on as they talked about everything and nothing. Hanni told her about the new café that opened down the street, the one they had always joked about visiting together. She described the neighborhood Christmas decorations, which sounded more elaborate than ever this year.

Y/N found herself laughing at Hanni’s animated retelling of a failed baking experiment. “I swear, I followed the recipe! But instead of cookies, I ended up with… bricks.”

“Sounds like user error,” Y/N teased, earning a dramatic gasp from Hanni.

“Oh, you’re so lucky I’m not there to throw one of those ‘bricks’ at you,” Hanni threatened, though her laugh gave her away.

There were quiet moments too, where Hanni would simply watch Y/N as she flipped through her notes or sipped her tea. Y/N felt her gaze but didn’t call her out on it. It felt… nice. Comfortable.

“I should let you sleep,” Hanni said finally, though she didn’t sound eager to end the call.

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed, but neither of them moved to hang up.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Hanni said softly.

“Goodnight, Hanni.”

Even after the call ended, Y/N stared at the screen for a moment before snapping out of it. She grabbed her laptop and opened a travel booking website.

=====

Later that evening, Hanni’s phone buzzed with a message, the vibration breaking the cozy silence in her room. She had been wrapped up in her favorite blanket, sipping hot cocoa, and binge-watching a show she and Y/N used to watch together.

She picked up her phone, her brows furrowing when she saw the text from Y/N’s roommate.

“Y/N's acting pretty suspicious,” the message read.

Hanni frowned, quickly typing back. “What do you mean?”

There was a short pause before the reply came through.

“I think she’s planning something," the roommate wrote. "She’s been extra secretive lately.”

Hanni’s heart skipped a beat. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Secretive?” she typed back, trying to sound casual, though her mind was already racing.

“Yeah, but she won’t tell me anything. Maybe it’s something for you?”

Hanni stared at the message, a blush creeping up her cheeks. The thought of Y/N planning something, something for her, made her heart ache in the best way.

“She’s been homesick, hasn’t she?” Hanni typed trying to change the topic.

“Super homesick,” the roommate replied. “She talks about you all the time, by the way. Like, all the time.”

Hanni’s cheeks burned. “She does not.”

“Okay, sure,” the roommate texted back, followed by a winking emoji. “Anyway, you’re really flying out here to surprise her?”

“Yeah,” Hanni replied, her heart pounding. “I just… I need to see her.”

“She’s gonna lose her mind,” the roommate assured her. “Let me know your flight details!”

=====

A few days later, Y/N stood on Hanni’s front porch, her breath visible in the frosty air as she stared nervously at the door. She adjusted the scarf around her neck, trying to calm the nervous flutter in her stomach. The scarf was hers, yes, but it carried faint traces of Hanni’s perfume from the last time they had been together.

Her hands trembled—not from the cold, but from the weight of the moment. She had played this scenario out in her mind a thousand times during the long plane ride, but now that she was here, she wasn’t sure how Hanni would react. Still, there was no turning back now.

She knocked twice, the sound echoing in the quiet street. The door opened moments later to reveal Hanni’s mom, her expression shifting from mild confusion to delighted surprise.

“Y/N? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hi, Mrs. Pham,” Y/N said sheepishly, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to surprise Hanni.”

Hanni’s mom chuckled, stepping aside to let her in. “Sweetheart, she’s not here. She flew out this morning. Said something about how she couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”

Y/N froze, the words hanging in the air like a punchline she hadn’t been expecting.

“Wait. What?”

“She left this morning,” Hanni’s mom repeated with a laugh. “She was so excited, practically bouncing out the door.”

For a moment, Y/N stood there, processing. Then she burst out laughing, the sound so genuine and heartfelt that Hanni’s mom couldn’t help but join in.

“Of course she did,” Y/N muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

Hanni’s mom smiled, warmth in her eyes. “You two are something else. Come in and warm up while I try calling her. Maybe we can figure out where she is.”

=====

Hours later, after a chaotic string of messages, missed calls, and another round of teasing, Y/N and Hanni finally coordinated their plans. Hanni had to rebook her flight, a process that involved groaning at hold music and glaring at her phone whenever the airline placed her on hold. Meanwhile, Y/N paced in Hanni’s living room, chatting with her on video call.

“You’re such a dork,” Y/N teased, her voice laced with affection.

Hanni, lounging at her gate with a cup of overpriced airport coffee, smirked. “Says the girl who flew across the world without checking if I’d be here. Bold move, Y/N.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I didn’t think you’d have the audacity to fly off when you knew I wasn't coming. You couldn’t even wait a couple of days?”

Hanni laughed softly, the sound warming Y/N through the screen. “I guess we’re just two impatient idiots.”

“Maybe,” Y/N replied, grinning. “But at least we’re idiots together.”

The hours crawled by, but they stayed on the call, filling the time with stories, laughter, and the occasional silence that spoke volumes on its own. Hanni kept the camera angled to show the departures board, and every time an announcement came through, Y/N held her breath, half-afraid something else would delay their reunion.

When Hanni’s flight finally landed back home, Y/N was already at the airport, her heart pounding as she scanned the crowd for a familiar figure. The world seemed to blur around her, the muffled hum of conversations and the steady rhythm of announcements fading into the background.

Then she saw her.

Hanni stepped out from the arrival gate, her eyes darting through the sea of travelers. When their gazes locked, everything else fell away.

Y/N dropped her bag in an instant, her breath catching in her throat. She took a hesitant step forward, her chest tightening with a mix of anticipation and overwhelming relief.

Hanni’s suitcase clattered to the ground, forgotten, as she broke into a full sprint. Her boots echoed against the tiled floor, drawing curious glances, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was the person standing at the edge of the crowd, waiting for her.

“Y/N!”

The moment they collided, Y/N’s arms came around Hanni, pulling her close as if she might vanish again if she let go. Hanni wrapped herself tightly around Y/N’s neck, burying her face into the crook of her shoulder.

“I missed you,” Hanni whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of Hanni’s heartbeat against her chest. She tightened her hold, her own voice trembling as she replied, “I missed you more.”

They stood there, locked in each other’s arms, as the world moved on around them. Travelers hurried by, some casting amused glances their way, but neither of them noticed. In that moment, nothing else mattered—no frantic messages, no missed flights, no long weeks spent apart.

Hanni finally pulled back just enough to look at Y/N, her hands still clutching the back of her coat. Her eyes glistened, a smile tugging at her lips. “You didn’t have to fly all this way, you know.”

Y/N brushed a stray strand of hair from Hanni’s face, her thumb grazing her cheek. “I couldn’t wait anymore, Hanni. I needed to see you.”

Hanni’s smile widened, her cheeks turning pink—not from the cold, but from the overwhelming joy bubbling up inside her. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Y/N shot back, her voice light but her gaze soft and steady.

Hanni laughed, “Yeah, I really do.”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt right again.

=====

The rest of the holidays unfolded like a dream, a blur of warmth, laughter, and fleeting moments that Y/N and Hanni wished they could stretch into forever.

One afternoon, they found themselves in the kitchen with Hanni’s younger cousins, determined to bake cookies despite the chaos that came with having little hands eager to “help.” The counters were a mess of spilled flour, scattered chocolate chips, and sticky bowls of batter. Y/N, with a determined expression, tried to keep things under control, but Hanni had other plans.

