#and actually has some warm elements to his pelt

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Davide Cedolin

Davide Cedolin is a Ligurian based artist, mostly focused nowadays on guitar-oriented music, writing and painting. His latest cassette on the Island House label collects seven serene and unruffled meditations, mostly in finger picked acoustic guitar, but augmented sometimes with threads of bowed bass, lap steel and harmonica. In her review, Jennifer Kelly wrote that these compositions “open out into a kind of wide-horizoned dreaminess, an infinity pool of sound that stretches as far as you can see. Here Cedolin lists some guitar music that inspires him. 

I wrote something about albums that somehow “clicked me” because of their great guitar works. Hope you’ll enjoy!

Sonic Youth — A Thousand Leaves (Geffen, 1998)

Maybe I could pick other albums from Sonic Youth, but this is the first one I discovered in real time when I was sixteen, bought on vinyl in a great record store named Distorsioni in Varazze (the town I’ve grown up in) that is closed now. I love this album from them for the natural blend of poppy refrains and very noisy rock elements, the mood, the track list. In my opinion it’s the most textured and rich record from SY, very open and experimental in its own way. And the first of the four times I’ve seen Sonic Youth live, it was in the period of A Thousand Leaves, so I feel very sensitive with this record. One track? “Sunday.” In general, it’s thanks to Lee Ranaldo and Thurston Moore that I heard for the first time about alternative tunings.

Pelt — Ayahuasca (VHF, 2001)

I took some time to “digest” the depth and the density of this one. It’s the record that introduced to me (in a very funny way, ha ha) to old time music and somehow to a different way to intend acoustic music and so guitar. I’ve also been captured by the contemplative and psychedelic aura of the whole album that later switched me on drone music as well. There’s not that much about Pelt live on YouTube from those years, but I’ve found an intense video that is really immersive. With Jack Rose, who already implemented the sound of the band with a more prominent acoustic guitar work, the transition from an electric-noise-drone skin to a new acoustic-mantra-folk structured one was completed. I’m still impressed about how borders in music are so vague and relative if there’s a real consciousness of what you are doing. And Pelt’s transition is the perfect case of the natural and organic evolution of a sound.

Grateful Dead — Workingman’s Dead (Warner, 1970)

In Europe the Dead didn’t have the same wide cultural echo as in North America. Everyone here knows The Doors, Bob Dylan or Neil Young but not as many people as in the States know the Grateful Dead. I heard of Workingman’s Dead at the end of the nineties but it took until my mid-twenties before I got interested in old records. I fell in love with the warm sound of this album, which actually has one of the most brilliant track lists ever to me. Each song is an amazing hit. There’s great guitar work all over the record from both Weir and Garcia, and it’s easy to understand why the sound of this album (and with the extension on the next, American Beauty,) has been intended to be the Americana sound by several music critics and producers. The way all the traditional country, blues and folk elements melt together is so natural and the way the guitars talk to each other is masterful. Also, I’m a huge fan of Jerry on pedal steel and in this record, there are a few of the best moments in his entire career playing that.

John Fahey — Blind Joe Death (Takoma, 1959)

I had a very nice chat with Jeff Tobias a few days ago inspired by a meme about American Primitive Guitar that at some point was ironically counterposing John Fahey lovers and haters. I totally see there’s this polarization about him, and I kind of get it. I did read How Bluegrass Destroyed My Life, watched interviews, and in my perception, his persona was seemingly contradictory and questionable on several aspects. But the guitar work itself, unquestionably, places him in a very relevant position if we think on what he triggered and how damn good he was. This album is the one I love the most and the one with which I've discovered him. I wouldn't consider Fahey as a direct and conscious influence for me but his taste for melodies and his tricks buzz in my head since the first time I heard them. Particularly “St. Louis Blues.”

Jack Rose — Kensington Blues (VHF, 2005)

Frankly, I didn’t listened to this album immediately. It took a couple of years before I knew of it thanks to a great musician from Genova and close fellow Paolo Tortora. It was some winter evening at his place, and I remember we listened to the entire record in silence, sipping rum. It warmed my intimate part, kind of healed me. And it wasn’t the rum, it was the way Jack Rose was able to convert remote feelings into some wild stream of consciousness, that to me still is, without forgoing the obvious technical skills, the best part of his playing. The way he was heartly connecting with the instrument and how he was truly one with the instrument. In this video of “Cross the North Fork,” you can see what I’m talking about.

Ryley Walker — Primerose Green (Tompkins Square, 2015)

Ryley is a terrific guitar player with a terrific voice. He’s simply perfect; when he plays and sings he has a unique voice. I love the sensitivity of his playing, his anarcho-prog-impro wilderness and his accuracy for harmonies and arrangements. This album is perhaps less eclectic compared to the recent ones but it has some of my prefered tracks from him, including this one.

Elizabeth Cotten — Folksongs and Instrumentals with Guitar (Folkways Records, 1958)

Same friend, another great suggestion. Paolo introduced me to Libba by sending this video link for “Freight Train,” probably around 2009. I was touched by her uniqueness. She basically built her own grammar to express her own language with such a graceful manner. This album is the first I bought by her on Discogs a few years ago, and its pure magic all over the length. I could spin this record on loop for days without either changing the side, whichever it is.

Hobart Smith — In Sacred Trust: The 1963 Fleming Brown Tapes (Smithsonian Folkways, 2005)

I was exploring YouTube videos of Elizabeth Cotten and I came across “Railroad Bill” with Hobart Smith on guitar. There’s an ocean of incredibly talented musicians out there, and the more I go further with this list, the more pop up in my mind. But just a very few can transport somewhere else in just a couple of seconds. His personal and fluid style of fingerpicking immediately caught me. Hobart was a master at banjo, guitar, fiddle and piano. In Sacred Trust: The 1963 Fleming Brown Tapes is an album of never-before-released work, taped by Fleming Brown back in the day. It’s a wonderful collection of hidden gems. My son who is eighteen months old already loves this CD.

Steve Gunn — Time Off (Paradise Of Bachelors, 2013)

Steve Gunn in 2013 was a name I’d already heard of, but it’s with this album that I got more deeper into his stuff. I’m a big fan of this period. Acoustic guitars were leading both the emotional and the structured parts of the tracks. His repetitive and hypnotic patterns mesmerized me. I love the “loop feeling” you can perceive sometimes, and I even love it more when you realize that it wasn’t a loop but a block with so many details that change around the main riff which keeps circularly going. There’s a lot of stuff from Gunn on YouTube, and this take of “Trailways Ramble,” from Live at Atlantic Sound Studios, (there are also more videos from this session) kills it. Played with a beautiful twelve string Guild in trio with Justin Tripp on bass and John Truscinski on drums, if you scan your body while listening, you can feel the rise of the theme through the flesh, in a similar way of feeling subtle sensations by the body scan during meditation practices.

Daniel Bachman — The Morning Star” (Three Lobed Recordings, 2018)

I met Daniel for the first time in 2013, so I should even name Jesus I’m A Sinner, the one I knew at first. But The Morning Star is the album that showed me other aspects of his art. This is the first recording from him where guitars slightly shift aside to give more space to the various ambient sounds and other instruments. I love how the guitar is relatively “simpler” even in the patterns somehow. It’s pensive, moody, capable to take your hand and guide you through the album; there’s an interesting sound research that matches also with the “invented” tunings. It’s brilliant how just the tuning of the instrument can influence the whole composition process. And, besides the artist that I admire and love so much, there’s even the man that is completely adorable. It’s nice to know that artists you like are sometimes great living beings as well. This set is completely acoustic. Each time I watch it, I feel as astonished by the wall of sound as the first listen.

Bola Sete — Ocean (Takoma, 1975)

This is the only nylon strings player I’ve mentioned in this list. Bola Sete was a Brazilian guitarist, mostly involved in traditional Bossa nova and samba in the early days. At some point in the 1970s, he met and eventually became friend with John Fahey and moved to the USA. In 1975 Takoma released Ocean, later repressed as Ocean Memories, which is an extraordinary journey through Brazilian folk music and the American Primitive Guitar. This album condenses his virtuoso style and his wild stream of playing at its best, opening worlds of suggestions with its wavy and sensitive flow that colors the album as a canvas.

Yasmin Williams — Urban Driftwood (Spinster, 2021)

This record has been rooting in my listening since it came out. I knew the previous album from Yasmin Williams but with this I got really into her work. There’s a beautiful virtuoso approach that melts into a world of tenderness; a sensitive style of playing that is both technical and emotional, alternating various methods and instruments such as acoustic guitar, harp guitar and kalimba. She’s graceful, making intricate compositions by apparent effortless gestures and moves. This piece is also inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement. Really looking forward to what will come next. I love this absolutely gorgeous video of “Juvenescence” from the New York Guitar Festival sessions.

Ledward Kaapana and Friends — Waltz Of The Wind (Dancing Cat Records, 1998)

This guy simply blew my mind. I’ve been recently introduced to Ledward Kaapana and Hawaiian slack key guitar by Daniel. He’s been doing his thing since the 1970s at least; he has a very nurtured YouTube channel from where you can also find classes! His style is unique, and he has a terrific feel for the rhythmic parts. He’s got this joyful mood that brightens the melody patterns and generally rubs off on the atmosphere. The song “Radio Hula” is probably his most popular hit and there’s this version of it on his channel that is so cool.

Daniel Bachman — Almanac Behind (Three Lobed Recordings, 2022)

Here I am with the last release from Daniel Bachman, who I already named. This album/film is something that elevates Daniel’s work on another peak. In my opinion, this is the most authentic and touching contemporary political and artistic statement of the last years. There’s an explicit vision of what the climate catastrophe is and how we already crossed the safety guard. This concept resonates in the folds of the sound, sculpting it with new elements such the digital post process (cut-and-pasted slide guitar, pitch drops, glitches), AM and FM radio and a horizontal view of the mix, which knocks you to the couch with ease. There’s something in this album that goes even far beyond music and arts. It’s a hub.

#dusted magazine #listed #davide cedolin #sonic youth #pelt #grateful dead #john fahey #jack rose #ryley walker #elizabeth cotten #hobart smith #steve gunn #daniel bachman #bola sete #yasmin williams #ledward kaapan

[themissinglynx]

Dear Warriors Fandom, please consider Charcoal Bengal Flamepaw.

Sincerely, theMissingLynx

#lynx art #warriors #warrior cats #flamepaw #a starless clan #predominantly black like his official description #yet a tabby like on the cover of river #and actually has some warm elements to his pelt #you know #like a flame #thank you for coming to my ted talk

[dwellordream]

“...First, let’s talk about materials. We can rule out a Steppe Nomad inspiration for any of this right off. The Eurasian Steppe is very large and covers a range of arid climates (that is to say, parts of it are colder, parts of it are warmer), but they all have spinning and weaving technology, by which the supple hairs of woolly animals, or plant fibers like linen, or cotton, or even natural protein fibers like silk can be fashioned into fabric which is more flexible, comfortable, breathable and temperature controlled than the raw leather we see in the show.

...there is a distinct lack here of lots of leather, except in the sort of things that lots of cultures use leather for (boots, fittings, saddles, bags, tents). Instead, clothing is mostly made out of nice, comfortable, breathable textiles, because of course it is. That is not to say, to be clear, that leather or hides or fur were never used – fur especially was used; merely that they were generally used to supplement clothing primarily made out of textile.

...Now Plains Native American clothing does make much greater use of animal skin as a clothing material, but there is an important distinction to be made here. The problem here is with the plasticity of the term ‘leather’ which can technically include a wide range of products, but in practice is understood to mean exactly what the Game of Thrones costume department and literally every piece of official artwork of the Dothraki understand it to mean, which is the product of tanning processes.

I am not an expert, but as far as I can tell, Native American clothing was not made in the same way; animal products were used in a process I have seen described as ‘brain tanning’ (rather than using chemical tannins) and the final product was then smoked. The result – which is often called ‘buckskin’ regardless of the animal source for the hide – is very different from the leather we see in the show.

This is, in terms of material, very clearly not what the ‘vests’ the Dothraki in the show are wearing. Buckskin would also be used to make trousers, as opposed to the “horsehair leggings” of Martin’s wording, which also strike me as deeply improbable. Haircloth – fabric made from horsehair (or camel hair) – is durable, but typically stiff, unsupple and terribly itchy; not something you want in direct contact with your skin (especially not between your rear end and a saddle), unless you just really like skin irritation. It is also a difficult material to get in any kind of significant quantity – and you would need a significant quantity if you intended to make most of your trousers out of it.

...Well that’s for materials, what about patterns? Once again, we can quite easily rule out anything steppe inspired. Again, the Eurasian Steppe is big and has lots of variety, but relatively long robes are generally the norm in terms of dress; where long robes were not worn (see our Scythian above), the common pattern was heavy sleeved garments and trousers with very complete coverage. A common example of the type of long robe-like garments is the Mongolian deel, a long sleeved robe or tunic which provides a lot of protection against the elements. In the case of elites – and Daenerys is, initially, mostly around elites – these could be made of expensive silk or brocade – but poorer versions might be made of wool.

...And there is good reason for these relatively high-coverage garments. Plains or Steppe peoples naturally tend to live on, well, plains and steppes – that is large expanses of semi-arid grasslands. The very nature of that terrain configuration produces fairly extreme seasonal temperature variations (that is, very hot summers and very cold winters) as well as extreme daily temperature variations (that is, hot days and cold nights) because such places are far from large bodies of water and also don’t have tree-cover, both of which serve to moderate rapid temperature changes.

Consequently, as anyone who has lived in a plains state in the USA (or on the Eurasian Steppe, though that is fewer of my readers, but for my brave handful of hits from that part of the world, hello and welcome!) can tell you, you need clothes that can be layered and which can be both warm in the winter and cool in the summer. For us moderns, we mostly do this by owning multiple season-specific wardrobes, but clothing is expensive in pre-modern societies, so multi-purpose garments, or garments that be layered, to turn a warm-weather outfit into a cold-weather outfit are important!

There’s no reason to suppose the Dothraki Sea would be any different: it sits at about the same latitude as King’s Landing so there is little reason to assume it would be warm all-year-round. Parts of the Eurasian Steppe stretch decently far south, sharing a latitude with northern Italy and Spain; nevertheless they do not enjoy the same Mediterranean climate because they don’t have the same exposure to the weather patterns created by the sea. The southern end of the Great Plains stretches down all the way into Texas, but still gets properly cold in the winter with temperatures regularly dipping below freezing in the winter despite the latitude. For a people who are camping and working outside all of the time, warm clothing is going to be a must.