“Hold still,” Hanni said, her voice suspiciously sweet as she dusted her hands off on her apron. Before Y/N could react, Hanni swiped a handful of flour and smeared it across her nose.

Y/N gasped, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face her. “Oh, you’re asking for it now.”

Grabbing a fistful of flour, Y/N retaliated, throwing it at Hanni’s face. A cloud of white exploded in the air, and the younger cousins squealed with laughter, quickly joining in on the fun.

Within minutes, the kitchen descended into total mayhem. Flour filled the air like snow, sticking to their hair and clothes. Y/N managed to corner Hanni, smearing batter onto her cheek triumphantly. Hanni shrieked, laughing so hard she had to brace herself against the counter to keep from doubling over.

By the time they were done, they were a mess—faces dusted white, aprons streaked with chocolate, and cheeks flushed from laughter. Hanni’s mom walked in, stopping short at the sight of the disaster. She shook her head with a sigh, but her fond smile betrayed her true feelings. “I leave you two alone for an hour, and this is what happens?”

“Totally worth it,” Hanni quipped, nudging Y/N, who grinned back, her eyes sparkling.

The teasing didn’t stop in the kitchen. During one family dinner, Y/N’s family, always quick to tease, took every opportunity to comment on their closeness.

“So, when’s the wedding?” one of Y/N’s aunts asked, her voice brimming with mischief. The question earned a chorus of laughter from the table.

Hanni, caught mid-drink, nearly choked on her water, coughing as her cheeks flushed a deep pink. Y/N wasn’t much better, her face turning bright red as she stammered, “We’re just friends!”

“Sure,” her aunt replied with a knowing smile, raising her eyebrows.

Even the younger kids got in on the teasing, whispering loudly about how “cool” it would be if Hanni became part of the family. “Imagine Hanni at all the family reunions!” one of them exclaimed, making both Y/N and Hanni groan.

Despite their embarrassment, neither could deny the warmth of being surrounded by such a loving, if slightly meddlesome, family.

=====

One evening, they headed to the ice skating rink. The frosty air bit at their cheeks as they laced up their skates, their breath forming little puffs in the cold. Y/N looked warily at the ice, her grip on the railing tight.

“I told you I can’t skate,” she said, her tone a mix of panic and exasperation as her legs wobbled.

“You’re doing fine!” Hanni laughed, gliding effortlessly beside her. “Come on, trust me.”

Hanni extended a hand, her smile so reassuring that Y/N hesitated only for a moment before taking it. Slowly, Hanni guided her away from the safety of the edge.

“You’re a liar. This is not fine!” Y/N yelped as her feet slid uncontrollably.

Hanni grinned. “Just relax! You—”

Before she could finish, Y/N’s skate caught, and she toppled forward, dragging Hanni down with her. They landed in an ungraceful heap, a tangle of limbs and muffled exclamations. For a moment, they just lay there, stunned by the impact.

Then Hanni started laughing—a deep, unrestrained laugh that echoed across the rink. Y/N propped herself up on her elbows, glaring half-heartedly before the ridiculousness of the situation got to her. She joined in, their laughter mingling as snowflakes drifted down around them.

“You’re terrible at this,” Y/N said between giggles.

“And you’re terrible at listening,” Hanni shot back, still grinning.

As they lay on the ice, the cool surface biting through their jackets, Y/N groaned jokingly. “This is your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one who panicked!” Hanni shot back, but her words were punctuated with laughter.

When Y/N finally dared to look over, she found Hanni staring at her, cheeks pink from the cold—or maybe something else. Y/N felt her own face heat up as she quickly glanced away, pretending to focus on getting up.

Hanni sat up, brushing snow off her coat, her grin softening as she reached out a hand to help Y/N. “Come on, let’s try again.”

Y/N hesitated, the lingering blush on her cheeks betraying her nerves. “If I fall again, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Deal,” Hanni said, her voice warm and teasing as she pulled Y/N to her feet.

They spent the rest of the session cautiously skating around the rink, Hanni holding Y/N’s hand tightly, her touch sending a pleasant warmth through the cold air. Their laughter echoed, mingling with the faint music playing in the background.

Later that night, they curled up on the couch for a movie marathon, their hair still damp from hot showers. The glow of the TV illuminated the room as the two lounged in a pile of blankets. Hanni had picked an old rom-com, one she’d seen a dozen times, but the familiarity of it made the moment feel even cozier.

Y/N’s head eventually found its way to Hanni’s shoulder, her breaths evening out as she drifted off. Hanni glanced down, her heart swelling at the sight of Y/N’s peaceful expression. Her arm began to tingle with the first signs of numbness, but she didn’t dare move.

Instead, she leaned her head lightly against Y/N’s, a small smile playing on her lips. In that quiet moment, with the world outside blanketed in snow and the soft hum of the TV in the background, Hanni felt an overwhelming sense of contentment.

Her chest felt impossibly full, like her heart might burst from all the emotions swirling inside her. She didn’t need anything else—just this, just Y/N, and the perfect simplicity of being together.

Unbeknownst to them, Hanni’s mom stood in the doorway, her phone poised as she captured the moment. Snap after snap, she immortalized the sight of her daughter and Y/N, cocooned in blankets and lost in their own little world.

======

On New Year’s Eve, the streets were alive with the buzz of celebration, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Laughter and chatter spilled from houses, and the crisp night air carried the faint scent of sparklers and roasting chestnuts. Yet, amidst the revelry, Y/N and Hanni found themselves drawn to a quieter place—their old playground.

It looked almost the same as it had in their childhood, the swings slightly rusted, the paint on the jungle gym peeling. The creaking of the swings echoed softly in the stillness, a nostalgic lullaby that brought a bittersweet warmth to Y/N’s chest.

They settled onto the swings side by side, the cold metal chains biting against their hands. Above them, the sky exploded with bursts of sparkles, the stars painting the night in vivid hues of gold. The light reflected in Hanni’s eyes, making them shine.

Y/N’s swing swayed gently, her legs scuffing against the ground as she gripped the chains. Her heart was pounding, each beat louder than the creaks from the swings. A thousand unsaid words swirled in her mind, but every time she tried to form them into sentences, her courage wavered.

Hanni sat on the swing beside her, her boots dragging lazily through the gravel. She tilted her head back to watch the stars, her profile glowing in the light of the moon. She looked ethereal, Y/N thought, like a scene straight out of a dream.

But this wasn’t a dream.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the chains, her palms slightly damp despite the chill. She felt the weight of all the unsaid words between them pressing against her chest, threatening to spill out. This wasn’t the first time she’d thought about it—about crossing that fragile line between friendship and something more. But tonight, under the canopy of a million stars, it felt like the right moment.

Hanni, oblivious to the storm in Y/N’s chest, leaned back slightly on her swing, her smile soft and content as she gazed at the sky. “This is nice,” she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, her voice quieter than she intended. She glanced at Hanni, taking in the way the cool breeze tousled her hair, the way her scarf framed her face. The sight made Y/N’s heart ache in the best possible way.

“Hanni,” she said finally, her voice trembling as she broke the silence.

Hanni turned to her, her expression curious. “Hmm?”