...There is tremendous variety here, but I don’t think any of it could be aptly described simply as “Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings.” Now, if you looked hard enough could you find something that resembled Martin’s leather vests, bare chests and horsehair leggings somewhere in the clothing of Native Americans across two continents? Probably, but among the specific Native peoples that Martin cites as inspiration, it does not seem to be at all common. And if that description was wholly unconnected to anything in the real world, we might well stop there and conclude that, well this is just the ‘dash of pure fantasy’ that Martin was talking about (although as we’ll see, it is going to be quite a bit more than just a dash). But I don’t think we can stop there, because (removing the medallion belts) Martin’s description does adequately describe something that exists in the real world: Halloween costumes purporting to depict Native Americans.

...The vest-and-pants style of Native American Halloween costume seems to be rather rare now, but it was, at least to my memory, much more common in the 1990s, when A Game of Thrones was written (initial publication date of 1996). You can see them, for instance, on many of the background extras in the famous Thanksgiving scene from Addams Family Values (1993) and that vest style was also a part of the outfit for the also-quite-unfortunately-branded YMCA Indian Guides/Indian Princesses program (rebranded as the ‘Adventure Guides’ in 2003 after decades of Native Americans complaining about it) which was also fairly popular in the 1990s.

Now, I am not saying that Martin planned to construct his Dothraki out of Native American stereotypes and bad Halloween costumes. In fact, I am fairly confident he intended nothing of the sort. But in the absence of doing some effective research (and it is going to become increasingly apparent that at least effective research was not done) there was quite possibly nothing else to inform the effort other than what was ‘in the air’ of the popular consciousness. Of course the danger of those often simplistic public stereotypes is that people often do not know that they have them, assuming instead that the vague impression they have is essentially accurate (or at least, close enough for a regular person). And that’s a real problem because it reinforces the popular stereotype, especially given Martin’s reputation for writing more ‘historically grounded’ fiction. And that is a problem because…

The clothing that the Dothraki are described and visually shown wearing is clearly intended to convey things about their society. Returning to our visual comparison above, it is easy to see that the actual clothing of both Eurasian and American ‘horse cultures’ was often bright, highly decorated and generally eye-catching, featuring complex patterns and shapes. It was both nice looking, but also spoke to the humanity of the people that made it and their very human desire to look nice and have nice looking things. By contrast, the clothing of the Dothraki is presented as simple, rugged and unadorned.

...I want to stress this to make the point clear: people in the past liked to look nice! Much of the popular perception of pre-modern clothing assumes lots of dull, drab colors, undecorated or merely adorned with rough pelts, but this is almost entirely a Hollywood construction. The Romans didn’t exclusively dress in white (indeed, the toga candida, the white toga, was an unusually formal thing to wear, like a politician’s suit-with-flag-pin), medieval peasants didn’t wear drab brown (they dressed in bright primary colors mostly), and as I hope the historical pictures for this essay show, both steppe nomads and Plains Native Americans wore nice clothing with lots of patterns, color and decoration. These men next to Khal Drogo are his elite guard of ‘bloodriders,’ the companions of a ruler who wields tremendous power and wealth! And yet they have opted to wear mostly undecorated bland brown leather.

Just to underline this point, think about what a fine set of clothing communicates to an observer (for instance, one of Khal Drogo’s thousands of mounted warrior retainers who are present at this event). Imported goods, like metalwares (which nomads won’t generally be able to make themselves) or fine imported fabrics demonstrate not only trade contacts but also often that the leader has useful ties to foreign leaders (since such things were often gifts or tribute from foreign courts). Garments whose production, due to fine patterns, complex weaves, intricate beading or quillwork, would take many, many hours of production demonstrate that the leader has a lot of subordinate people in their household (in many cases, that would mean women), which both implies the ability to give these people as gifts (either in marriage or because of their non-free status) and also the access to resources (in this case herds of animals) needed to sustain so many people – in short, the sort of leader who can reward faithful warriors richly.

And of course a leader who outfits his closest retainers – his bloodriders, in this case – with such wares (especially expensive foreign metal military equipment) demonstrates both access to military capital and also the ability to reward his trusted lieutenants. In short, the Khal whose person and immediate retainers are decked out in finery looks like backing the winning side, which is a very important thing to assess as one of his warriors. So even if not one of Drogo’s men cares about their personal appearance at all, it is still politically important for them to dress for success.

Which then demands the question, looking at the very fine clothing of historical horse cultures that supposedly provided the inspiration for these Dothraki fellows: Where is the exquisite bead work? The fine quillwork? Where are the carefully made fringes? Where is the silk brocade? Where are the detailed, complex patterns?”

- Bret Devereaux, “That Dothraki Horde, Part I: Barbarian Couture.”

#the dothraki #bret devereaux #history #fashion #grrm critical

[goosewhisker]

dog days

read on fanfiction.net || read on ao3

happy birthday @xbloodywhalex

hawkleaf is great & makes much more sense in canon than leafcrow fight me

It starts like this:

Hawkfrost fights with Mothwing.

This is not something unusual. As siblings, they disagree all the time, particularly when Mothwing is irritated by one of Hawkfrost's more... ambitious ideas. This time, though, is more vicious. Probably it's the stress; after all, everyone's on edge with all four clans huddled together in one camp, having left behind friends and family and loved ones and the only home they've ever known to be ravaged by Twolegs beyond all recognition. The leaders are fighting constantly and no one's quite sure where they're headed or whether or not they'll even get there.

So yeah, it's been stressful. Which is why, this time, instead of the normal petty squabbles, it got more personal. Hawkfrost can't even remember what it was about - something stupid, probably - and then he'd said something about her healing skills, and she'd made a snide comment about his chances of becoming deputy, and he'd insinuated that he'd given her her position and could just as easily take it away, and she'd pointed out that he'd bring himself down with her and get them both kicked out and maybe this kind of bullcrap was why Mom had taken off without a backwards look, and-

-well. At that point, he'd stormed off to... recalibrate himself (he was not sulking, no matter what Mothwing said) and, after a few hours of self-reflection, figured that he might have been slightly inflammatory. Not that he'd said anything wrong, just that there were better ways to say it.

Which is why he's out here, wandering around on the fringes of the woods they're currently camping in, looking for a squirrel big enough to make a suitable apology gift.

He's finally found an acceptable squirrel - large, healthy-looking, and plump - when the silence is shattered by a dog's bark.

Hawkfrost goes completely still, cursing furiously, but it's too late; the squirrel has already taken fright and scurried up the nearest tree.

Hawkfrost wants to strangle someone. Preferably this stupid dog.

The dog barks again, and Hawkfrost remembers Riverclan, huddled together helpless and vulnerable not so far away. He should probably go let the leaders know to be watchful... or he could go take care of it himself.

Hawkfrost hasn't had a good fight in ages. The decision is an easy one.

He follows the sound - and it's turned mean and vicious, the sound of a predator closing in on its prey - over two hills and across a small brook. His bloodlust is ramping up the longer he goes without flesh between his claws; he's practically frothing at the mouth with impatience when he emerges into an open clearing and it's there.

Hawkfrost takes in the scene at a glance. The dog is massive, about four times Hawkfrost's height. Its jaw - currently with all its teeth on display as it snarls at whatever prey it's cornered - is big enough to snap him in half if he's caught.

The key word is if.

Warrior life had been hard for Hawkfrost from the start. He doesn't have the social skills to deal with unruly apprentices, the commanding presence to lead his clanmates, the patience to become a great hunter. All that his father had left him was his battle skills, and it's the one area Hawkfrost can indulge the side of him that longs for blood without repercussions. So where another cat might have run for backup, Hawkfrost doesn't think twice about attacking first.

The dog, distracted by its prey, doesn't even notice him until he's already on top of it. Its size works against it here; it bucks wildly, unable to twist around to grab him, as Hawkfrost sinks his teeth into its neck and digs in with his claws.

"Hey!" someone yells, but Hawkfrost is past caring. The dog crashes to the ground, flipping onto its back in an attempt to dislodge him. Hawkfrost springs clear before darting back in again, raking its soft belly with his claws.

Snarling, the dog kicks out with all its feet. One catches Hawkfrost in the stomach, sending him flying into a tree. He's stunned for a heartbeat, which the dog uses to clamber back onto its paws.

With the element of surprise gone, Hawkfrost needs a height advantage. He scrambles clumsily up the tree, hauling himself out of range of the dog's snapping jaws just in time as it stands up on its back legs. He's wondering just how to advance now - those massive teeth make any attack from above an uninviting prospect - when a small brown figure launches itself at the dog's heels.

The dog makes a short, confused noise and looks down, and that's all the opening Hawkfrost needs. Snarling, he drops out of the tree and aims right for the eyes.

The dog fairly screams, jerking away from him, and then screams again when it loses its balance. The brown cat on the ground shoves its paws out from underneath it, and Hawkfrost and the dog together crash to the ground.

Hawkfrost hits the ground hard and something in his stomach tears. Pain shoots through his body and his vision briefly goes black. For a moment, he can't move.

Then a scent like lavender fills his nose, and someone crouches beside him.

"Are you awake?" a voice asks. It's brisk and business-like, with no trace of panic or uncertainty. "If you can, please open your eyes."

Hawkfrost can hardly imagine opening his eyes right now - just lying here sounds like a much better idea - but he manages to squint one open to peer up at this stranger.

It's a golden-eyed she-cat about his age or younger, a brown tabby who looks vaguely familiar. "Good job," she says, smiling kindly. For some reason, she actually sounds like she means it. The thought strikes Hawkfrost as funny. "What're you smiling about?" she asks, but moves on without waiting for an answer. "Do you know who I am?"

After a moment, the name filters into his mind - Leafpaw. Thunderclan medicine cat. Firestar's brat. Mothwing's friend. The one cat who never seems to remember that borders apply to her. "Nn," Hawkfrost says.

The medicine cat hums, leaning forward to peer into his eye. "Could you open the other one, please?" she says. Hawkfrost does. "Concussion. Not good, but it'll have to wait until we get back to camp. Quickly, get on your feet. We need to hurry before it wakes up again."

Somehow, with the medicine cat's help, Hawkfrost struggles onto his paws. Once he's off the ground, his head is still spinning, but he feels a little better.

The medicine cat is pushing him towards the edge of the clearing, in the camp's direction, when he hears a faint snuffling noise. Hawkfrost looks back to see the dog, sprawled out on the ground and clearly starting to wake up. Even through the spinning, he knows what needs to be done. He's already changed direction to go finish it off permanently when the medicine cat rams her head into his collarbone.

"What are you doing," she whisper-shrieks. "It's waking up, we need to get back to camp!"

Hawkfrost doesn't get a chance to respond before she resumes pushing and somehow, he can't stop her. Maybe he's in shock that someone actually talked back to him like that. Or maybe he's delirious from blood loss and the concussion. Whatever.

Either way, they're already out of the clearing and halfway up the next hill when the dizziness clears enough that he remembers what he was going to do. "Hey, wait a minute, we need to go back!"

The medicine cat stares at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You stopped me from killing that dog," Hawkfrost snaps. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders why he's bothering to explain at all. "I need to go back and kill it before it follows us to the clans."

The medicine cat actually rolls her eyes. Hawkfrost gasps, offended. "We barely winded that thing; if we'd stayed any longer it would've killed us. I -" she stops abruptly. "Quick. Back here."

Before he can react, she shoves him into a shallow hollow beneath a rocky outcropping and then follows herself. It's dark, and cramped, and then the medicine cat squeezes in beside him and the contact makes Hawkfrost go rigid with embarrassment.

Outside, a snuffling noise echoes against the rocks. The dog has recovered, then, and is looking for them. They can't go back to camp now without it following them. Hawkfrost thinks of the animal loose amongst the vulnerable elders and kits and winces.

And then he's distracted, because the medicine cat flinches and squeezes in further against Hawkfrost. Her soft warm side presses up against his, and it's been a long time since he's really touched someone other than Mothwing so the sensation is sending him haywire and wow, actually she smells really nice -

Hawkfrost's brain short-circuits.

When it reboots, they're so close together that his face is practically buried in her scruff, and all he can hear is the quiet thumping of her heartbeat and the snuffling of the dog outside. Hawkfrost closes his eyes and tries not to breathe too deep.

The scent of lavender is almost overwhelming.

After a few, breathless moments, the sniffing fades as the dog's path turns away. The medicine cat relaxes and pulls away, leaving Hawkfrost's pelt feeling cold and staticky where her warm fur had touched it.

"I think the dog's gone," she says, peering outside.

"Hnn," Hawkfrost manages. He is not thinking about the dog.

"C'mon, let's hurry. We need to warn the leaders."

Hawkfrost stumbles after her, head spinning. The side she'd touched prickles like wildfire, stinging and cooling his skin at turns. How can a few moments of contact have shaken him this badly? Father would be mortified if he knew.

Father. The reminder, at least, snaps him back into rationality. Tigerstar would be so mortified if he could see his son now. Hawkfrost stops and shakes his head wildly to clear it. Focus on the dog. Right. When he looks up again, the medicine cat is watching him. "What is it?" he asks, torn between irritation and embarrassment.

"Oh." The medicine cat looks away quickly. "It's nothing, just - your ears were red."

Hawkfrost stares at her and feels the tips of his ears rush with heat. Ducking his head, he mumbles "oh," and hurries after her.

At the very least, the medicine cat seems just as embarrassed as he is, because she keeps up a steady stream of nervous chatter the whole way.

Most of her jabber washes right over him, blending into a pleasant, even current of sound. She has a nice voice, one that trips pleasingly over the words and makes even the simplest language sound beautiful on her tongue. His eyes are half closed, just listening to the rising and falling of her voice when he realizes that she's looking at him expectantly. "What," he says belatedly.

"My name's Leafpaw," she says, in a tone that implies she's said this once or twice already. "I don't think I ever told you."

"Oh." It takes him a moment to realize what she's waiting for. "I'm Hawkfrost." He's pretty sure she already knows this, but whatever.

Her beaming smile tells him he's guessed right. "Thank you for saving me from that dog, Hawkfrost," she says. "I was collecting herbs and it came out of nowhere. It cornered me before you showed up."

Hawkfrost hadn't been thinking about saving her - hadn't even noticed she was there, really. But the praise makes his pelt prickle in a nice way, so he ducks his head and tries to ignore the way his ears burn. "It's nothing, I- you're welcome," he says. It feels terribly inadequate.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice is asking him she's Firestar's daughter, an enemy, why do you care if it's inadequate? Hawkfrost pushes it aside. He doesn't really, he's just being polite, okay?