Y/N hesitated, the weight of her emotions threatening to swallow her words. But as a firework lit up the sky, illuminating Hanni’s face in a wash of gold, she realized there was no better moment than this.

“I…” Y/N took a shaky breath, her hands tightening on the chains. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw, like the last leaf clinging to a winter branch.

The words hung in the air between them, fragile yet electric.

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

Hanni’s eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, and Y/N felt her pulse quicken, fear mingling with hope. But then Hanni’s lips curved into the faintest smile, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but her gaze never wavered. Instead, her eyes softened, and a small, almost shy smile curved her lips.

“Then kiss me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant crackle of fireworks.

Y/N felt a wave of warmth rush through her, chasing away the winter chill. Slowly, she leaned in, her heart hammering as the distance between them melted away. The world seemed to blur, the fireworks fading into the background as their lips met.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if they were both afraid to break the spell. But as the seconds passed, it deepened, filled with the unspoken feelings they had both carried for so long. It was warm, sweet, and everything Y/N had imagined—and so much more.

Y/N’s hands slipped from the chains, finding their way to Hanni’s cheeks. Hanni’s fingers curled around Y/N’s scarf, pulling her closer as if afraid to let go.

When they finally pulled away, the sound of fireworks returned, louder and brighter than before. Hanni rested her forehead against Y/N’s, their breaths mingling as they tried to steady their racing hearts.

“Welcome home,” Hanni said softly, her voice tinged with quiet certainty.

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile, her eyes closing as she let the moment wash over her. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt at peace—like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

They stayed like that for a while, the swings swaying gently under them. Above, the sky exploded in a cascade of golds and reds, ushering in the new year. But neither of them paid much attention. In that quiet corner of the world, under the glow of fireworks and starlight, everything they needed was right there in each other.

Around them, the world continued to celebrate, but for Y/N and Hanni, the night had become something far more intimate. For the first time in a long while, Y/N felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be—in Hanni’s arms, with the promise of a new year stretching out before them, bright and full of possibilities.

Eventually, Y/N broke the silence with a soft laugh. “So… was that everything you expected?”

Hanni grinned, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Better. Definitely better.”

Y/N chuckled, her fingers brushing against Hanni’s. “Happy New Year, Hanni.”

“Happy New Year, Y/N,” Hanni replied, her smile softening. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.”

[apod]

2024 December 28

A December Winter Night Image Credit & Copyright: WÅ‚odzimierz Bubak

Explanation: Orion seems to come up sideways, climbing over a distant mountain range in this deep skyscape. The wintry scene was captured from southern Poland on the northern hemisphere's long solstice night. Otherwise unseen nebulae hang in the sky, revealed by the camera modified to record red hydrogen-alpha light. The nebulae lie near the edge of the Orion molecular cloud and join the Hunter's familiar belt stars and bright giants Betelgeuse and Rigel. Eye of Taurus the Bull, yellowish Aldebaran anchors the V-shaped Hyades star cluster near top center. Still, near opposition in planet Earth's sky, the Solar System's ruling gas giant Jupiter is the brightest celestial beacon above this horizon's snowy peaks.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap241228.html

[novlr]

How to write the cold

The way we feel cold is universal, but the way we contextualise it is not. Cold has a variety of connotations for readers, so it's important to decide how to use it, and what mood you want to convey in your scene.

While cold is often associated with negative aspects in writing, if there's anything the winter season teaches us, is that it can be a positive thing as well. Rather than just using the word cold, in your next writing project, try to contextualise it. Describe the weather, the light on the snow, the comfort of warmth after an icy swim, or the fear and loneliness of the dark on a cold night.

Here are our quick tips on how to write the cold:

In nature

Clean mountain air

Glittering ice crystals

Unique wildlife, like snow hares or polar bears

Snow muffled sounds

Steam rising from hot springs

Icy water in rivers and lakes

Overcast and rainy

Bright sun on fresh snow

Icebergs, glaciers, and ice floes

Storms and blizzards

Branches moving and creaking

Frozen ponds

Morning frost on grass

Snowdrops pushing through snowdrifts

Crisp and clear night skies

Wolves howling in the dark

Bare branches scraping against windows

Eerie shadows

Foods and objects

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg

Heavy winter coats and scarves

Rich, hot meals with lots of gravy

Tea or coffee left out too long

Ice-cream, sorbets, or ice-lollies

Metal that is cold to the touch (like pots and pans or door handles)

Cold beverages straight out of the fridge

An icy bath

Freezer trucks or walk-in refrigerators

Dry ice

Crisp, fresh sheets on cold nights

Ice sculptures

A tap with a drip that freezes in place

Frozen celebratory drinks (like daiquiris)

A single cube of ice floating in a whisky glass

A cold pack for an injury

Character moods

Isolated

Lonely

Aloof

Sad

Comfortable

Snuggly

Focused

Panicked

Indifferent

A lack of affection

Calm and calculated

Disengaged

Serene

Depressed

Awestruck

Anxious

Reverent

Melancholy

Nostalgic

Impatient

Frustrated

Reflective

Character body language

Hunched shoulders

Crossed arms

Shivering

Snuggling into something warm

Rub hands together for warmth

Tight or strained expression

Biting dry lips

Furrowing brow

Glaring against brightness

Tense and rigid stance

Stand close to others

Slow, deliberate steps

Move quickly to somewhere warm

Sitting relaxed in a warm space

Actions and events

Start a fire or build a shelter

Winter hikes

Outdoor activities like skating, skiing, or sledding

Traffic jams or snowed in cars

Frozen lakes cracking underfoot

Dodging icicles falling from rooftops

Going ice-fishing

Long sea voyages

Frostbite

Suffering from a cold, the flu, or pneumonia

Brainfreeze

Snuggling under a warm duvet

Sipping from a steaming hot drink for comfort

Cold-water swimming

Walking to work in the rain

Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere

Chrismas in July in the Southern Hemisphere

Reading a good book by the fire while it snows outside

Positive aspects

While cold is often associated with negative emotions, using it as a juxtaposition can often help to accentuate the positive feelings you want to convey.

If it's cold outside, a character enjoying a hot chocolate under their duvet will give a much more positive impression than if they were simply staying in bed.

The beauty of the natural world in winter, like snow, ice, and winter foliage can also be used to create a scene of happiness and wonder.

Negative aspects

Cold is often used to describe characters who are emotionally detached, calculating, or generally unfeeling. It's become an easy way to clue your readers in to how they're meant to feel about your character.

There are also more creative ways to use the cold, however, like describing the disappointment of forgetting about a hot drink you put down somewhere and only remembering when it's already gone cold, or the feeling of shock after you first step out of a warm shower.

Helpful synonyms

chilly

frigid

icy

wintry

frosty

cool

nippy

freezing

glacial

brisk

chilled

cool

polar

bitter

snowy

raw

refrigerated

arctic

rimy

draughty

[adventuresofalgy]

After his amazing Hogmanay Hootenanny had finally drawn to a close, Algy slept for many, many hours, and when he awoke he found that all his party guests had vanished, no doubt returning to the many magical places around the world from which they had come.

Feeling that he needed a wee bit of fresh air and exercise after such extensive partying, Algy flew around his assistants' garden several times. But he found that it was unpleasantly cold… It was early January, after all; the ponds were covered with thin sheets of ice, and the garden was hushed and quiet.

Suddenly, the sun burst through the wintry clouds, and although it was still exceedingly low in the sky, only just managing to clear the rocky ridges of the surrounding hills, parts of the garden were bathed in a beautiful golden light… at least for a few minutes, for the sun could evidently feel the chill too, and soon retreated to warmer climes.

It was glorious while it lasted, however, so Algy found himself a perch on a sunlit tree stump and indulged in a harmonious duet with a wee robin friend nearby, until the light faded into greyness once again. And while the two fluffy birds sang in wordless harmony, Algy took deep gulps of the January air and thought:

Something’s moving in, I hear the weather in the wind, sense the tension of a sheep-field and the pilgrimage of fins. Something’s not the same, I taste the sap and feel the grain, hear the rolling of the rowan ringing, singing in a change. Something’s set to start, there’s meadow-music in the dark and the clouds that shroud the mountain slowly, softly start to part.

[Algy is thinking of A Poem for the New Year by the contemporary English poet Matt Goodfellow.]

[orphicarchives]

For The Glory of Rome

MARCUS ACACIUS X READER

You're finishing your senior year at Orpheus University when your history class is chosen to give an evaluation on one of the professors. Why does he feel so familiar?

⚠️ Past lives AU! Reader is Geta and Caracalla's sister! Reader is also 22 years old, Pedro is older. ⚠️

The mountains were just visible through the window you were sitting next to; their peaks reaching toward the sky above, almost as if in embrace. They were beautiful at this wintry time of year, with the snow cascading down their formations and painting them white. Bare trees that flanked them transformed into branches of green where the cold hadn't hit just yet- your eyes traveling further down the scene. It was that transitory period of the merging seasons, where autumn became winter and left everyone with an odd illness due to the changing weather patterns. Both snow and leaves were tracked inside the bustling classrooms that were alive with the excited chatter amongst the students. Everyone was excited for the upcoming break that would mark the end of the semester. For you, it would mean the midway point of your senior year at Orpheus.

You'd gone to Orpheus all three years of your college career so far, immediately entranced by the large stone pillared building it was. It was so different from your usual pace in the rainy countryside, with its suburban feel and authentic restaurants. It wasn't immediately that you felt the urge to explore the grand halls of the place and to make it your home, but that feeling came soon enough. One glance at the psychology department and a sip of coffee from the bistro down the road were enough to convince whatever part of you left unsure this would be the place. Even with how far you had to uproot yourself and make such a move, you'd made the connections you'd needed and the friends you'd always wanted.

Lee had sat himself next to you this morning with a coffee cup in hand and his phone in the other. He was addicted to that screen- any video that would appear around his recent interest in Danish pop music would be enough to send him down a spiral of excitement. The coffee, however, was for you.

"Morning!" He said, way too chipper for an 8:00am class. He usually went to Starbucks way too close to the time you were meant to be seated with only a minute left to spare. How he didn't have crippling anxiety around his time management, you'd never know. But he did bring you a drink.

"Hey, Lee." You said, with as much energy as you could muster at the moment given how tired you were. "Thanks for the coffee."

Lee threw his bag onto the ground under the long tables in the lecture hall. His spot had been on the other side of the room for the majority of the class as he'd argued he couldn't focus if seated next to you for laughter purposes. However, today he plopped himself down into the one next to you with his notebook open to the most recent material from last week. His hair was a mess as he'd most likely not had the time to brush it but at least his pants matched his shirt today.

"Yeah, 'course."

You took a sip of the drink, wincing slightly at the heat on your tongue. He'd remembered you liked your coffee black.

This morning, you had your history course which was conveniently in the building furthest from your shared apartment. Deciding the added three minutes to your walk would mean a warmer outfit for the day, you wore a white button down with fleece tights under your skirt. You had to substitute your usual leather jacket in favor for a heavier coat but still opted to wear the full face of makeup you had on every day. Eyeliner was your saving grace and you swore you'd never be caught outside without it on. You weren't much of a "girly girl," but that beauty product was the one exception.

Your shoes were still a little damp from the snow and the water had melted into the bottom of your bookbag, to your dismay. Your notebook was mostly fine except for the bottom edge, where the pen ink had run together, ruining your script.

"Did you hear about the evaluation today?" Lee asked, with his arm outstretched, offering you one of the Starbucks napkins to dry your notebook.

You hummed in a quizzing tone, signalling you didn't hear about it as you got to work cleaning up the mess before class started. There wasn't much you could do about the few pages that had been destroyed, but thankfully it wasn't the topic you needed at the moment.

"Well," Lee went on assuming you wanted him to continue, "Professor Klotsbach had to officially go on maternity leave so they're giving us someone else for the duration of this year. Apparently they're having this new guy come in today and we get to decide whether we like him or not." Lee said, rustling through his own belongings. "The history majors are saying this is the fifth one this semester."

"Oh? that'll be interesting. I didn't realize she was out already." You stated, throwing the napkins into your coat pocket. At least that meant this class would be easy today and you wouldn't have to worry too much about the notes. You took another sip of your coffee and turned your attention back to the large window to stare at the mountains again. The sun was really starting to come up now, which would hopefully make the walk home warmer. The sunlight shone over the leaves and made its way into the classroom, turning the wood paneling into that comforting auburn color you loved. Even with the weather outside, the inside felt like summer.

You directed your attention back to Lee, who was now back on his phone. You decided you weren't too tired for a conversation.

"I wonder why they're so particular about a professor for a general education course?" You asked, inquiring Lee as though he'd know the ins and outs of how the administration worked. Orpheus was always a semi-prestigious university; you wondered if they did so many evaluations for all the subjects.

"No idea," he said, taking a sip of his own drink, "I guess they wanted insight from other majors as well."

"Ah." You said, thankful that it would at least be some form of deviance from your usual schedule. After this, you and Lee had plans with the rest of your roommates to go to the bistro down the road so you considered today an easy one. A listening lecture followed by a sweet treat was a great morning.

As you were thinking of your plans, the door on the right side of the room finally opened, meaning the professor had officially walked in and class was about to start. Lee put his phone in his pocket although he didn't turn it off, so you assumed he was listening to music. You scavenged in your case for a pencil that wasn't broken and directed your focus to the front of the room, where the evaluated professor would begin.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

This man had to have been about ten years older than you but he was gorgeous. The brown in his eyes and his hair shone under the sun with such elegance; he appeared to be a painting. His brown leather jacket placed stylishly over his buttoned shirt- save for the two at the top- and his dress pants neatly drawn with a belt. An expensive one at that. He looked less like a professor and more like the cover of a teenage romance novel. Even his facial hair was properly trimmed and accentuated the angular curves of his face, which widened into a heartthrobbing smile.

"Hello, I'm Mr. Marcus." He said, turning around and writing it onto the chalkboard with whatever chalk was left in the tray from the class before. He then wiped his hands against each other and stood in front of the desk, leaning against it in an effortless grace as he stared at the class. His eyes scanned the room before they fell on you. It was only for a moment before he looked elsewhere, but you were starstruck and your stomach flipped.

Lee snickered quietly at the face you were making which took you out of your trance. "Dilf season, huh?"