Leafpaw beams and trots nearer to walk beside him, nudging his shoulder with her nose. "I think we made a pretty good team out there," she says. "Wouldn't you-" she stops abruptly, nose twitching. "Oh!"

Hawkfrost watches, bemused, as she drops low to the ground to peer at his stomach. "You're bleeding!" she cries.

"It kicked me," he points out.

"I didn't realize!" She looks stricken, and something in his heart clenches.

"It doesn't hurt that much," he assures her before remembering that he's not supposed to be worried about her feelings. "I mean, it didn't- you're-" he fumbles his sentences, the words slipping away. Luckily, Leafpaw doesn't seem to notice.

"My supplies are all at camp, so I can't do much here, but we can at least keep it from getting infected," she says, and then she leans forward and-

For the second time today, Hawkfrost's brain short-circuits.

"What are you doing," he yelps (definitely not a shriek), springing back.

Leafpaw looks up at him, confused, with her tongue still poking out. "I'm cleaning it," she points out, but Hawkfrost isn't really listening.

"You licked me," he says, uncomprehending.

Leafpaw stares at him with wide eyes before blushing bright red. "Don't- don't make this weird!" she stammers. "It's a perfectly normal medicine cat thing to do!"

"You licked me," he repeats. Hawkfrost's brain is trapped en loop, cycling back again and again to the point where he'd felt her tongue on his skin.

"For medical reasons!" Leafpaw's entire face is completely red. From the way his own face is burning, Hawkfrost is sure he matches. "I'm disinfecting your wound! I'm a medicine cat! I'm not- I can't just- oh, just get over here and let me treat you."

"Just... disinfecting," Hawkfrost repeats. Stars, he sounds like a broken record. Leafpaw nods, still blushing to the tips of her ears. "Ah. Right. I... I knew that." He sits down and lets Leafpaw get to work, and they both pretend they aren't as flustered as they feel. Hawkfrost shivers when she touches his skin and Leafpaw makes a high-pitched noise that could be termed a squeak. After that, though, her licks are careful but clinical and when she finally pulls away they can't meet each other's eyes.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Hawkfrost coughs. "Maybe we should hurry back to camp," he mutters.

"Um! Right!" Leafpaw very carefully does not look at him and instead launches into a fresh stream of inane babble to distract them both as they walk. It doesn't quite take away the tinge of pink on her ears.

The arrival at camp is somehow both a relief and a disappointment at the same time. Leopardstar takes one look at the two of them and immediately calls Mothwing over, status reports be damned, and Leafpaw is dragged off by her father to do... whatever it is Thunderclanners do. He doesn't even get a chance to say goodbye (not that he'd want to, obviously. He's just pointing it out).

Hawkfrost watches her go, with her father's tail draped over her shoulders, and feels a sting of jealousy somewhere deep inside.

He's not sure which one of them he envies more.

"Must be nice, huh?"

Hawkfrost almost jumps out of his skin and whips around, claws unsheathed, to see his sister gazing after Leafpaw wistfully.

"To have parents that actually care about you," she adds, as though he hadn't figured that out already.

Hawkfrost scowls and wills his heart to stop pounding so hard. "First of all, don't sneak up on me like that. And second, Father does care about us. You'd know that if you agreed to meet with him," he says quietly.

Mothwing looks at him with an odd expression that he can't quite decipher before she says, "Whatever you say, Hawkfrost. Show me where it hurts."

Under normal circumstances, he'd bristle with rage at the dismissal and insist they finish the conversation now, regardless of eavesdropping onlookers or his already-tenuous place in the clan. But today, he's so off-kilter that he lets his sister get on with it without a fuss. As further proof of his encroaching insanity, he even apologizes.

"Sorry about what I said earlier," he mutters. "It was... out of line. I shouldn't have said it."

Mothwing actually drops her cobwebs and steps back to look at him, probably wondering if he's lost his mind, which is not entirely unlikely at this point. After a moment, though, her expression breaks into a sad little half-smile that does something weird to his heart. Almost like it's not supposed to be there, or like he should make it better.

I really am going insane, he thinks in horror. That frog-brained medicine cat apprentice did something to my head.

"Thank you," his sister says. "I shouldn't- I'm sorry for what I said about Mom. You know she didn't leave because of you, right?"

His mouth goes dry and for a moment, he forgets how to talk. "Yeah," he says belatedly, because Mothwing's staring at him now and her eyes are doing the dumb worried thing. He's a full-grown warrior; he doesn't need to be worried about, darnit, and especially not for something pathetic like this.

He's still thinking about it in the makeshift medicine cat den later that night. It's not that he thinks it's his fault, specifically, that Sasha had dumped them both off. Father's already told him everything - she was a cold-hearted rogue who used cats up and ditched them when she was done. So Sasha was a terrible cat to begin with.

But... she'd been pretty blasé about ditching her kits the first chance she'd gotten, and from what he's observed, mothers are supposed to be more attached to their children than that.

So it's definitely a problem with her, but that doesn't rule out the possibility of a problem with them, and given the way Mothwing seems to collect friends like fleas, it doesn't seem to be a them problem anyway.

As always, it comes down to Hawkfrost in the end.

People have always seemed more inclined to leave him behind, no matter what he does - he's either too weak or too strong, too soft or too cold. Too little Clan blood or too much. Mothwing's been able to carve something of a place for herself, here, but Hawkfrost's has always been fragile. He's heard the things people say about him, seen the way they stare. Too much of his father in him- as though his father isn't the only one who's ever bothered to see his potential. Everyone else is too busy leaving him behind.

Just look at the way the medicine cat had fled, once she'd gotten the chance.

Hawkfrost buries his face underneath his paws and tries to will the medicine cat to leave his mind, with middling success.

He's halfway through mentally reciting the different breeds of fish that live in the river when he hears something move outside the den.

In a heartbeat, he's on his paws, hunched over in a battle crouch. His wound protests painfully, but he pushes the pain aside. For a blind, panicked moment, he thinks the dog has come back, and is waiting just outside.

Then he smells lavender, and his hackles go down of their own accord.

A moment later, Leafpaw steals into the den, glancing furtively over her shoulder. "Don't freak out, it's me. I brought- oh, Hawkfrost!" Her brow furrows when she catches sight of the fresh stains seeping onto his bandages, and Hawkfrost's heart skips a beat.

"It's fine," he says quickly.

Leafpaw doesn't bother dignifying that with a reply. He can almost hear her fuming as she strips, cleans, and re-binds the wound (so, so gently - her paws feel like dandelion fluff). "Don't say it's fine when you're clearly bleeding all over the place, mousebrain," she says.

Hawkfrost tries not to fidget as she pulls the cobwebs tighter. "Mothwing fixed it already... I opened it when you came back," he explains. The thought strikes him abruptly - she'd gone, yes, but she hadn't left him. "You came back," he says again, wonderingly.

"Of course I did!" Leafpaw blinks, golden eyes wide with shock. "You saved me, I'm not going to just forget that. Even if we haven't gotten along so well in the past. And on that note, um..." she trails off, eyes skating to the side and teeth nibbling her bottom lip.

Nervous. Hawkfrost identifies the reaction automatically, but for the life of him can't imagine what it's for.

"I... think I may have misjudged you," she says at last in a soft voice. She looks back to him with a sheepish smile and, tentatively, holds out a paw. "Can we start over? I'd like to be friends."

Friends.

She wants to be friends.

Hawkfrost stares down at the outstretched paw and, not for the first time today, finds himself completely at a loss for what to do.

What is it with this strange medicine cat? She knows his parentage, knows that by birthright, he and she are sworn enemies. She's never trusted him - their few run-ins before today have made that clear. It's obvious from the hatred in her sister's eyes that she fully expects him to follow in his father's footsteps (and oh, she has no idea just how right she is-) and he would've expected Leafpaw to share that.

But she's standing before him now, reaching out to him with that painfully naive, painfully kind smile and waiting for him to answer.

The decision, as always, is obvious.

Hawkfrost slowly, gently places his paw on top of her own. "I'd like that," he says quietly.

Leafpaw's answering smile is like the sun. He can hardly stand to look at it. "I need to go now," she says. "Dad wants me to sleep with the clan. But I'll come see you again tomorrow before we leave," she adds fiercely, daring him to defy her.

Hawkfrost blinks and tries to force away the warmth welling up inside his chest. "I'll- I'll see you then," he manages to say.

Leafpaw hesitates, looking like she's wavering on the edge of something. Before Hawkfrost can ask what it is, she abruptly leans forward, swipes a tongue across his ear, and flees from the den without waiting for a response.

... she licked me, is the first, stupid thought his flustered mind can form. And this time, it wasn't for medical purposes.

Hawkfrost whimpers.

He's an idiot. This is a perfect opportunity - the chance to get in close with Firestar's daughter, to gain her trust before he ultimately betrays her and claims his birthright. This is everything his father would want him to take advantage of and more. It's the reason he accepted her stupid request to be friends in the first place - and who even just asks to be friends like that, anyway?

Ridiculous. He's just using her.

So why can't he forget the feeling of her fur against his own, or the kindness in her eyes when she'd wrapped his wound?

Briefly, Hawkfrost considers the merit of beating his head against the floor until he passes out. But then he'd just have to get it fixed again, and Mothwing would scold him or wasting her time, and Leopardstar would shake her head in disappointment, and Leafpaw would look at him with those sad eyes-

Wait, no. Not that last one.

Frog dung.

Hawkfrost squeezes his eyes shut and forcibly ejects all thoughts of the stars-damned medicine cat apprentice. Tonight, he'll see his father again, and maybe by tomorrow, the strange warmth in his chest whenever he thinks of her will be gone.

Definitely.

That night, instead of his father, Hawkfrost dreams of soft paws, the scent of lavender, and gentle, golden eyes.

THEIR SONG IS FOOLS BY LAUREN AQUILINA AND NO IM NOT TAKING CRITICISM ON THIS

also before someone gets on my case for this: no, hawkfrost's thoughts on mothwing/sasha/his clanmates are not accurate. he's being groomed & manipulated by tigerstar to believe that everyone hates him except for his dad.

^ for more thoughts on that send me an ask because i originally typed up an authors note explaining his motivations/tigerstar's influence and it totalled at like 500 words so i couldn't put it here but i have been DYING to talk abt this

#hawkfrost #leafpool #mothwing #hawkleaf #leafhawk #warriors fanfiction #warriors fanfic #wc fanfic #gosh this is so self-indulgent hope you like it #theyre both extremely dumb im love them

[diegoalvesisgod]

I was tagged by @ibarbourou​ to do this... writing self-analysis, I guess.

Can you think of three images that are recurring elements in your writing? Are they symbolic of something? What do these images mean to you? Do you have any memories/connotations tied to them?

Long post ahead.

fire and warmth

This was the only one I didn’t have to think about, the one I consciously know is a recurring theme.

The image or fire, or anything that represents warmth or creates warmth, or the warmth in itself.

Paulo takes a deep breath and walks inside. The interior looks very different from the outside. It’s not scary at all. It reminds Paulo of a museum a little bit, but it’s warmer and cozier. There is a thick carpet on the floor in the large hallway, and patterned wallpaper on the walls. Fire is crackling somewhere.

(My Love Will Never Die)

He crosses the hall carefully, trying not to trip over anything. The storm outside intensifies, rain beating at the windows and lightnings illuminating the empty hall at least thrice before he reaches the door. The room he finds behind it is much smaller, and somehow also feels warmer. Whoever covered the furniture and took down the paintings before leaving this place most likely forgot about this room. The armchair in front of the large fireplace isn’t covered, there’s even a pelt in front of it, like whoever used to sit there liked to keep their feet warm. A small table to the side to put a glass of wine or a book on, a candleholder near the window, chairs in the corners. There’s still a pile of wood neatly lined up next to the fireplace, and he finds a tinderbox on the mantelpiece.

(let the darkness lead us into the light)

My grandfather was a concentration camp survivor. I was little when he died, but there are some things I remember him talking about to me, and this is one of them. Warmth means life. There is nothing if there’s not warmth, because if you’re cold, the only thing you can think of is warmth, the need to get warm, the lack of warmth. I deeply believe in the third generation trauma theory, and this may be one of the ways it manifests. I am able to cope with cold much better than most of my friends and family - what is cold for them isn’t cold for me, but I also subconsciously focus on things that represent warmth. I love blankets and candles and hot tea and fireplaces, I hoard sweaters, and when I was a little girl, I never wanted jackets, I wanted fur coats. 

For me, warmth, or the lack thereof, sets the vibe and the atmosphere of the story. It determines if the story has potential to have a happy ending, if the characters are even able to experience something positive.

There’s fire burning in the giant fireplace, started by someone from their small entourage, but the stone has been cold for too long, and it only slowly lets the flames warm up the salty air. The shadows in the hall are long and tall, making everything seem monstrous.

“It doesn’t feel like home,” Viktor says, just because the words are burning on his tongue and he needs to spit them out, even if it means another bruise.

(Stars)

The vibe of the entire story is cold and crude, and for me, at the mention of fire, it changes for the better, it starts to get hopeful. It’s what starts the change, and it’s slow and perhaps an impossible task to completely warm it up, but it’s already less dark and desperate.

flowers/plants

I don’t use flowers or plants that often, but when I do, it’s always with intention.

Denis lingers for a while. He takes off the rye wreath and runs a hand through his hair.

“I just… wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Sorry for what?” Vasek asks.

“Just… you know… being… generally disappointing.”

(all hail the underdogs)

I picked rye as the symbol of love and fidelity, because that’s what their relationship is about. But for the scene between Denis and Taylor later on in the fic, I picked cattail:

Denis nods, and then realizes that he doesn’t have to look for anything. He’s already got it. He pulls out the cattail he had picked earlier, and puts some of the pollen on the wound.

“Here,” Taylor says, handing him a piece of cloth in which Denis recognizes the silvery fabric of the small parachutes that transport sponsors’ gifts to the arena. “Do you need help?”

Denis nods and holds his hand up to him. Taylor wraps the fabric around his palm a bit clumsily, and ties it firmly.

(all hail the underdogs)

Cattail symbolizes peace, mainly between two people who are fighting. It’s literally a symbol of this temporary treaty between them, and of a friendship that could be if it weren’t for the circumstances.

I used the comparison of two different flowers again in Where my dreams are made of gold. 

Alessandro sits at the table and looks at the pile of leaves and blossoms. “What do you need all these flowers for?”

“The leaves. Green pigment,” Riccardo explains and tears another leaf off.

“Lily of the valley,” Alessandro smiles. “My favorite.”

Riccardo just stares at him. Are men even supposed to have favorite flowers? Does he have his favorite flower?