Your cheeks were flushed and your whole body felt hot. It was unlike you to immediately be so caught off-guard. You shook it aside and attributed it to intimidation. That had to be it, you were just nervous of a new professor and at this guy's confident yet inviting demeanor.

"Shut up, Lee." You said with a small smile, so he'd know not to take offense although you were serious. You didn't want to draw any attention to your heart beating wildly in your chest.

As he continued talking, however, the burning in your abdomen only got stronger. There was something to this man, some sense of familiarity that struck you defenseless, although you were unsure as to why. You were certain you'd never seen the man before in your life, yet there was an undeniable pull that rendered you speechless for the rest of the class. He was wonderful at explaining everything in full detail and perfect when it came to answering questions. One thing was for certain though, and that was there'd be no way you could focus on any topic if Mr. Marcus was the professor. Despite how well he performed his job, you just couldn't concentrate. So, when the papers came around at the end of the class for the evaluation, you checked the box stating your disinterest in Mr. Marcus as your professor. How would you be expected to learn in a place where he was the teacher if you were so flustered? All you wanted to do was go home and decompress.

You submitted your paper to the front of the room, Lee in tow. You placed it face down on the desk even though the evaluations were anonymous; you felt awful for the decision you made. How was it fair for him to do everything perfectly and to not be granted the occupation?

As you were about to turn towards the door, you locked eyes with Mr. Marcus. They were a golden honey brown, very similar to the warmth of the room you were in, and they had you entranced. He smiled at you and raised his eyebrows as invitation for conversation, which was when you realized you'd been standing there in front of him with open eyes for longer than you meant to.

"Miss (Y/N), did you enjoy the lecture?" He asked, calm and composed. He must've read your name off the seating arrangement sheet and pieced two and two together.

"Uh, yeah-yes. Yes, I did. I find Rome pretty fascinating." You said, trying to regain your own composure. You smiled back at him in a last effort to appear normal and then walked out of the room and into the large hall where Lee followed close behind.

Alone in the Lecture Hall once all the students had departed, Marcus let out a hitched breath. You must have noticed it too? There was something so off about you and he was immediately drawn to your presence the minute he'd entered the room. It was as if he'd bumped into you before, only this odd feeling of familiarity was far more intense than anything he'd encountered before.

He learned against the desk for support and reached for the evaluation papers. He remembered exactly which one you'd placed down as he counted the number of sheets placed on top. He was unsure as to why he needed this clarification so badly, as if the evaluation was going to be enough insight as to how you truly felt about him.

You'd written that he performed everything perfectly. Checked all the boxes showing the administrators that he'd done as he should. But, at the end of the form, you'd written you didn't want him to have the job.

He smiled to himself, just slightly. He must've been overreacting.

...

It was with disdain that his eyes followed yours, the vituperative look etched into his skin. He appeared no older, even with the worry lines becoming apparent as he frowned; kohl seemingly molded into the flesh of his face with its darkness around his eyes. His tunic adorned with goldened jewelry held his red cloak fastened at his shoulder, which swiftly moved side to side as he walked about the palace floor. With his domineering personality and flamboyant demeanor, one could argue he very much belonged here. But those who truly knew him, such as you, would argue the complete opposite. A child in the body of man, ruling over the Roman Empire with the ability to kill any one of the men who'd built the imperial palace with the flick of his wrist.

And to think, he was your brother.

Emperor Geta manically moved back and forth, his steps echoing in the greatness of the hall where the two of you stood. Your other misfortune of a sibling somewhere entranced by his monkey, you presumed. Even with neither of them being much too intelligent, Geta was definitely the force to be reckoned with. This flurry of anger he felt was often of your own doing and today was no different- although the situation was more dire than previous mishaps.

What was usual sibling banter had turned into something fierce, unforgiving. It seemed as though the two of you no longer stood on the same plane and no words could be spoken to alleviate the tenseness between you two.

"There's a traitor-" He began, voice laced with more anger than anything else now that the shock had subsided. "Someone is helping the Senate to conspire against us. A traitor within the castle?" Geta dramatically flung his fingers over his heart and buried it into the fabric of his dress, steadying himself from falling as if he were intoxicated.

"I've heard nothing of the sort, brother." You let out, hardly above a whisper. It felt wrong for the secret to spill past your lips after all this time of keeping it. Although this had been going on for nearly five months, to speak it aloud even partially breathed it into existence. You, who had no family other than Geta and Caracalla, were plotting the demise of both of them. Rome was a collective and you'd been appointed to preserve the democracy of the people- something your brothers had turned into tyranny under their rule. However, it seemed as though they'd just caught wind of the plot without knowing who was leading the rebellion. Of course, Geta would eventually figure it out but the best thing you could do would be to deny anything that would lead to you or Acacius. He would have his head by morn and yours by the next.

Geta focused his eyes toward the nearest column so as not to look at you, forcing himself to tongue over the idea as it repeated within his head. His ornate laurel wreath crown he wore glistened in the light from above, casting a radiant glow on the floor. He was beautiful, if undeservingly so.

"Geta." You started, still fighting the fear that was always prevalent when conversing with your brother, "You are the emperor. Who would dare conspire against you?" you asked, knowing you had to do damage control. It all felt too real and too sudden for anything to happen just yet, this was unplanned. There was still so much more to be done and now that Geta had heard, Caracalla would be next to be informed- potentially halting the senate from being able to make a proper move. Your brothers would behead them all and force you to watch.

There had to be an informant within the Senate, someone who sided with your brothers in hopes of some grand reward for ratting you out. If they told Geta of the uprising, there's no telling how long it would take until they knew you and Acacius were leading it.

Suddenly, it was as if the color returned to Geta's white painted face. The creases that had formed out of worry now resumed with a smile so horrid and vile that your stomach seemed to drop to your toes with dread. The redhead inched closer to you until he was standing directly before you, inches away from your faltering breath. Smug look upon his face with his hands placed behind his back, he whispered in your ear the one thing you never wanted to hear from him.

"Make sure to relay this message to the Senate. If I hear of any further plans or catch the name of anyone involved within the operation, I will make sure the streets of Rome run red with their excrements."

Your veins turned to ice. It was as if your body had become as still as the marble statues surrounding the two of you. The sunlight hitting your brother's hair was not a warm and comforting light, but the light of a thousand fires ready to destroy anything within its path. You could smell the antimony from his makeup, and it was churning your stomach the longer you stood next to him. And then, he pulled you into a forceful embrace.

"You're my brethren, (Y/N). But bloodshed triumphs over blood. My mercy doesn't spill out of my fingertips such as the weak do. I am to carry on the tree of my lineage and I will do so from the seed of my power. Don't let me ever hear my dear sister has fallen into the conspiracy of the people."

Then he left, and a piece of your soul died with the slam of the door behind him.

...

General Marcus Acacius, still clad in the paludamentum from the evening's dinner, gathered himself after a lengthy conversation with some of his troops. He was fortunate for the day's conquer, but he was entirely ready to return to his chambers to meet with his love; hoping she could soothe the grievances that emanated from his soul. A slight glance into the reflection of the gate showed a man worn down by war. Physically and spiritually he felt beaten and old. His face, which had appeared so bright when he'd first started his efforts, had now succumbed to the weight he felt inside. He was duller than the man he'd always been. A light had been extinguished and would never again be set aflame. His body felt as though it were an empty chamber, hollow with only the sounds of the maternal screaming he heard from war. Mothers calling home their only sons that would stay calling for the remainder of their lives. Praying for the boys who'd become soldiers, fallen under an empire that prided themselves on greatness.

The Romans were cruel murderers. And he did their bidding.

Trying his best to push his stressors aside, he stepped into the small garden flanking the back perimeter of the palace, knowing that was your usual place upon nightfall. The fountain seemed to hum as the water rushed down into the basin. The sounds of bugs chirping filled his ears. The calmness of the fire tamed within the confines of the torches made flickering shadows upon the stones beneath his feet.

And then, there was you. Turning to face him once he'd entered the palace and meeting his gaze. He'd sworn he never understood the meaning of goddess until he'd met you. From the first encounter at the palace, Acacius knew he was in love. Every statue and painting couldn't compare to the beauty that radiated off you, he knew. Your eyes were pools of mystery and your skin softer than the sheets lining the bed you shared, fragile under the callouses of his hands that were worn by the hilt of his sword. You were a delicacy. He thought you were more striking than the sun itself.

The word love would never be enough to describe the power that flowed through his veins upon the mere mention of your name or the gentleness of your kiss.

You were here in your usual palla, the purple dye of the fabric shimmering under the soft glow of the fire. Your face was hardened into a concerned expression and your lips were downturned. What was usually a gleeful expression when your fiancé returned home safely seemed to be just a little short of animosity.

Acacius immediately went to place his hands gently at your sides, pulling you in slightly with a quizzical look, assessing for any physical ailments. "What troubles you, my Lady?"

You wanted to cry, to scream, to let out all your frustrations through vile words such as your brothers did, but you felt so beaten down you couldn't even formulate the words. Acacius had done nothing wrong but be within your proximity. And now your lover would be subjected to the unforgiving wrath of Geta.

"My Lady?" He asked once more, softer this time. He had a rough day, you could tell, and his forehead lines became more apparent as his brows furrowed. His beard was trimmed but not shaven, so as not to flaunt off some of the scars he'd gathered below his nose. He had one on his cheek and one on the back of his hand that you would run your fingers over in an intimate embrace. He was beautiful, even with the years of war embroidered into his skin. He was your heart.

"It's Geta," you finally mustered, holding Acacius's hand to your cheek and letting a tear fall, "he's enlightened to our uprising."

It was the General's turn to express his worry. "How was he informed?" Hs asked, pulling you in for a stiff hug as he was still wearing his breastplate.

"Macrinus must have caught word after last night's gathering. W-we were so careful, I-"

"Shh." Acacius said, slowly rubbing circles into your back, "We'll be okay, we'll find a way." He said this almost so convincingly you wanted to believe it yourself. But you knew Geta would do his best to punish you in every way humanly possible. There would be no escaping.

"We can run away before they find out its us-"

"To where? We both have the faces of those known in Rome, we'll never even make it past the gate without our identities being revealed. And then what? Where will we go that has no promise of being conquered?" He asked, holding onto you as though your arms alone would ground him. "And (Y/N), you know my heart belongs to you and the people. I couldn't leave one in place of the other."

Any form of democracy was going to be dead if your brothers continued to be the ultimate monarchs the were. Their reign had caused nothing but horrors to the people .

"Geta may want my head when he finds out, but he'll never kill you," Acacius said, looking into your eyes, "He'd never kill our kin." At this, his hand dropped to your stomach, caressing the top of it gently.

"You will not die without me." You said, knowing what he would suggest in the hopes of keeping you safe. "I will not allow it."

"And then what? You die and there will be no hope. Not for the people or politics or our son. My work to free us from the grasp of Rome will be for nought."

Your tears started to cascade down your face as quickly as they came, taking your kohl along with it. This was unfair. All of it was unfair. You wanted nothing to do with your brothers or ruling or Rome or anything. All you'd hoped for was to live peacefully in a world without it- how foolish.

"I love you, Acacius. You know this." You said, burying your face into his shoulder. You took in the metallic scent of his breastplate, trying to ease yourself. You knew as a general that he would never leave Rome defenseless.

"As I love you," he said, moving you gently so you were facing each other, "You know what has to be done."

You composed yourself and met his eyes, trying to find solace in them. He felt more like family than the insufferable gingers you shared a bloodline with. And you knew you'd do anything to protect the family you made for yourself, even if that meant sacrificing the birth one.

"We have to kill them." You said. You found the words didn't trouble as much as you thought they might.

[gentleanddamned]

safe : werewolf/monster x black!fem reader

summary: Reverse of the "you bring a hurt dog home and nurse it back to health only to find it's a hot man" where you get injured or attacked and you wake briefly up all bandaged up in bed with what looks like a really big dog watching over you.

Each time you wake up progressively getting better snuggling the dog when you're in pain until one night a half naked man with fangs is checking you for a fever and the only thing you can concentrate on is the fact that he has a patch of white in his hair that reminds you of the white patch in your four legged friend's fur.

triggers: violence against reader, blood, injuries, hurt/comfort

"it's a small town, nothing bad happens here." be so fucking forreal.

this was supposed to be your fresh start, small town mountain views, coffee shop around the corner, the kindness that the big city seemed to be lacking with each day that passed.

how wrong you were.

the small town kindness you encounter one wintry night after work left you unconscious in the alleyway next to your favorite coffee shop and those mountain views must have been so damn good that no one seemed to see or hear you.

until someone did.

too much of your blood on the concrete made your vision blurry but you could still feel everything. warm, calloused fingers gently pressing into your neck, a dry jacket over your chilled body, and a bonfire of a voice hushing your pained whimpers, a whisper mantra in your ear with only word you could make out.

safe.

when your sight became clear again, you don't remember hospital rooms having flannel sheets or fireplaces.

or giant fucking dogs.

a colossal furry beast precariously nestled in a chair next to you raised its fluffy black head in what could only be strangely described as relief, quickly jumping down from the chair only to slowly walk towards the unfamiliar bed and gracefully leap upon it, scooting toward you.

the pain that came with consciousness prevented you from doing much more than stiffly raising a bandaged hand for the puppy to sniff, a small smile on your cracked lips.

you were not prepared for the dog to bypass your hand completely and put its weighty head on your chest.

the rise and fall of your chest became more steady as you ignored the spike of pain to run your hand over their side, stroking a patch of snow white fur, trying to keep your tears from falling with each pet.

with each remembered kick and cut, the spike soon became a tidal wave of hot agony, chest rising and falling too fast for the beast's liking, a series of panicked barks and licks upon your face the last things you heard and felt before the darkness crept back in.

in the in between you felt those hands again, winding and unwinding bandages, bringing cool water to your lips, replacing sweat drench pjs with clean ones, strong arms rocking you back and forth when tormented moans escaped from your mouth, urging you to breathe when you could not.

at one point you swear you can feel clawed fingers in your box braids, gently massaging shampoo into your bloody scalp only as instructed by the sounds of a way too familiar YouTube tutorial echoing in your ears.

when you wake again, the dog is there and this time you have the energy to pat the place next to you. as if you've known each other forever, you take your places, his head lounging over your heart, your hand softly petting that patch of white.