“Simple, innocent, fragile… but also deadly,” Alessandro says, picking up a flower and smelling it. “It’s said it sprang from Eve’s tears when she was leaving the Garden of Eden.”

Riccardo wants to say something about this flower not suiting Alessandro, since he knows from Giampaolo that it symbolizes humility in religious paintings, but holds his tongue. After all, who is he to tell anyone what flower they should like?

(Where my dreams are made of gold) 

Alessandro’s favorite flower is lily of the valley - actually a very feminine flower, associated with purity, humility, chastity and sweetness. It’s not representing him as he is, but the values that he is looking for, the way he wishes he were.

Alessandro nods and looks at the paper in Riccardo’s lap, the sketches of blooms and branches.

“Magnolias,” Riccardo says. “My favorite flowers. They look beautiful up in the tree, but you can’t really take them down. They wither and rot if you do. Beautiful and delicate as long as you just look. If you touch them, they turn to death.”

(Where my dreams are made of gold)

On the same note, Riccardo likes magnolias - exactly for the reason he gives. They are beautiful up in the tree, but if you touch them, they turn ugly and die. They symbolize dignity and nobility - which are qualities that he is seeking. Just before he states this, he says about himself: “A kiss for money or a favor? Not like I haven’t done it myself, although I didn’t call it trade. But see, I’m no one to judge you.” 

In this one, roses are kind of obvious, because it’s a Beauty and the Beast retelling, but here they also play into the whole crucifixion allegory, thorn crown and all that I created - which to this day I can’t believe I did in a piece I didn’t even intend as entirely serious.

The guards apparently didn’t keep the story to themselves, because among the jeers and laughter of the crowd slowly gathering on the square, he hears mentions of roses and the Beast almost as often as he hears himself being called a fool.

Someone pushes a flower crown made of roses on his head. He feels the thorns sink in his forehead, but the pain never reaches where it should. He can’t quite feel his body, nor see where he’s going, and he doesn’t think that he would be able to walk on his own, if it weren’t for the guards’ grip on his arms.  

He stops when they tell him to, looks up to the wooden post and sniffles. This is the thing he feared the most all his life, and now he feels nothing. He raises his hands obediently and lets the guards close the iron rings around them, and he looks down at the crowd like they mean nothing. He doesn’t even feel like explaining anything to them, even if it could stop the jeering and curses and an occasional rose being thrown at him like it’s worth nothing. They would never understand.

(let the darkness lead us into the light)

In let's be winners by mistake, I used roses, but paper roses. On purpose - while they should symbolize love, they are not real. Andrey repeatedly gives Sascha paper roses, but he’s aware of his feelings not being reciprocated, and in this scene, where he already knows that Sascha is in love with someone else, he burns the rose to show him that love like that, with an “outsider”, cannot last and be real.

Sascha lifts his eyes to him for a moment, and when he lowers them again, Andrey is holding a red paper rose.

“We all have dreams,” he says and hands it to him. “But like everything that happens under the Big Top, they are not real.”

He runs his palm over the paper flower, and out of nowhere, it catches fire. Sascha drops it quickly, and watches the flames swallow the crepe paper.

“What… how do you do the things?” he breathes out.

“If I told you, it would no longer be magic,” Andrey smiles.

(let's be winners by mistake)

For me, flowers are a great way to establish a character, or a relationship. When I look at a person, I can usually associate a flower with them. I love flowers, and I’m very picky about them. There are flowers I can’t stand and would never bring them home, and then flowers I am attracted to. So I generally think of flowers just like I think of people. 

liminal spaces

“The spatial dimension of liminality can include specific places, larger zones or areas, or entire countries and larger regions.Liminal places can range from borders and frontiers to no man's lands and disputed territories, to crossroads to perhaps airports, hotels, and bathrooms which are spaces people pass through but do not live in.”

I feel like I oscillate between establishing homes for the characters, and using liminal spaces a lot. I think I used these mainly in my old fics, but sometimes I still like to reach for them. 

The motel he stops at is far from the city, and looks like it could be accidentally demolished any day, as it seems to be completely abandoned. But Paulo knows it’s still open, and barely anyone there cares who rents the rooms.

The room is far from nice, but as long as it has a bed and running water, it’s all they need.    

Álvaro hasn’t said anything since Paulo picked him off the ground and cut the zip tie on his wrists. Paulo suspects that he concentrates on staying conscious. At least whenever he peeked at him from the driver’s seat, Álvaro’s lips and hands were shaking, and by the time they get into the tiny bathroom, he is barely able to stand. Paulo peels off his shirt and the torn jeans, and almost gasps. Álvaro’s body is colored in bruises, none of them dangerous, but all with the purpose of hurting. But Álvaro doesn’t complain, save for an occasional hiss, almost like he takes it as his penance.

Paulo helps him into the bathtub and lets him sit down. Then he reaches for the shower, an old thing that sprays water everywhere, and starts to wash him, not really touching him, just letting the hot streams run over his body. He then scrubs the dirt and blood out of Álvaro’s hair with the hotel soap and tries to dry him as gently as possible with the scratchy towels.

(No Rest For The Wicked)

I am big about the vibe of buildings. As much as I don’t think of myself as of a spiritual person, sensitive to whatever supernatural may exist in this world, and I have trouble perceiving human emotions, I can feel buildings. That’s my quirk. I have a whole theory of buildings, and my own terminology - for example, I know that old houses built of stone are grounded - they have a stable energy, and if I spend some time inside, I just feel very calm, relaxed and at peace. 

I often go to liminal spaces when there’s a transition in the story.

The sky is pale pink interwoven with blue veins, and they both shake from cold and fatigue. They can see the border from here. Ander leans over the car, soaking in the warmth from the engine.

A car’s headlights blink from somewhere behind the border. Andoni grabs his bag. Ander watches him silently.

You could go with me, Andoni says then.

Ander shakes his head slightly. He can’t go anywhere. Your war is over. I still have a lot of battles to fight.

(Hold My Hand When This Ends)

Same here:

He looks like a ghost.

Not that Simon believes in ghosts, but at night the road becomes a strange place, almost like he can cross the line between this world and some alternate space anytime. Sometimes, when he stops for a cup of coffee at a gas station this late, and he’s the only one sitting there, he feels like he’s all alone in the world, like the whole population was wiped out during some catastrophe or epidemics and he’s the only miraculous survivor.

But although he knows that the person he’s seeing is real, has to be real, what is he supposed to think of a boy walking down the side of the road dressed only in jeans and a white sweatshirt when Simon is sure - and the red digits on his car stereo temperature display confirm it - it’s freezing cold outside?

(like all good kids from broken homes)

The whole fic is basically about liminal spaces - it’s about that moment of transition, and there’s basically no plot needed, the liminal spaces do all the magic.

The room is small and simple, with the obligatory double bed, because paradoxically one’s not expected to sleep alone in a place like this, but it’s at least warm and relatively clean. Viktor looks around like a trapped animal, and it takes him some time to relax at least enough to let go of his backpack and kick off the wet trainers.

“I think a hot shower will do you good,” Simon says, nodding towards the tiny bathroom.

For the first time, Viktor’s lips curl in a smile. “Will you feed me, too, and tuck me in bed?”

(like all good kids from broken homes)

Liminal spaces are something I personally love, because they have a special energy, time is very altered there, and they feel like a half-step, like a portal to something new. (The best liminal spaces are the F1 and Ibis budget hotels in France. Their lobby at about 1 AM can take your mind to very interesting places. Gas stations in the middle of the night come closely second.)

#writing

[dented-nado]

Loved your last prompt fill! Would you consider 15. “Are you cold?” Superbat :)

[[Sorry this took me so long!! This turned out a bit angsty, dealing with Bruce pushing himself and mental health issues, but its overall hurt and comfort

At times, it felt the cold was all he could feel. Some might think he was being over-dramatic, but sometimes, Bruce would fall into a quiet slump that only those who had known him for a long time really recognized. He wouldn’t really be angry… or sad… or happy… he’d be just… flat… to everything. Bruce himself hated getting like that because it made decisions a lot harder - he just didn’t have the energy to really care… and he didn’t really want to think about why it was happening either.

He, and others around him had just learned to wait it out. 

“He’s just in a mood, he’ll get over it.”

“Don’t take it personally, he’ll be back to ordering us around in no time.”

“That’s just how he is sometimes.”

Bruce tended to only realize those words actually hurt him when he finally was able to pull himself out of his slump, his fatigue with everything life had thrown at him, and by then it was too late to protest or say that it had hurt him.

Not that he’d ever say something like that anyway, even if he did recognize he felt hurt by it right away.

Because deep down, he was sure he didn’t really matter.

So, on Gotham nights like tonight, where he was shut down emotionally and mentally even to himself, the cold really was the only thing he could really know he was feeling. A biting chill that stung his face every time the wind blew. Even the batsuit didn’t stop his body pulling blood and warmth away from his fingers and toes to better protect itself from the elements. He flexed his hands as he went about his patrol, trying to plead with his body to go a little longer. If all he was going to feel was cold, he thought he’d rather not feel it at all. For nothing to truly bother him. To be able to make decisions and carry out his tasks not unlike a machine. Going in, getting the job done, and barely ever needing maintenance.

Instead, here he was, mind shut down but body brutally aware of the freezing breeze that felt like pelting him tonight.

Just a little longer.

Keep going.

If you stop, you lose.

He had drowned out the voice of Alfred who had practically begged him for several long minutes to come home, warm up, eat something and go to bed.

He had barely acknowledged Dick, who had tried to talk to him, but had gotten exasperated and done trying after Bruce failed to respond to him… not like Bruce really blamed him for heading out… he only wished he could make up his mind on whether to reach out or retreat away further. The latter - was the option he was beginning to think to be the option that would give most of his children a better chance at happiness.

There hadn’t been any big crimes, only a few muggings, but that didn’t stop him stubbornly continuing his search, convinced something was going to happen.

Something had to happen.

Maybe even if he came home bruised and battered… at least he’d feel something else… right?

After another hour of pushing on, biting cold, fingers getting stiffer with the cold, he landed on top of one of Gotham’s oldest buildings. He looked out over the city… as quiet as Gotham could be. He looked down at his grappling gun, his fingers were trembling… it was looking down at his shaking hands that made him finally realize the rest of him was shivering. His breath formed little clouds in front of his face as his breathing was starting to be more labored. He clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the grappling gun, almost like he was trying to strangle it. 

His mind flip-flopped between wishing the whole world would disappear and wishing someone would find him and tell him it was okay. His vision narrowed into a tunnel. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“why can’t I just feel or not feel?” He asked himself.

“Why can’t I be better?? Or just not care anymore?”

With a growl of frustration, he threw the grappling gun at the ground and keeled over, crouching and wrapping his arms and his capes around himself. He felt his eyes grow hot like they wanted to cry but he couldn’t he just couldn’t.

Thoughts swirled in his mind, biting at him just as intensely as the cold.

“Why am I here?”

“What am I doing??”

“Is it even worth it? Is there a point?”

“am I doing it wrong?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry….”

He wondered if he had done something purely wicked and evil as a child to deserve this. To deserve to loose mom and dad, to deserve his best friend descending into madness, to deserve to feel so out of control of himself that he’d flip between feeling too much and not being able to feel at all, deserve to feel like he has no choice but to cut himself off from everyone if he doesn’t want anyone he loves to get hurt ever again.

Maybe he was the constant… maybe if he didn’t exist… maybe…. maybe….

 “Are you cold?” 

Right on time… just like when he stepped in the way of a bullet or caught someone right before they hit the ground… he was there.

Normally Bruce would have scrambled to his feet and tried to claim he was just thinking about a case, but instead he just shivered, unable to help his teeth chattering and just barely turned his head in Superman’s direction.

Clark’s red boot clad feet touched the ground quietly, and he smoothly leaned down, hand on Batman’s back. His red cape spilling on the ground and bringing a bright color back into a dull world.

“You’re cold.” He said softly, without judgement as he worked slowly, moving his hand from Batman’s back to around his shoulders.

Bruce felt goosebumps form up and down his arms, Clark’s warm arm starting to battle the cold that had enveloped him. Of course, the man… child of the sun… was quite literally a walking heater.

Slowly Bruce closed his eyes, allowing himself to be moved so his face was pressed against his super friend’s chest as Clark pulled him into a quiet hug.

He sighed, letting Clark’s natural warmth envelop him. He released his arms that has been curled around his sides and wrapped his own arms around Clark, despite warming up he had started shivering even more. He decided it was better to feel warmer at that moment than pull away “because it was a hug”.

“I’m going to take you home B…”

Bruce nodded, now squeezing his eyes tightly shut as if somehow that would help him forget the world around him.

They were flying, Clark was holding him.

“I’m sorry” Bruce mumbled in a hoarse voice.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for B.” Clark hushed calmly.

—-

“You don’t have to stay around Clark.” Bruce tried to say as he sat, warming up beside the fire Alfred had lit, still feeling the deeper chill hadn’t gone away.

“I know. But I want to. Unless you want me to leave.”

Bruce stayed silent.

Clark smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

Bruce took a long sip of his honey lemon tea now that it was finally cool enough to not burn his tongue.

“So why were you punishing yourself out there?”

Bruce nearly spit his tea back out. “I wasn’t…!” He met Clark’s eyes, and shut his mouth. He had expected Clark to be sitting there rolling his eyes at his behavior, but instead all he saw was genuine worry.

“…I didn’t mean to be.”

Clark put a hand on his knee. “I know Bruce, I don’t think you ever mean to.”

Bruce bit his lip. 

Clark was his first friend he had let in in a while. Something about Clark screamed safety, and it wasn’t because he was Superman. It was written in the way he would gently stay by his side, how he would smile at him, how he would listen to every single word and take everyone into careful consideration. Whenever Bruce had struggled to be open in the way most friends are with each other… how he had remembered being with friends in past… Clark was incredibly patient, would gently urge him out of his comfort zone but never shame him for struggling.

He loved him. Not just in a “I want to kiss him and wake up beside him everyday way.”. He loved him in a “You make me believe that life can be better than this, you make me feel like I can heal and be loved as I am” kind of way. 

But at the same time, it scared him… because what if he was so awful that the warmth and light he loved in Clark so much would go out?

“It’s… just a mood I get in, I’ll get over it..” He grumbled, curling his legs up onto his seat with him.

Clark raised his eyebrows. “What kind of a mood?” He asked seemingly innocently.

Bruce swung his head back to him. Would Clark even know what he was talking about if he told him? 

“…Do you ever…. just not really feel anything?” Bruce suggested slowly.

Clark tilted his head to the side. “Like an empty kind of feeling?”

Bruce swallowed hard. “I… think that’s one way to put it.”

“Yeah… I’ve felt that way before. After what happened with Black Mercy… there were lots of times I felt like that. It was…”

“Frustrating?” Bruce suggested.

Clark nodded. “Yeah, frustrating.”

“Like you either want to be able to mourn or…” Bruce continued, leaning forward a little.

“Really not feel anything at all?”

Bruce nodded.

Clark smiled at him. “So… when you or others say you’re in a “mood” is that’s what’s happening.”

Bruce looked down at his lap and slowly nodded again.

Clark took a deep breath and moved a little closer to sit beside Bruce. 

“I think… you know how when you hurt yourself, you try to do things to distract yourself from the pain?” Clark suggested. “And if you’re in pain for a long period of time, eventually you just accept it’s there?”

“Yeah…” Bruce agreed.

“I think your mind does that too, when your hurt? I think you do feel, a lot, it’s just too much for you to handle all at once. It’s just trying to avoid thinking of what your feeling to protect yourself.” Clark said, arm now back around Bruce’s shoulders.

“…. I know your right. I just… wish I didn’t have to deal with it at all.” 

“I know… but I think you have to if you want to move on, in any way. I was in therapy for six months before I finally broke down about how it felt… to lose a whole lifetime you were convinced was real….”

Bruce looked at him a bit shocked. “You went to therapy?”

Clark nodded. “Oh yeah. I mean you remember back then, you had to stop me from doing something I would have regretted just because deep down I was so angry about the whole thing but refused to tackle it.”

“Does your therapist know your…”

“One of the few.” Clark said with a slight quirk of his lips. “Even Superman needs to talk about shit sometimes.”

Bruce couldn’t help a small smile. “Well when you swear, I know you’re serious about it.”

“You’re damn straight I am.” Clark chirped playfully nudging his body against Bruce’s.

“I guess… I should… I just never really thought… you know… I’m a billionaire, I’m batman… what do I have to complain about?” Bruce replied, only half joking.

“You’re allowed to feel things Bruce. Your worth it, I promise you.”

Bruce studied Clark’s face, chest feeling heavy.

“What makes you so sure?”

Clark brushed a hair out of Bruce’s face, startling the dark knight slightly, but he quickly realized Clark wasn’t even aware he was doing it as he looked Bruce over almost… affectionately.

“Because I know you.” Clark replied. 

“…You do.”

Finally, for the first time that night… Bruce felt warm.

#Anonymous #superbat #batman #superman #prompt fill #my writing #clark kent #bruce wayne #angst #hurt and comfort #kind of a drabble that turns into plot

[buttercup-of-kaer-morhen]

Of Thorns and Buttercups

~Ch 2/?~

(Beauty and the Beast AU, Kiiiinda. It has definite elements of the original story cause I’m a sap for Fairytale AUs. I hope you enjoy. Also shout out to @sophiakuso1 for being my beta. You can find Chapter 1 Here) Warnings: Brief mention of violence, blood, and there’s a death scene… so there’s that, also, non-sentient animated furniture violence? I don’t know if that will bother anyone but they will kinda act like living things when they show up in the story, so… Primary Tags: Beast! Geralt, Belle! Jaskier, Memory Alteration Via Curse, It really only affects Jaskier right now Also on AO3!

————————- Jaskier wandered through the forest, dazed and confused. One minute he knew he had been on his way somewhere upset and at a loss for inspiration and the next, poof, he was just upset and still at a loss for inspiration. He couldn’t remember why though either. He couldn’t remember much actually… other than the fact that Jaskier the bard was as good as dead! Figuratively of course, physically he was as fit as a fiddle. That is, if he continued on this way. He knew he had no motivation to write or really to even sing. His mood just wasn’t there for composing a masterpiece and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why. A horrible ache in his heart was definitely there though but not the good kind, the kind that one could turn into a fabulously dramatic epic tragedy of lust and loss.The kind where one could enjoy it before saying c'est la vie, it was nice while it lasted and then moving on with life. No. This ache was the kind of true heart wrenching rejection and lost love described only in the truly legendary tales that left the audience weeping and the writer heart broken enough to fade out from the world of music completely...Except he couldn’t remember what caused it. One would think that such a thing or person would have been very memorable. 

Jaskier was almost too lost in thought at that point to notice the chill setting in around the forest he was still trekking through as he bemoaned his anguish mentally. “Curious…” His soft murmur drifted in the cold air for a moment before being muted by the dense foliage. The bard looked around in wonder as he observed the frost that had gradually grown on the trees ahead. Glancing back, he confirmed that the forest he had been passing through showed no signs of winter while the ones ahead lost more of their leaves to snow and ice the deeper in it went. Oh what a splendidly magical surprise was this! Was fate handing him his new bardic inspiration he wished for on a silver platter? Ecstatic, he marched onward, deeper into the wintery depths. 

Uncaring at the time of any potential danger that may await him, Jaskier walked for what felt to be hours. The forest lighting was dim at best, which had him tripping and stumbling while thistles and thorns caught his clothing and skin, much to his dismay. But he pressed on feeling as though something were pulling him forward towards an unknown destination. The soft noises of the forest, which had been the only comfort to his nerves, suddenly disappeared as an anguished howl shattered through the crisp air. As soon as it came, it disappeared and the bard found himself running as fast as his legs would carry him in the direction it had come from. 

He finally slowed as he emerged out into what appeared to be a garden, which was absolutely bewitching. There were flowers of all kinds in all shades of blues and yellows, only a few Jaskier knew the names of, peeking out from where they were nestled in the thick blankets of snow. He didn’t spend long marveling at their beauty because the snow began to fall harder around him as the night set in. When it had gotten so late, Jaskier had no idea, but he feared he would soon be an ice sculpture if he stayed outside in his lighter traveling clothes for even a moment longer.

As he approached the dark looming doors of the keep, his heart began to flutter restlessly with nerves that really should have been there when he entered an enchanted forest to begin with but curiosity had driven him forward. And it was the same curiosity that had him tentatively knocking only for the door to slowly drift open. “... Definitely not creepy.” He huffed under his breath as he slipped into the dark entryway. The inside was dilapidated but not as bad as he had expected. There was some rubble and a few places where the wind could slip in but most of the stone sculptures and furnishings were intact. He had played in some of the greatest courts and seen exquisitely executed pieces but he had never seen anything like this. Such craftsmanship! Each piece had been delicately carved with the motifs of vines, fruits, and flowers which were painted with soft pastels and gilded with either gold or silver. The gilding hadn’t even been over used as to be gaudy as some nobles often had it, but it was subtle and refined. He couldn’t linger too long however because the frigid draft slipped straight through his clothes and left his bones aching. The warm golden glow emanating down the hall from a room looked enticing and drew him in. 

He stepped into the room where a fire roared in the extravagantly designed hearth, keeping the chill at bay. In the center of the room, a lavish dining table was set, brimming with foods of all kinds, which had his stomach growling from the aroma alone. He debated for less than a minute on whether or not he should chance eating the suspiciously mouthwatering food before he was digging in, potential thrall be damned. He was starving and it was delicious. After he sated his appetite, he moved to stand near the fire to warm up more. He considered briefly if he should pull a chair over or not and he decided, yes. Yes, he very much should, so his aching feet could finally have a rest. Upon turning around though, a plush armchair that had not been there a moment ago was now waiting invitingly for him to settle in. 

“Alrighty then… Either this place is haunted, I’m going crazy, or it’s enchanted. I’m really hoping for the latter of the three.” He spoke aloud to the empty room, but it helped keep the fear that was slowly clawing up his spine at bay. The stone woodland creatures decorating the place really did not help either. It now felt like he was being watched but there hadn’t been signs of any inhabitants yet, only the lavish furniture and decorations.

A part of him wanted to flee into the night, cursing himself for ever being dumb enough to run towards the howl and entering the obviously magical castle, but the other more adventurous side reminded him of all the amazing tales he could spin from this. There was no decision to make anyway, really, because even if he wanted to leave, outside was dark, snowing, and filled with whatever made that howl that would most likely eat him if he didn’t freeze to death first from getting lost in the maze-like trees. He was stuck here for at least the night. He set down his pack and lute, grabbed a goblet of wine, and sat in the rather inviting looking chair. It felt like heaven as his body melted into the plushy embrace and it almost felt like the chair settled with him. 

He hadn’t meant to doze off after finishing his glass but he must have been exhausted. The sounds of shuffling registered in his groggy mind but when he opened his eyes, the sounds stopped. The fire had reduced to embers and the food gone he noted as he looked around but no one to be seen. “Hello?” He called out tentatively, hoping for a response that never came. “I didn’t mean to intrude, I just needed refuge from the storm…” He tried again, slowly standing and grabbing his things. 

He ducked his head out into the hall trying to catch sight of whoever had just been in the room with him but there was no one in either direction. The feeling of being watched had only gotten worse since he awoke but it was also now accompanied by the feeling that he was being followed. Jaskier was, understandably, not fond of that as he stepped fully out into the hallway deciding he might as well find a room to sleep in. At least it would be more private. The sound of creaking wood and something scuffing across stone echoed out through the dark passage, nearly getting Jaskier to jump out of his skin. If he didn’t get early grey hair from this, nothing could. His pace quickened as he tried to find the stairs, wondering about the merits of being eaten alive or freezing to death. At the stairs, he took them two at a time and went straight into the east wing which actually looked habitable in comparison. However, as he reached the peak of the stairs he caught sight of a small grey and white mottled pelt disappearing around a corner further down the hall. Jaskier decided it would be wise to take the first room found that appeared unused and habitable.

He shut the heavy door and softly stepped through the very dim chambers. He didn’t have flint readily available so he set his pack on the bed intent on searching for the object he needed. Only as he dug through his possessions did the fireplace blaze to life behind him. His blood ran cold as he looked back to find the room still empty. “If this place is haunted and the ghosts are angry I’m here, then I would kindly ask all present that you leave me alone and I will be gone in the morning. I would find it terribly inconvenient if you killed me… and blood leaves terrible stains…” He attempted to joke with a false bravado he didn’t even remotely feel. Yet the silence remained undisturbed. He huffed after a few minutes, choosing to push it from his mind and just go to bed. If he gets murdered in his sleep then he can’t very well stop it. 

The bedding looked thick and inviting, pelts covering the foot of the bed for extra warmth if needed. He stood his precious lute carefully against the bedside table and placed his pack beside it. He stripped down to his smallclothes and jumped onto the bed to tightly shut the curtains of the canopy. Sliding under the covers, he wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into. He didn’t know if he should stay or go come the morning, but as the darkness and silent night settled around him, he could no longer ignore the ache in his chest that persisted if not grew stronger. It felt like something or someone was missing from his daring adventure. The one that usually made him feel safe in any situation, but the more he tried to reach out and grasp the image or name of the person, the further it floated away. After a while of trying to conjure up the memory of the one who made his heart hurt, he gave up. His head stung like he had been pulling on thorn vines like the ones he’d seen in the forest. Which reminded him that he never checked the damage the plants had done to his clothing and his person while he had been running. He sighed. Another thing to deal with come morning. His thoughts drifted for a while after that as he tried to lull himself to sleep but the first three times he almost fell into sleep's sweet embrace, a creak or a scuttling sound pulled him back. Eventually, he buried his head under the covers and let himself be reclaimed once again by sleep. 

It felt like only minutes passed when he awoke again, sadly not to the light of day but rather the light of a lantern which shown through the now open curtains at the side of the bed. His sleep addled mind raced to take in everything: The windows showed it was just barely dawn as the sun lazily awoke the sky in vibrant reds and purples. He had been certain that he had closed the drapes of the bed fully last night. Oh yes, and then there was the lantern he was pretty sure he never lit floating just over the edge of the bed as he blinked up at it. Or rather, it wasn’t floating but being held aloft in the air. His eyes followed up the arm of the lantern’s bearer to their face but where Jaskier had expected the face of a man, large yellow eyes like cut citrine glinted out from thick white fur… Oh right, and then there were the teeth. The rather large sharp teeth on full display as the beast grimaced down at him. When the thought of being murdered in his sleep crossed his mind last night, he did not intend it as a silent wish to be granted by some god with a sick sense of humor.

Much like the rest of the situation, the bard had not been expecting a very large creature to be the one living here much less for it to talk but so far, only the unexpected had continued to happen. So he took it in stride as it’s maw opened and the gruff, attractive voice of a man came out. “... Jaskier?” It sounded more confused than angry, which the bard would happily take. He couldn’t help but think it could have been worse, but hey, at least the place wasn’t haunted, right?

Jaksier opened his mouth, intending to apologize and maybe figure out a way to wiggle his way out of his current predicament so he could promptly grab his things and flee, but what came out was “Ah! So even magical beasts living in ruins in the middle of nowhere have heard of me!”. Which is when he had found out that his tongue was in fact a traitor trying to get him killed. After a beat of silence that followed, the bard decided to amend his words and try again. “Are you going to kill me?”

Not much better but he’d take it.

#geraskier #Witcher #the witcher #witcher netflix #fanfic #geralt x jaskier #gerlion #Beauty and the Beast AU #beast!geralt #Buttercup's Writings

[wallaceandpestle]

warrior cats beauty standards

frankly in a organized society as complex as Warriors there would definitely be things considered attractive, standards of beauty, clan aesthetics, etc. this includes physical cat features, general traits, objects, etc. 

thunderclan:

* thunderclan cats generally find that “big cat features,” resembling lions and panthers, are most attractive, and thus, are common and typical of thunderclan cats. this includes features like thick snouts, broad faces and noses, far-apart, smaller eyes, etc. seem to have “friendlier” faces, much more round. 

* wide paws with long claws are seen as signs of strength and prowess (good for climbing trees and navigating the forest)

* thunderclan cats are generally the biggest out of all of the clans, and appear to have the most muscle mass,

* but tbh they just have some of the thickest fur. they’re the only clan to regularly have a “winter coat” and a “summer coat,” the former much thicker and longer. fur is seen as especially attractive in the form of manes around the neck or fluff on the belly (the really plume-like tails are more riverclan reserved, however). 

* coat colors can vary, and from what we see in the books i cant really gather common traits (modern tc is so mixed with other groups anyways) but i like to imagine that colors are generally very saturated, somewhat brownish and earthy. brown and ginger tabbies are especially common, but tortoiseshells aren’t unheard of as well (tortoiseshells are more common than calicos). 

* cats aren’t dirty by any means (i mean these are cats we’re talking about, sharing tongues is a huge tradtiion) but thunderclanners can be seen visually “Carrying” signs of their environment. pelts flecked with moss and leaves, flowers in the ears of queens, mud streaked along the coats of playful apprentices. every single “crown” headcanon people come up with for plants are valid. all of them. 