and when the pain and panic strike again like clockwork, you meet it with a Clydesdale size pup snuggled into your non-injured side, inhaling and exhaling with you till the panic fades. this time when the dark comes it is not due to trauma induced unconsciousness but sleepy peace.

those hands return once more to bring broth to your mouth and discard bandages, a deep voice speaking softly of your progress, tucking you in with care.

you urge yourself to get better if not for your own health, but for the chance to meet that voice and hold those hands.

the dog is there each and every time you wake with less and less pain, graduating from sitting on your chest to your lap all the way to walking by your side when you get out of bed all on your own. you're not quite sure if a growl can sound proud but you'll take it nonetheless.

and when the back of a hand meets your forehead, your eyes flutter open this time.

there's no dog in sight, just a man with dark curls and fangs peeking through soft lips curved in a gentle smile, a large hand on your cheek.

you're not afraid, why would you be?

your fingers intertwined in a patch of snow white curls on the crown of his head tells you everything you need to know.

safe.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Planescape: The Inclementus Convolution

It is simple as hells go, there is the snow, the walls, and the shape of things that will haunt you for the rest of your days

It appears first as a troubling dream, endless anxious wanderings through a frigid and featureless maze. While most shrug off these visions others sink into a deep and restless malady, possessed by recurring feelings of being cold and lost. For some the dreams deepen, overtaking their waking life until they sink into an unwakung torpor, others are compelled to walk: seeking out winding alleys or wintry landscapes in the hope of finding a way OUT of the maze, only to find themselves transported to it bodily.

Occult scholars of dream and dimension have named this phenomenon the Inclementus Convolution, and conjectures on its purpose and original architects feature in many a forbidden tome. What these dabblers have failed to understand is that the convolution is not a thing of artifice but part of a great unknowable entity, which uses the maze to filter-feed from the multiverse the way a great whale uses baleen to trawl the sea. While the exact nature of this entity will be discussed below the cut, whats far more interesting is how the appearance of this dream labyrinth affects the lives of others.

A series of disappearances has the party tracing the city’s backstreets tracking rumours of a slaver gang or some kind of monstrous presence. Imagine their surprise when they not only find one of the lost individuals wandering in fevered confusion, standing before an alley from which unseasonable snow billows. 

Nearly swept up in the convolution as a child, a minor noble has bent the wealth of her station towards determining the meaning of that traumatic vision, becoming a notable patron for adventurers as she sends them off to explore various ruins or gather scraps of potentially relevant lore. The party are hired by her for a mission, but weeks later when they return from their delve they find that her estate has fallen prey to an otherworldly influence. They’ll need to brave the twisting halls of her manorhome and the hedgemazes that sprawl across the grounds if they want to get paid, and maybe rescue their hapless benefactor in the process. 

A fairly simple bounty mission to track down an occultist hiding in the mountains and bring him back alive quickly goes out of control after he opens a portal to the convolution inside his cell, transforming the surrounding guard barracks and its prisons into an eacheresque tangle backing onto an eldritch landscape. With other prisoners looking desperately to escape and panicking guards looking to arrest everyone they don’t recognize, will the party be able to escape before the whole structure is subsumed into nightmare?

The entity at the centre of the maze is seldom seen by those lost with the expanse as the upper reaches of the towering walls are obscured by an omnipresent cloud cover. As such no earthly name has been given to it, as the miles long tendrils it sends skulking through the corners are often confused for individual lifeforms which some call. It is not malicious, nor is it strictly sentient, it is simply a lifeform doing what it has always done to survive, nevermind that it involves pinching beings from across the cosmos. Creatures that die within the convolution desiccate, their bodies becoming dried out husks as the moisture within them is absorbed by the surrounding stone to feed the entity above and later join with the ever present snow, the built up condensation from innumerable victims across time.

Future Adventures:

Lost souls from many worlds have left marks on the walls of the convolution, pleas for help, attempts to map a way out, epitaphs and memorials from those that knew their end was near. One of these happened to be a sage with secret knowledge most relevant to the party's ongoing struggles, meaning if that they want to find it for themselves they're not only going to have to find their way into and through the labyrinth, but also Ariadne their way back out after finding and deciphering the message he left.

Though very little can survive long in the endless halls, there are some interdimensional oddities that have managed to persist around the fringes, carried from one world to the next as the Inclementus seeks out new victims.

The most fearful of these passengers are a remnants of an alien empire known as the Tssol who were led into the convolution when their god-prince decided to lead his people into the otherworld following a "holy vision" (and the encouragement by his less theisticly inclined siblings looking to clear a path to the throne). The survivors of this royal expedition have endured for centuries by by carving their city into the oldest walls of the labrynth, where the entity's fleshy stalks merge with the endless walls. They worship it, subsisting from the meat sloughed off as it grows and using the remains to feed fungal farms, counting themselves blessed for following the god-prince's vision. Those that stumble into the maze are of particular interest to them, as individuals affected by Inclementus influence are capable of wandering in and out of the aberrant realm allowing the Tssol warriors to ride out and launch raids on other worlds.

[violetasteracademic]

Late in the evening but after some scotch with my girlies and 50 mph winds in ten degree weather, here's a very rough WIP Wednesday for The Albatross! (ps this might be the most fun if you have already read chapter three of The Manuscript)

The scent of subtle, masculine cologne tangled in my senses. It was woodsy and smoky, a hint of leather and a crackling fire on a wintry night in the mountains.

My body instinctively warmed as a towering man grabbed a seat a few barstools down from me, slipping a laptop from a finely stitched messenger bag.

He was brazenly handsome. His long, dark hair was loosely tied in a low bun at the base of his neck, exposing the shaved sides of his head and a trail of tattoos snaking down the strong column of his neck.

I could easily place his button up shirt at three hundred dollars. But the way he wore it was rugged and unpolished. The sleeves were pushed up his forearms, revealing thick ropes of muscle stretched taut beneath his golden brown skin. He was unbuttoned enough to reveal a firm chest, a whorl of tattoos inked there as well.

My hormones apparently liked that very much. My brain, however, did not.

“Enjoying the view?” the man turned and shot me a cocky grin.

My spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“The river,” he nodded towards the Sidra, that grin turning more sly by the second. “What did you think I meant?”

At my utter silence, he continued. “I certainly hope you didn’t think I meant me. A gentleman would never tease a woman for openly gawking.”

Okay. So hot guy was an ass. Who could have possibly seen that coming?

“Indeed he wouldn't,” I snipped, and turned back to my martini and my work.

[colorbydev]

Negative-space - Winter Mountains

[moonchild701]

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A Thawing Heart

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Summary: A snowstorm hits and you meet someone unexpected

Pairing: Dabi/Gen Reader

Content Warning: Pre Relationship, SickFic (kinda), Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Mentions of blood, Implied Murder (off screen, not reader), SFW

Word Count: 1.6k

Disclaimer: Character belongs to Kohei Horikoshi

A/N: This is the 9th part of 12 fics for a 12 Days of Christmas event. Enjoy and Happy Holidays!

Prompt: Stuck in a snowstorm

My Masterlist

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Harsh winds whip through the trees of the forest, the falling snow and rain thick enough to blot out your surroundings.