* obviously every thunderclan cat has a different thing they look for in a mate, but stereotypical (straight) queen signs of attractiveness in toms includes a sense of duty to protect his family/clan, friendly and warm, etc. 

* thunderclan cats love foliage and trees. there aren’t a ton of wildflowers in the territory, with how wooded the land is, so instead they favor things like vines and bushes. bramble bushes have long been signs of strength and defense, while softer plants, like ferns and bracken, usually indicates a sense of family, familiarity, or comfort. 

* moss is like designer silk to these babes. 

shadowclan:

* think thunderclan, but sharper, sleeker, edgier, when it comes to faces. long, narrow snouts, sharp angles in cheek fur and ears and eyes, etc. eyes are often slanted, with very angular corners, while ears are generally very deep-folded (like they curve on the head a lot, with big folds on the sides, idk how to explain it lol). 

* coats can range from medium-short to long, somewhat wiry fur. almost wolflike in appearance, with the underbelly fur even brushing the ground. it’s generally accepted that the older a cat is, the longer his fur grows. 

* brokenstar cut his longer growing fur with thorns and burs and his own claws to maintain a sharp, clean look. long coats are somewhat associated with elders (and by extension wisdom, knowledge, etc), and he didn’t want that. 

* mustaches!!!! long fur on the muzzles, long whiskers, beards!!!!!!!

* for colors, almost all cats that aren’t brown or grey tabbies have white somewhere, in the form of a calico cat, a white chest and belly, white paws, etc. colors are a bit darker and desaturated from thunderclan. most calicos are dilute in some way (as in, they’re grey and cream instead of black and red). 

* long curvy claws here too, along with long teeth and fangs (goof for hunting). 

* the camp is kept as very secluded between thick pine trees, so there’s no weak spots, and little light let in as well. pine needles are the most common plant, so obviously they’re used for almost all purposes where they can be used. 

* mushrooms are very common around the camp, and have become a tiny little motif of shadowclan! most of the other clans dont get them, aside from small ones growing on tree bark (which they hardly notice,) so shadowclan likes to think it’s starclan’s little gift to them. just dont eat them. 

* cats are very methodically clean, although they never enter water. especially in the forest territories, most water is somewhat muddy (i mean they lived on a swampland). it’s perfectly safe to drink, but esteemed shadowclan cats probably wouldn’t want to bathe in it. 

* medicine cats keep herb gardens!!!! they’re signs of tenderness and clan growth and health, and warriors respect them, refusing to walk through them. apprentices get in big trouble if they trample them. 

* cats cant climb the trees, as they’re all confiers, and usually have too many branches close together, with thick pine needles difficult to manuever through, even for cats. but somehow the stereotype of glowing shadowclan eyes in the trees is a thing. shadowclan cats HATE this.

riverclan:

* riverclan cats are viewed as the most luxurious of all the clans, and they love it. plump, well fed bodies, long, sleek, shiny fur dripping down like waterfalls, beautiful, regal faces, are all the beauty standards of riverclan, and often other clans too. 

* i mean cats in general find riverclanners physically attractive, often. in the books we see riverclan involved in a lot of forbidden romances, but these take a much milder form all the time in thunderclanners eyeing the gorgeous riverclan she-cat, or windclanners gawking at the stregnth of that tom. 

* although, “riverclan crushes” dont usually extend past the physically, since most of the other clans agree that riverclanners let their good looks get  to their heads, and are stereotyped as cocky, arrogant, luxurious, demanding, etc. 

* it is true that they are very picky with their food - and they get a lot of it. some creative medicine cats and queens take the job of preparing fresh kill for the leaders to be extra tasty and well presented, whether that means serving it with flavorful herbs, or arranging flowers around it, etc. 

* many leaders joke about wanting *only the fattest, finest fishes.” it is true that riverclan is much more reluctant to share prey in the books, but in the clan itself, leaders obviously make sure everybody is fed. 

* dens, as well, are often decorated with flowers and herbs are stored in the nursery, to help calm queens with their scent. certain flowers symbolize different things, usually related to luck in some way. 

* riverclan cats are the only clan that regularly bathes in the river. it usually replaces “sharing tongues,” but cats get just as clean. 

* coats are long, healthy, and very smooth, sometimes even wavy. obviously cat’s cant do hairstyles, but the same attractive features in long human hair translates to riverclan cat’s tails, often like feather plumes (feathertail is the riverclan equivalent of naming your child after their beautiful luscious locks). 

* cats have big, big eyes, and small noses, with little delicate snouts and mouths (but really sharp teeth). riverclan is the only clan that regularly has flatter snouts, shadowclan occasionally has them but since riverclan has the least need to run around and be active, they can afford a more persian look. 

* ears are absolutely fULL of fur. 

* webbed feet for easier swming!! all cats have webbed feet to some degree but riverclan cats have it a lot.

* the main areas of long fur are congregated on the elbosw, ankles, tail, neck/chest, cheeks, and ears. the actual body has a very sleek and flat coat for ease in swimming. 

* colors are vibrant, usually cool-toned. brown and ruddy tabbies are less common than silver ones, and aside from those and tortoisehsells most cats are solid. exotic patterns, like leopard spots, colorpoint (siamese), ticked, persian, etc, are rare, but definitely possible (and very attractive) in riverclan. 

windclan:

* windclanners are the smallest of all the clans!! they’re just short and low by nature. 

* because they’re so small, windclan cats are very compactly built, as they have to fit a lot of muscle in a little space. they aren’t the strongest or heaviest in a fight, so they can’t pin down their attackers, but they have really long, strong legs. 

* windclan cats have such great legs because they have to run around the moor a lot. they have a really big territory, like it goes really far, but because it’s all just moor and fields the clans aren’t really jealous. they have to traverse all this territory multiple times a day, so they train for speed and endurance a lot, hence the powerful limbs. 

* long legs are tucked under the body when they sit/lay, like a rabbit! you ever seen a rabbit run??! the legs are all tucked under so they look really small, but when they get up they go on for miles. 

* good hunting abilities are very desirable in a mate. when a bunch of cats have a crush on the same one, they might engage in a “race” in front of them to prove their speed. cats woo their mates by sharing prey with them, and letting them have the first bites. 

* in terns of facial details, windclan cats dont have a lot of discernable features. they have generally shorter snots, but not compressed, as this makes it difficult to run and breath heavily. ears are small (and flattened against the face a lot), eyes and noses are big. 

* tabbies, especially brown and grey, are extremely common, and any other look is pretty rare for windclan. many cats felt an inherent unease about tallstar being leader, since he was black and white, very uncommon for windclan. 

* cats have the shortest fur, to keep away dust, sand, and grasses from getting stuk in their pelts. short/cropped tails are common as well. 

* cats love the feeling of being open, of sunshine and total exposure to the elements. sleeping under the stars together is very romantic for windclan mates. 

* dens are usually hollows in the sides of hills, often abandoned fox or badger burrows. whatever bushes are there are scraggly, and cats can’t really live in them, although their leaves are usually taken to be bedding for queens (other cats just forgo bedding entirely). 

* this is kinda gross but i imagine windclan woudlnt really have a dirtplace?? they pretty much live in a sandbox so there’s just certain areas of the territory they use. 

skyclan:

* so i havent read much of the books with skyclan so i cant say much. but from what i understand, as they have a long and sordid history of hardships, traeling, and fighting for their rights, skyclan cats value durabilty, resourcefulness, etc. 

* cats are taught from a young age to push through any pain they have, even if minor. medicine and herbs have become largely lost on the clan (i mean leafpool helps them but before that) so the mentality of “get over it, it doesnt hurt that bad” is taught in kits from a young age. 

* queens have lots of smaller litters, as when cats are hungrier, they tend to have less kits. so to make up for it, any she-cats able to have kits re admired for having as many litters as they can. 

* cats are physically very varied, usually on the thin side. durable, strong bodies are valued as they can survive harsher condition. cats are wirey and thinner, more spry and flexible than any other clan. 

#warriors #warrior cats #warriors hc #headcanon #warriors headcanon #thunderclan #riverclan #shadowclan #skyclan #windclan #im taling bout what the cats think is pretty/cute/handsome #like what they look for in a mate or what they generally think looks good #pls dont be gross #long post

[archadianskies]

Of all the days to forget to bring an umbrella, it had to be this one. The heavens seemed to have waited right until he stepped off the bus to open up and drown him in a deluge and now Simon’s trying to make a mad dash to the end of the street. Just as the lights turn green, of course, so he now has to wait for another set of lights to change before he can cross.

“-gallery at four, ready for the opening at seven.” The rain stops overhead, and the most beautiful man he’s ever seen stands beside him, sharing his umbrella over Simon. 

He flashes him a brief smile before continuing with his phone conversation. “No no, no, Chloe you really don’t need to do that you’ve been wonderful and you’ve already done so much.” A bright laugh. “Listen, you’ve already managed to convince Elijah to attend that’s a modern day miracle right there.”

Simon can only gawp at him, can only take in his light brown skin with its cinnamon dusting of freckles, right there over the bridge of his nose, and his stylish trenchcoat with the collar popped and a scarf wrapped casually around his neck. Dressed properly for the weather, and prepared for the rain unlike the poor sod currently sharing his Louis Vuitton umbrella.

“I’m on my way to the gallery right now, just caught up in some heavy rain.” He continues, and for once Simon actually wishes the lights wouldn’t change, that he could stay right here under an umbrella that could pay his rent with a man that’s probably a runway model. “I’ll grab us coffees, is North there too? And Josh? Oh, what, dad’s already there?” Another bright laugh. “Of course he won’t miss an opportunity to meddle with the setup. Alright, I’ll see you guys soon, thanks Chloe.”

He hangs up and pockets his phone, glancing at Simon to offer a grin. “Man these lights take forever to change or what?”

“Oh, uh, yeah- they do I guess?” Simon stammers, feeling and certainly looking like an idiot. “Thanks for um, for sharing your umbrella.”

“No problem.” He smiles and that’s when Simon really gets a good look at his face, discovering the perfect man does in fact have mismatched blue and green eyes. “Where are you headed?”

“Just trying to get to the post office to pick up a package.” Simon points across the street. “Thought I’d make it without an umbrella today but Detroit had other plans I guess.”

“Cafe I’m headed to is just down that way, how about we keep going together?” He wonders how someone wins the genetic lottery like this, how two humans make someone so handsome and then let him loose in the world with those mismatched eyes and those freckles and that smile.

“Sure.”

“Oh you-” He reaches over, and for a brief moment Simon gets a whiff of expensive cologne. “- didn’t press the button.”

Ah. That’s why the lights hadn’t changed in forever. “Of course I didn’t.” Simon sighs, equal parts frustrated and embarrassed. It takes only a few seconds for the pedestrian light to turn green, and he takes care to keep his stride at the same speed as his good Samaritan. They continue down the street, the rain pelting down so noisily Simon can barely hear himself think.

“This is the cafe.” The stranger gestures ahead at a trendy little place called 'Jericho' tucked in a nook. He presses the umbrella into Simon’s hand, their fingers tangling briefly as Simon maneuvres to get a better grip. “I’m getting coffee for a few friends so you go on ahead. Come back here after you’ve got your package from the post office.”

“Are you sure?” Simon stands there dumbly, wondering if Mr Perfect understands he’s just handed Simon something he could literally run off with and sell.

“I’m sure.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Take your time, there’s a queue here anyway.”

“O-ok?” He does as he’s told, he holds onto the Louis Vuitton umbrella and makes his way just a little further down to the post office. He signs for the box and he thanks his twin brother for shopping online and helping fate to line up this little meeting with Mr Perfect that he may sort of possibly probably will gush about on Twitter.

When he returns to Jericho the handsome owner of the umbrella is standing at the counter waiting for the coffees. He smiles at Simon and waves him over.

“Mission accomplished?”

“Mission accomplished.” Simon can’t help his dopey little grin as he stands beside him and points at the box tucked under one arm.

“Order for Markus?” The barista holds out a tray of coffees. “Two more coming, hold tight.”

Markus, his name is Markus, Simon tucks the information away almost giddily.

“I’ll walk you back to the bus stop.” Markus offers with a soft smile. “Wouldn’t want you almost drowning in this weather.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“But I want to.” Markus grins. “Besides, I’m in no rush.”

“Your coffees will go cold.”

“My friends are getting them for free, they have no say in this matter.” He says it so deadpan Simon fails to snort back a laugh. “I didn’t know what you liked, but this place does a mean hazelnut soy latte.” Right on cue, because the universe writes fanfic apparently as Simon discovers, the barista places the last two coffee orders on the bench and Markus hands one to him. “Thought you might want something to warm you up.”

“Is this your first day here on earth as a mortal, do you know humans aren’t this nice to each other so randomly?” Simon teases, and Markus laughs brightly.

“Man, you saw through me so quickly! My leaders won’t be too happy I’ve blown my cover.”

“First you rescue a human from the rain and then you lend him adequate cover against the elements and then you buy him a hot beverage- humans don’t really do that, ‘Markus’ or whatever your real name is.” He continues, his cheeks aching from continuing to grin like an idiot.

“I just thought I better help that cute boy out.” His expression changes, turns into something playful and smouldering and Simon wonders if he just has GAY written on his forehead for the world to see. He must have stayed in stunned silence a moment too long, because Markus takes a step back and his entire demeanour changes.

“Hey man, listen, I’m sorry, I must have read the situation wrong-”

“You’re cute.” Simon blurts, his cheeks rosy red. “You’re really cute, you’re so cute you really can’t call me cute because of how cute you are. You’re totally using that word wrong.”

“Yeah?” Markus challenges, cocking a brow, confidence back in his body language.

“Absolutely.” He manages to share in Markus’ laughter, trying to shove down the feeling of utter mortification at his own behaviour.

“You doin’ anything tonight?” He asks him so casually Simon’s head spins trying to catch up. “I’ve got an exhibit opening at the Abraham Kamski memorial gallery in town.”

“You’re an artist.” Not a question, because of course Mr Perfect with the Louis Vuitton umbrella and the Burberry scarf is an artist.

“I am.” He offers him his hand. “Markus Manfred.”

“Markus Manfred ?” Simon echoes in disbelief even as his hand encloses his and gives it a firm shake.

“The one and only.” Markus rubs his thumb slowly over Simon’s. “And you are?”

“Simon.”

“So Simon, can I have your number so I can send you the event details?” He asks so smoothly Simon figures if the man wanted to start a revolution, if the man asked him to follow him to the ends of the earth he’d say yes right then and there.

“Where did you download how to be so suave?” Simon huffs, pretending to be indignant as he hands Markus his phone. “What secret corner of the internet taught you to be so smooth?”

“I’m an android, all of it was just programmed into me.” Markus shrugs casually as he sends a message to his phone using Simon’s. “More human than human.”

“Oh great, a robot uprising -just what we need.”

“Uprising? No, we’re just trying to live our lives and integrate as best as possible.” He takes a sip from one of the coffees, but keeps his mismatched eyes on Simon the whole time. “Including flirting with cute boys and saving them from the rain.”

“You’re utterly ridiculous.”

“I try my best.”

They walk back to the bus stop, coffees in a sturdy bag hanging off the crook of Markus’ arm and umbrella securely held over them. Simon sips at his hazelnut latte and yes Markus is right, it tastes amazing; nutty and sweet and creamy. He wonders why the universe is in such a good mood today, that it arranged all this so that their paths crossed. When they reach the stop, they barely wait a minute or two before the bus pulls up. Much to Simon's dismay, since he honestly could've spent many more hours standing beside Markus Manfred, huddled under an umbrella together.

“I’ll see you at seven, Simon?” Markus grins, something hopeful and playful all at once. Simon feels his heart skip a beat, his cheeks flushing as he smiles in return.

“I'll be there at seven, Markus.”

#dbh markus #dbh simon #detroit: become human #simkus #simarkus #meet cute #annie writes: dbh #it's on ao3 but hey let's put it here too because i enjoyed writing CUTE THINGS #annie makes stuff

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Heart of Thunder - Chapter 3

A new chapter is here! Link to AO3 like always.

Cor felt strangely adrift as the door closed behind him with a silent click that echoed in his head like a drum beat. He walked through the barracks, his long legs eating the distance with the grace of a stalking carnivore. He had not come far when he heard passionate voices locked in a lively discussion. On silent feet he doubled back down the way he came from, not certain he could stomach more strange cultural practices at the moment, and made a beeline for the exit.

The air outside was dry and warm, if slightly cool with the first hint of autumn. Shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, Cor put a tight lid on the tiny voice screaming in his mind in panic and continued on his way towards the private meeting rooms situated on the lower levels of the citadel.

People kept well out of his way when they saw the dark frown clouding his face. One poor secretary even flattened herself against the wall, clutching the folder within her hands like a lifeline. Normally Cor tried to keep such reactions down to a minimum, but today he just couldn't bring himself to care.

The doors of the lift opened with barely the whisper of a sound and let Cor step out into the corridor. A thick, black carpet lay in the middle of the dark stone floor, dampening is steps. Tasteful flower arrangements in delicate vases situated upon gilded tables barely big enough to hold them, were the only splashes of colour to be seen. His destination wasn't far now. A dark wooden door like every other one in the vicinity. He stepped inside without knocking, surprising the occupants into silence.

There were Lord Sagitta, Minister of Outside Affairs – which he took to mean outside Insomnia and not outside Lucis – and Lords Caulis and Hypocris, Minister of Energy and Environment and President of the Hunters and Wildlife Protection Association, respectively. He could guess what this 'important meeting' was about.

“My Lords,” he said in way of a greeting, accompanied with a shallow bow, and closed the door behind him.

“Marshall Leonis, greetings,” said Lord Sagitta, his watery eyes blinking nervously. “I have to apologize for the lack of refreshments. We didn't expect you quite this soon. Please, take a seat.”

The table dominating the room was indeed empty of the usual carafes of water and traditional watered down wine. None of the three Lords bothered to stand up as propriety would have demanded of them.

Cor may not be flaunting it like some idiots, but 'Marshall' wasn't the only official title he carried. His second one, Paladin of the Crystal, granted him the title of a minor Lord by default, and as such propriety had to be observed. The three Lords in front of him knew that and chose to ignore it. A power move that bounced off of him without effect.

“I prefer to stand, my Lords,” replied Cor in a flat voice and settled into parade rest at the end of the table.

The three Lords shared what they probably thought were inconspicuous glances beneath his flat stare as he waited for them to start this farce of a meeting. Regis probably didn't know about it, either.

“We know you are a busy man, Marshall, so we will try to make this quick,” said Lord Hypocris with a fake, placid smile.

The rake thin man was of lower rank than the other two, but quite clearly the one behind this meeting, if Cor was reading the atmosphere right. And he was seldom wrong on these things these days. With a slow and carefully calculated deliberateness the Lord leafed through a crisp stack of papers in front of him, the other two, sitting next to him, tried to look dignified and important. To Cor they all just looked like greedy toads, which was an insult to every toad in existence.

“Early this morning you returned from you patrol outside Insomnia with a group of poachers you apprehended and their... loot, shall we say. What can you tell us about them?”

Lord Hypocris looked at him with an expression so earnest and serious it couldn't be anything other than fake. Cor had known the noble for long enough to note that he tended to over-emote, when he either wanted something he thought valuable, or feared to lose a lot of money. Seeing who was in his company, it was probably a bit of both this time.

“A group of five, two female, three male; the youngest barely of legal age. I saved them from a pack of wild animals before I knew what they were. They were on their way to Lestallum to sell pelts and other parts of endangered animals. Four were injured during the attack, one life threatening, the other three only had a few scrapes and bruises. I screened their... wares and brought them back to Insomnia for medical attention and their punishment. If you read my preliminary report, you already know this.”

“Do I understand this correctly: You screened their stowage before you got the injured party medical attention?” asked Lord Hypocris, folding his thin fingers over the papers.

“Yes,” Cor answered plainly.

Lord Caulis wrinkled his nose in indignation. “We expected better, Marshall. How will this poor man be able to face his trail, if he is half dead?”

“As far as I'm aware, the poaching of animals is still fined with the loss of a hand, no exceptions.”

“That sentence hasn't been carried out in a century!” bristled Lord Sagitta. “We are no barbarians, like other elements within this city. And even then, this sentence only comes into effect when the animals in question are protected by the crown.”

“Ah, but three of the pelts were that of silver spotted coeurls,” Cor said and watched in satisfaction as all three Lords paled.

“That cannot be true,” stuttered Lord Hypocris.

His hands frantically leafed through his papers until he found a list. Brown eyes devoured it rapidly until they stilled. He grew, if possible, even paler and without a word slid the list over to his companions who were anxiously staring at him. Cor's lips twitched in satisfaction when he heard Lord Caulis' strangled gasp.

Clearly trying to gather his bearings, Lord Hypocris cleared his throat. “Then we need to decide what to do with the pelts.”

There was a greedy glint in all three men's eyes, Cor didn't like at all. A silent suspicion started to needle his mind, and it didn't paint a pretty picture.

“I have claimed all pelts and other parts belonging to coeurls as my battle-spoils. The paperwork for that has already been filed and approved of,” he said, silently daring them to object with his gaze.

The claiming of battle-spoils was an ancient practice that had survived until modern day, despite it now being highly regulated. It could only be done during active war, the claim must be uncontended by other participants of the battle and only members of nobility could claim battle-spoils in the first place. This was one of the very few times he was actually glad for the title Regis had practically shoved at him the moment her had been sitting on the throne. Not that he would ever tell him that.

Lord Sagitta's face grew a splotchy red in anger. He opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly malapropos, but stopped himself at the warning glare of Lord Hypocris.

“If there is nothing else, my Lords, I need to return to my duties,” said Cor blandly.

“Of course, of course,” nodded Lord Caulis, obviously eager to see the Marshall gone. “Do not let us keep you. Thank you for answering our questions, Marshall.”

“I am always happy to do so,” Cor said as he bowed.

Everybody in the room knew that that was an obvious lie. No one said anything as the Marshall straightened again and left the room.

On the outside Cor was perfectly expressionless. On the inside however, he was seething. Who did those three bloated heads of impudence and self-importance think they were? He forced himself to take a calming breath and gritted his teeth as he entered the lift. He could think about the implications of those three being interested in exotic and rare furs later. Training was a very enticing thought right about now. The steady flow of the kata always helped him to clear his mind. And that was exactly what he needed.

His steps echoed in the mostly deserted hallways and he couldn't help the quiet sigh escaping him as the heavy door of the private training salle closed behind him. Right about now a red light would start glowing over the door to warn others away.

He moved through his warm ups diligently, but with purpose. Time. He needed time to process what had happened today.

A crystalline tinkle sounded as his blade appeared in his outstretched hands in a shower of blue sparks of magic. The action as comforting as it was helping him to ground himself in the moment. Cor took a centring breath and the next moment he was moving.

He had never intended to marry. Not necessarily because he had no desire to, but because he knew he was a difficult person to live with. No matter what Regis and Clarus said, he was self-aware enough to know that. But now...

Ulric's – Nyx' – gaze when he had taken the pelt, and later when they had talked, had stirred something in him. Something Cor couldn't name and didn't know what to do with. Infatuation perhaps? No that wasn't it.

His sword cut the air with the lethal whispers of a song as he performed a horizontal cut and transitioned seamlessly into a block.

Either way, no matter his feelings, he was engaged now to a man he could respect for his unquestioning loyalty and skill in a fight. He would pull the other man's files to learn more, but he knew that he had never left a comrade behind on the battlefield, alive or dead, if he could help it. An admirable trait, if foolish at times.

Cor had still no real idea what he had done to catch Nyx' eyes – it couldn't just be the pelt, right? A tiny part of himself couldn't help but be excited about it. For a long time he had tried to bridge the gap between the Galahdians – Galahkari, he needed to remember that – and the Lucians without much to show for it. But now he had an in to learn what they had been seemingly doing wrong for years on end. An anticipatory grin stretched over his face.

He would do this.

He would do this right and maybe get to hunt down some corrupt nobles in the meantime.

#ffxv #a coeurl's courtship au #heart of thunder #cor leonis #he's gonna enjoy getting rid of those nobles so much #corrupt nobles are corrupt #cor is a minor lord #and he hates it #lucian culture #I've wanted to write a story where that's more heavily featured for ages #my fics #the spirit writes

[whumpsideblog]

Part One//Part Two//Part Three//Part Four

Just some good old fashioned left to the elements whump

*****

 The prince rarely had any free time, but when he did it was often when he treated Alessander the best. It was late in the evening, the prince sat in a comfortable chair in his room, and Alessander sat at his feet, his head resting against his thigh. With one hand the prince was turning the pages of the book he read, the other lazily playing with Alessander’s hair. 

 When he was relaxed and in a good mood, the prince gave him nothing but gentle and loving touches, and truthfully, Alessander loved it. At the very least, he could close his eyes, he could relax and pretend he was in a better place. Tonight though, he had something on his mind, and he figured now would be the best time to ask about it.

 “My prince…? Would it be alright if I asked for something…?” He asked softly, keeping his eyes on the floor as he’d been told to. 

 “Mm? What is it, Less?” The prince sounded distracted, like he didn’t particularly care. He might not have even been really listening.

 “I… I was just wondering if maybe I could have some different clothes…?” He asked. “It’s just… it’s beginning to get cold, something a little bit warmer would be nice…” he wondered just how long things had been like this, for the weather to begin changing, it was hard to tell when hours and days and weeks seemed to blur together. He didn’t think the prince would let him into his old room, let him wear some of his normal clothing for once, but he’d be thankful for whatever he was generous enough to give. However, from the way the prince snapped his book shut, Alessander realized he wasn’t feeling generous at all that night. 

 “What I’ve given you isn’t good enough, hm?” He stood up, and instinctively Alessander moved away from him. “You’ve been too spoiled if you’re comfortable asking whatever you want.” The prince sighed heavily, grabbing hold of his leash. 

 “N-no, that’s not it!” He said quickly, “I-I’ll be fine, I’m sorry for asking!” 

 “No no, I’ve been too soft on you lately. I need to fix that.” The prince harshly pulled him to his feet, despite his pained whines. Every step was agony as the prince dragged him out to the balcony, which he hadn’t been allowed on since his escape attempt. He didn’t exactly know what to expect, he was worried that the prince may push him over the railing, maybe dangle him there by his leash, but instead the prince knelt down, yanking him down as well. Devlyn wrapped the chain around one of the bars holding up the railing, leaving momentarily and coming back with a lock, securing Alessander in place. 

 The sun had gone down below the horizon by now, and the temperature was quickly dropping. Alessander found himself shivering as the prince stood up, looking down on him. 

 “You’ll stay out here until I decide you’ve learned your lesson, understand?” He told him.

 “Y-yes, your highness…” he said softly, staring down at his lap. How long would that be? A few hours? A few days? He didn’t know what he could do to show the prince that he “learned his lesson”. Without another word the prince went back inside, slamming the doors closed and locking them, as if Alessander could move from where he was. 

 He tried to tell himself that he’d be alright out here, sure it was kind of chilly, but it wasn’t that bad. He laid down and curled up on the cold balcony, trying to keep himself somewhat warm. It wasn’t much different than sleeping on the floor inside, and he was used to that by now. In fact, he was feeling pretty proud of himself for not being too bothered by this.

 And then he heard thunder in the distance. By now Devlyn had gone to bed, he didn’t care what would happen to Alessander out there. He prayed that the storm would pass them, that happened sometimes, right? At the very least tonight, he just wanted to be spared tonight. Of course, he couldn’t be that lucky. It started with a few drops here and there and quickly increased to a downpour, and he had no choice but to lay there, drenched in ice cold rain. 

 He tried to curl up, cover his face at the very least. Surely this storm would wake up the prince, right? Surely he’d come and get him? The longer he waited, the more it sunk in, even if the prince did wake up he didn’t care. If anything, this was exactly what he wanted. 

Despite how hard he tried not to, hot tears welled up in his eyes and his throat felt tight, his lip trembling. He didn’t want to cry, he wanted to be good, to accept his punishment and move on, but he just couldn’t help it. Once upon a time he would’ve been safely inside, warm and comfortable and in his own bed and his own clothes and now he had no choice but to sit out here, left in the rain like a misbehaving animal. No one cared, no one would come for him, and the prince had made it clear, he deserved this. He wasn’t sure how, but eventually he finally managed to cry himself to sleep.

***

 He was still shivering and disoriented when he started to wake up. He was no longer being pelted with freezing rain drops, strong arms were lifting him up and he was set down in nice warm water, however the change was so sudden it almost hurt. 

 He tiredly opened his eyes, he recognized the bathroom he was in and he recognized the prince leaning over him, still not even dressed for the day himself. By now Alessander had no problem being undressed around the prince, at worst he could expect pain and punishment, as best, gentle touches and caresses, but he never ever had to worry about anything more intimate than that, which he genuinely was thankful for. 