Multiple layers of warm clothing are rendered useless as the wet mix is mercilessly soaked into gaps in the fabric, leaching away whatever heat you had.

You just wanted to go on a nice stroll in the scenic wintry woods, but then the weather took a turn, so you're on your way back to your cabin.

Just wanting a holiday getaway from everything and everyone, you decided a little trip to your dad's old cabin in the snowy mountains of Hokkaido was the perfect place to do so.

You'd gotten there the day before, and all packed and settled in, you wanted to go exploring a bit. It was beautiful and peaceful, and the weather seemed nice enough at the time, only very lightly snowing.

That was a while ago. You'd stuck to the path precisely, and when the winds picked up, the air getting colder than it had any right being, you spun right around to head back to the cabin.

On the way back, it started snowing heavier, and then came the rain.

Eventually, you manage to break through the treeline, with the cabin in sight.

And between you and said cabin, is a dark lump on the snowy ground, slowly but surely being covered in snow.

Creeping closer, you notice it's a person,and they're bleeding, and you speed up your steps.

As you reach them, you see familiar eyes the most gorgeous shade of blue you've ever seen peering up at you, before they roll back in his head.

*****

Dabi.

You're dragging Dabi, one of the most wanted villains in the country, back to your cabin.

But really, what else are you supposed to do? He's injured right in front of you, and it's not like you can call for help.

You don't listen to the annoying voice in your head inquiring if it's just because of the faulty reception and not because you don't want him to get caught.

Because to you, he's your hero.

You doubt he'd remember you, roasting your would-be attacker to a crisp in an alley all those months ago after happening upon it. You don't like to dwell too much on what might've happened if he never stepped in, but the fact that he did, means the world to you.

So if you can help him in return, you will.

Not to mention that you've seen the video. The video of his past, of how he came to be, and you can't help but sympathize.

So you bring him into the warmth of your temporary little home to patch him up and help him however you can.

*****

Somehow, you manage to get him inside, taking off his jacket before settling him on the couch and lighting the fireplace. You quickly strip off your icy, wet clothes and change into something warmer.

Now behind closed doors, the difference is stark. Where it was once freezing, it's now just a bit chilly, with the air slowly warming up; where the air was previously occupied with howling, icy winds, it's now filled with the sound of the crackling of fire.

The room is dimly lit from the flames, casting deep shadows and patches of dancing orange light around the room, the few lightbulbs dull, not really adding any more light, but you get to work with what you have.

With the room slowly warming, you strip him out of his wet clothes, starting with his boots and pants, taking care to not jostle his wounds, and you throw a blanket over his legs. He's bleeding from his shoulder, so you have no choice but to cut him out of his shirt.

As more of his chest is exposed to the air, goosebumps appear along his skin. The fibers stick and pull at the wound, and you try to be gentle, but from the pinched expression on his face, he's beginning to wake up.

You're proven right when, just as you get the last of the fabric off, cerulean eyes just as icy as the outside world snap open, glaring at you as a heated hand grabs your wrist tightly. Or as tightly as he can in this state. He's rather pale.

"Who the fuck are you?" Dabi's voice is rough, guarded.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you should technically be afraid, but all you could focus on is that his eyes are on you.

But also, his grip is starting to get uncomfortable from the heat.

"The owner of the cabin you were bleeding out in front of." you say calmly, tugging your wrist free. "I'm trying to help you."

That gives him pause.

"Why? I could burn you to a crisp," he says, rightfully suspicious in his position, to be honest.

"Well, yeah," you admit. "But then I can't patch you up, hm?"

He looks at you skeptically, "You didn't answer me. Why are you helping me? I'm sure you know who I am."

You sigh, telegraphing your movements as you reach for the first aid kit at your side. "You helped me once. Saved me really. I'm returning the favour to my hero."

He's taken aback at your words, at your soft smile and the gentle look in your eyes as you look at him.

A myriad of emotions flash over his features, before settling on a scowl. "I'm no hero."

You can't help the snort of laughter that escapes you. "I know very well that you're not a hero, Dabi. It was a hero, a sidekick, that you saved me from." Then, gentler, "You're not a hero, you're my hero, and that's all to it."

He seems at a loss for what to say, so you move along. "I'm gonna clean you up, okay?", you say, gesturing toward the wound on his shoulder. After all of the fabric was removed, pulling away whatever scabs that were forming, it started bleeding again, albeit sluggishly, and it needs patching up.

He's snaps out of it at that, nodding stiffly as he looks away.

Smiling softly, you grab the roll of gauze and get to work.

You work in a comfortable silence for a while, before your curiosity gets the better of you.

"Can I ask what happened?" You ask softly, not wanting to disturb the fragile peacefulness, but feeling the need to ask anyway.

He doesn't say anything for a while, to the point that you think he's not going to answer, before you hear him sigh heavily and mutter, "Recruitment went wrong. Guy had an ice quirk and managed to stab me with an icicle before I torched him."

He's watching you closely, watching your reaction, but you just hum, continuing to gently wrap and tape down the wound.

"You got nothin' to say about the guy I killed?" His voice is mostly taunting, but you can hear the underlying curiosity and disbelief lacing it.

"I'm sure you had your reasons, and again, I know you're a villain. Stop trying to scare me." You roll your eyes, putting away the leftover supplies.

He looks at you incredulously, but you ignore it, standing up. "Stay here, try not to jostle your shoulder. I'll be right back.", you say, not waiting to hear a reply before leaving.

He's left staring at your retreating form, perplexed and slightly concerned if he's being honest. Because that can't be it, right? That's it? He thinks he vaguely remembers you; you do seem kind of familiar, but really? Him, your hero? He knows the system is fucked, but this is a whole new level, where someone has to consider a villain their hero.

Shaking his head lightly, he's pulled out of his musings when you return, a glass of water in hand. "Here, take this. Pain meds." You hold them out to him.

He eyes it skeptically, slowly taking them from your hands and you have to sigh. "Seriously? I just used most of my supplies to patch you up and you think I'd try to poison you now?"

You understand his paranoia and caution, what with how he lives and what he does, but come on.

He rolls his eyes and shrugs, muttering, "You never know.",  and downs the pills.

Satisfied he's complying, you finish cleaning up.

And then he says something stupid.

"Well thanks, but I gotta go." He mutters, grunting as he tries to prop himself up to stand.

You hurriedly but gently push him back to lie down.

"Absolutely not, you need to rest. Besides, go where? How?" You scold, exasperated. "The storm is still going strong, so there's shitty reception, and even if that weren't the case, your phone's busted."

He scowls, grumbling but complying, lying back and letting you pull the warm blanket back over him.

"I'm gonna make some hot cocoa for us, okay? Just rest for now. Please?" He goes to retort, complain really, but the words get stuck in his throat. You're looking at him so earnestly, so concerned and tender.

He doesn't remember anyone ever really looking at him like that, not for a long time.

And it's possibly the worst time to realize that you're fucking pretty. Beautiful really, in a way that makes his scars itch with the flare of heat beneath them.

He swallows thickly, turning his head away to look at anything other than your pretty, pretty eyes staring at him.

You sigh, standing back up to go make some hot cocoa.

Something tells you that Dabi could really use it right now.

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