 “Less? Are you awake now love?” He asked, running a hand through his rain soaked hair, and all he could do was slowly nod in response. The collar and shackles had been removed, as they typically were when he bathed. By now there were near permanent indents around his wrist and around his throat, a reminder of his constant restraints. “I had intended to leave you out there all day, but I think the unexpected storm has finished out your punishment for me.” He sighed heavily. “You’ve learned now though, haven’t you? I’d hate to have to put you back out there…” 

 “Y-yes, my prince…” he said softly, still shivering despite the warm bath water. “I won’t ask for anything more… I’m very thankful for what you’ve given me…” he murmured, leaning his head back tiredly. He wanted to just go to sleep right there, he could hardly keep his eyes open. 

 “There’s a good boy…” the prince helped him sit up instead of leaning against the back of the tub, soaking a washcloth in the warm, soapy water and beginning to wash him off. For once, Alessander was thankful for this, allowing the prince to move him as needed, lifting his arms for him and washing his back for him. His limbs felt heavy and stiff, he knew he surely would’ve been too weak to even wash himself. The prince handed the washcloth to him so he could handle anywhere he didn’t want the prince to touch, and then he helped him with his hair, which was always a bit of an issue given how long it was. Alessander couldn’t help it, he almost enjoyed this, being taken care of when he was unable to handle himself. 

 Once he was done the prince helped him out of the tub, helping him dry off before he got dressed in the clothes Devlyn brought him, which, much to his surprise, were different than normal. Typically it was some kind of short dress or wrap type clothing, something quick to pull on, but instead he’d brought him an actual top and thin trousers, closer to leggings really, still, it covered more than anything else did and he was immensely grateful for it. Even as the prince shackled and collared him again, he was rambling his thanks to him, feeling incredibly lucky that after all that the prince would still choose to spoil him. 

 The prince left him to wait in the bathroom while he got dressed for the day, coming to get him afterwards and dragging him out of the room, on to another long day. However, even as the day dragged on longer, even as he found himself feeling worse and more disoriented throughout the day, Alessander couldn’t help but be happy with the slight change in his situation.

#my writing #my oc's #whump #royalty whump #exposed to the elements #left in the rain #probably preluding a sickfic #uhhh #theres technically nonconsensual nudity but like #no whump regarding that #the whumpee doesn't mind #but I'm warning just in case #Alessander #Devlyn

[hectorino1]

Day 1: To Hell and Back - The first day of a pelegrino (aka Me)

Now that I have your attention. In reality it wasn't all that hellish. Just a small part of which I am heavily to blame ...but I'll explain ...

PRE CAMINO

It's 4 am, I'm wide awake, and I'm writing in my blog. I've been up since 3 am. A line from a "Heart" song comes to mind which goes 'I hear the ticking of the clock, I'm lying here, the rooms pitch dark'.  I could use a couple more hours of sleep considering that yesterday I spent over 24 hours traveling. And yet, I feel rested. Something tells me I won't be getting any shut eye. I can hear another pelegrino across the hall coughing away. I suspect she isn't getting much sleep either....

Update: At the last minute I may have gotten another hour before my alarm went off at 6 am.

I get up, shower, and pack. At 7:30 am I walk out the door ready to start my first hike...Day 1!

FINALLY...THE HIKE

When I walked out the door, I noticed immediately that it was drizzling lightly. I actually didn't mind as it was relatively warm. It never occurred to me how the drizzle must feel 4000 feet up the mountain.

Shortly after starting on the Camino, I made my way to a fork on the road which offered two choices. Almost how the song goes, I can take the high road or I can take the low road (In my case it's a trail). If I choose the low trail it would take me around a mountain through the flatter, safer route. On the other hand, if I choose the high trail this would take me 4,000 feet up the mountain, with little protection from the elements, over the top of the pyrenees. This trail was the one where Emilio Estevez was caught in a storm and died in the movie "The Way." Did I forget to mention that just yesterday I was told that a bunch of people had to be rescued that day on this trail due to the weather? It was pretty clear which trail I'd be taking.... and so I began making my way up the mountain.

Even with the light drizzle, the view of the valley was spectacular. The rain clouds were so high up they didn't impede views of the valley. The hills and the mountains where lush with tall green grass. Every now and then, I could see gray sheep and white cows grazing. The farm houses, speckled here and there on the hillsides looked so welcoming, some with smoke rising from their chimneys. I was truly enjoying it.  

After a couple hours of hiking in the light drizzle, I reached the last hostel (the last opportunity for rest and shelter for the next ten miles) on the route at Orrison. I didn't think anything of all the drizzle I'd walked through until I walked into thehostel, took off my backpack and my rain coat. As soon as I did that, a chill ran through my body as if somebody had pored ice water on me. My shirt was drenched in water. It appears my water resistant jacket is just that... water-resistant and not "waterproof." This jacket has served me very well on many hikes with some rain and snow (I mean who wants to walk in rain anyways), but I never noticed its Achilles heel (i.e. works great in all conditions but continuous rain).

At the hostel, I immediately took of my shirt and replaced it with a dry fit long sleeve shirt I brought. Still feeling a bit cold, I decided on having a bowl of hot vegetable soup at the hostel before heading out. As I was enjoying my first few sips, Sam came right up and sat next to me.

MY FIRST MEANINGFUL ENCOUNTER WITH A PILGRIM ON THE CAMINO 

Sam is a young man, guessing mid to late twenties, from Liverpool England who is starting his second Camino. To save money he bought a plane ticket to Paris for about 14 dollars and hitch-hiked the rest of the way. Although he was a machine-gun talker, he happened to be very nice and pleasant to be around. He told me a bit of himself and I about myself, and just like his fast talking, he stood up, shook my hand and bolted out the door. Buen Camino Sam!

...CONTINUING 

I finished my soup and rearranged my pack to make sure I knew where my remaining rain gear was. I also pulled out this one-use rain poncho out and put it on. I didn't want to get drenched again. I noticed immediately that the poncho was short sleeve and wouldn't protect my arms. I would just have to deal with it. I had packed rain pants but since my current hiking pants looked ok decided to stick with them (BIG MISTAKE).

I left the hostel and headed up the trail. The drizzle had ever so slightly lessened. I felt fairly cozy and continued my way upward. It wasn't long before I noticed that, although I was still walking ever higher, I was no longer hiking on the lower side of the mountain but rather on the top side. This didn't mean much, that is, until I reached Km 11. 

KM 11

Almost from nowhere, the wind gusts kicked-in with hurricane fury and began tossing us hikers around the trail like drunken sailors trying to make it back home. The winds where relentless! At this point, the heavy drizzle also began pelting us sideways, stinging any exposed skin, hands, face. My pants, which had fared so well in the light drizzle were now sucking-in the rain from the side drizzle like a sponge, to the point where my pants began sticking to my legs. 

This beating was relentless, sucking the heat from me, from any unshielded parts, and in particular from my arms and now my legs. I kept on. I knew exactly where my rain pants were located in the pack and could pull them out relatively quickly, but being exposed at the top of the mountain with no shield from the winds and rain, and no shelter, the thought of dropping my pants... well I wasn't that in despair... just yet.

This beating went on for kilometer after kilometer and progress was slow. The rain and wind was gradually sucking the heat out of me. My core was well protected but was having a tough time keeping up. By the time I got to Km 11 1/32, I felt that unless I change there was no way I could go on like this for another 5K. That's when I looked up and saw what appeared to be a white shiny object in the distance just a half-klick away. As I got closer I recognized it as a big van. I saw some hikers gathered around one side... When I joined them I realized that it was a local selling goods put off his truck. Goods like boiled chips, sandwiches and hot chocolate. HOT CHOCOLATE!....Did I just say HOT CHOCOLATE!!! 

I pulled out my money looked him in the eyes and said 'goop gack ge Choco Bink' (Apparently I was closer to hypothermia than I realized). Without any hesitation he turned towards the interior of the van, whadiddled for a sec, turned back around, and handed me a cup of hot chocolate. Apparently he's been through this before. You could say the chocolate was a life saver.

Since I now was protected from the elements on the side of the van, I decided to strip down and switch to my rain pants. I also put on a thicker hat. Within minutes I was feeling much better.

THE IRONY OF CHANGING MY CLOTHES

I thanked the vendor and moved on. Not 100 feet from the van, I reached the single track hiking part which was made famous by the movie The Way as this was the part where Emilio Estevez got lost in a storm and died. I found it a bit ironic because today it is so marked-up with markers every 50 feet that a blind man couldn't get lost. Then, on top of that, one literally walks, oh 200 yards on this single track before the single track switches to a dirt road you could drive a truck on (which they probably due for rescues).

As soon I reached the dirt road, which is now Spain, the wind died completely. All that brutal part was done. I felt like singing down the mountain.  

I reached the hostal at Roncesvalles tired but warm again. I survived.  

[queenkaywinchester]

Sanctuary

|| Dean Winchester x Reader ||

Warnings: Dean’s crazy driving, if that even counts. Otherwise, just some fluff.

A Note from the Queen: I’m glad to be back to writing. I hope you all enjoy this!

Feedback is appreciated. <3

Queen Kay’s Master List

The constant downpour soaked the winding mountain road before you, testing even Dean’s incredible driving skills. The Impala slipped and skidded all over the two-lane passage, making your stomach lurch with every move. You needed to find a place to bunker down until the storm passed, and before the two of you ended up in a ditch.

“Dean, we’re going to die out here,” you whined as you squinted out onto the road. “And I think I’m going to lose my dinner if you take one more sharp turn—” Dean snapped the steering wheel for what must have been the hundredth time that hour. “Please, Dean.”

Dean nodded, keeping his emerald gaze on the road ahead. “I hear ya, sweetheart. I don’t want to be out here any more than you do. I know of a place we can stop at just a few miles ahead. If it’s still standing.” You raised an eyebrow before turning to the hunter.

“Why wouldn’t it be standing?” you inquired with a huff.

“Because it’s a safe shelter for hunters who need to flee. I haven’t been there in a good five years. It was owned and run by Bobby for a while, before being left to the elements when he passed.” Dean leaned a little closer to the steering wheel as he took another turn. “There’re a lot of fires out here in the summertime. Who only knows what happened to the place.”

You chuckled, given the current weather. “Well, if it’s any form of shelter, I’m down. Even if it’s the remainder of a shed that we can park the car under until this thing passes, that would be fine with me.” You gasped as Dean snapped the tires towards a gravel path leading off the road. The rubber slid over the tiny rocks, making your body vibrate lightly in your seat. After a minute, the shadow of a building came into view.

“Oh, thank god,” Dean muttered. “It’s still here.” He smiled as he pulled up as close as he could to the building, before killing the engine. “Last time I was here, there was a giant furnace in the main room. We can stay there for the night until this blows over.” You turned to him and nodded. Honestly, anything with heat sounded awesome.

You peered up at the building and smiled. It was a small cabin, no more than eight-hundred square feet. There was a small covered porch complete with a dead potted plant and a chewed up Welcome mat. The door was wooden with a small, diamond-shaped window at the top, which was surprisingly free of cracks.

Dean tapped your knee, silently asking if you were ready to enter the horrendous storm. You slipped your small bag onto your shoulder and nodded, before shoving the car door open. The two of you ran for the house, your boots sliding on the wet rocks and puddles of slush. After a very wet ten second journey, the two of you were huffing and puffing at the front door.

Dean leaned over and shoved his fingers into the soil surrounding the very dry potted plant. “What the hell are you doing?” You asked, tilting your head. Your hair was beginning to stick to your forehead in the damp air.

“There’s a—” Dean smiled. “Ha!” He held up a small, silver key, and twisted it into the lock. The door clicked, then opened, inviting you into the dry sanctuary.

The main room was very open, complete with two large sofas and a few mismatched chairs. There was a small dining cubby that connected the living space with the tiny galley kitchen. A door to your right looked like a small closet. Further down, there was a hall leading to what must have been a bedroom and a bathroom.

The frigid air around you made you shiver as you closed the door behind you. You watched as Dean’s eyes immediately fell to the metal wood-burning furnace on the far side of the room.

“That’s the only source of heat for the place. So, I’m guessing we’re settling out here for the night. I’ll go look for some wood.” Dean scanned over your drenched clothing. “Why don’t you change into something dry and maybe find some blankets?” He winked at you and you nodded. Then, he leaned down as kissed your forehead, before turning towards the back door.

Once you were out of your damp clothes, you headed down the hall in search of something clean to sleep on. The bathroom had a small linen closet, where you found two thin sheets and a couple of reasonably clean pillow cases. After snatching the pillows from the nearly freezing bedroom, your headed down to the front closet to see what might be there.

“Bingo,” you muttered to yourself, finding a large sleeping bag. You grabbed it out of the closet, then returned to the great room. You opened the sleeping bag all the way to that it acted like a thin mattress, and laid it out over the old, battered oriental rug in the middle of the room. Then, you took both of the thin top-sheets and laid them on top of each other. After slipping the new cases onto the pillows, you returned to the bedroom and grabbed the olive-green quilt from the bed.

“Cozy,” Dean commented as you reentered the large room. His hands were full of old paper and wood as he slowly leaned towards the furnace. “We should get this place warmed up in no time.” He smiled noticing that you were shivering. “Why don’t you get under those blankets while I get this thing going?” You nodded and did as he suggested, snuggling under the surprisingly soft layers.

Rain pelted the large window that looked out over the front of the property. Puddles splashed as the rain continued to fall in sheets. You had no idea that a storm could be this bad.

“Woah,” you whispered as a bright flash of lightening illuminated the room for a split second, followed by a crackling boom of thunder. “It must be right on top of us,” Dean observed as he lit the small amount of kindling. “Good thing this wood is dry.” He smiled, his teeth chattering a little. Once the fire was independently flickering, Dean closed the furnace door and grabbed his bag. He quickly changed out of his dampened flannel and slipped into a soft t-shirt and long pajama bottoms. Then, he slithered under the covers, immediately pulling you close.

“I’m glad you remembered this place was here, Dean,” you whispered as you snuggled as close as you could to the human heater. “I don’t even think you’re driving expertise would have gotten us out of this storm alive.

Dean nodded, then kissed your temple. “Yeah, I agree, sweetheart. Plus,” he ran his hand up and down your upper back, “this isn’t too shabby.”

You shook your head. “No. It’s actually really cute. I like the rain, when I don’t have to be in it.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, me too.” He turned onto his back, pulling you up so you could rest your head on his chest. His breathing was slow and steady, slowly lulling you towards much needed sleep. He continued to rub your back, smiling as his eyes fluttered closed. Within minutes, warmth began to fill the room, and the two of you drifted off to sleep.

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